Leaning back in my chair, I trail my gaze along his form.
A complete amateur. Out of his element.
His scrawny little hands shaking at his sides, occasionally rubbing at his khaki shorts as he's shifts his weight from foot to foot.
Gucci loaferd foot to foot.
I nod towards the seat on the other side of my desk, "Sit down." My lips twitch. "I'm not gonna hurt you."
Perhaps my sense of humour is broken because he takes my sarcasm literally and sits down, even going as far to send me a relived smile.
He then glances from side to side in the empty office, before speaking to me in a hushed whisper.
"I need to get in contact with him."
I slip my little black book back into my pocket and bring my cigarette to my lips.
You see, the thing with these pretentious douche bags was that they were rude, arrogant and entitled.
But worst of all, I couldn't kill them on the spot. Not without a proper clean up, because these shits not only had money, but a wealthy family name to back them.
It made the clean up too much fucking work. And a dickhead wearing Gucci slippers with the fur sticking out-in the middle of summer- was definitely not worth it.
"I don't know what you're talking about." I reply monotonously. "Unless you're here for a tramp stamp, I can't help you." I offer, motioning around my office in the tattoo parlour.
He narrows his beady little blue eyes and I can tell he's about to give me attitude. I hated the way his pale face scrunched up. Like he's never been told no.
Reminded me of a girl I'd once fucked. Annoying with the wrong kind of attitude. A something... Ava? Allie? Amy? Some shit like that. It was the last time I ever fucked an heir.
"Cut the bull crap!" He snaps, standing and slamming his white little palm down on my desk.
Another thing about pretentious little white boys that I fucking hated.
They threw tantrums.
And no amount of pay was worth dealing with them.
"I know you run some sort of operation through here. Multiple." He spits, pointing an accusing finger at me.
I merely raise an unimpressed brow. I had nothing to hide. He was right.
I cleaned money through my diner next door and occasionally sold some premium grade shit for pretentious rich snobs through the tattoo parlour.
Although the real drug trade was done through many of my clubs around the city. The tattoo parlour was located in the heart of the financial district. Wall Street. And I had numerous Jordan Belfort wannabes coming through here looking for coke.
"So you're looking to buy some coke?" I ask as Amy purses his thin lips.
He has the audacity to look appalled as if he didn't walk in here with the intention of getting involved in some illegal shit. "No. I'm here for the other service you provide. The hidden one." And then he leans forward. "I need to get into contact with Rosso and I was told I could find a middle man here?"
Now what on earth would a trust fund dickface want with Rosso?
I wasn't a fucking free for all service nor was I okay with my personal business being the common knowledge type.
I take another drag of my cigarette, letting the smoke coat my lungs. Basking in the toxic feeling, hoping it will suppress the urge to kill him. "I have a hit and I'm willing to pay big time. Can you get me in contact with the boss or not?"
Demanding.
He was well on his way to pissing me off.
I offer a weak, unbothered shrug. "Depends."
Maybe I'd throw him off a building. Call it a suicide.
"She's nothing but a cheap hooker. Pregnant and I need her dead before the end of the month. Should be an easy hit."
And then it happens. The fucker is actually able to piss me off.
Here he stands. In a pink fucking polo shirt and Gucci slippers asking for Rosso.
An easy hit.
Rosso didn't do easy hits. Not when he was normally hired to kill politicians, billionaires, heirs, royals. Not some cheap hooker he knocked up.
It was insulting and quite frankly, hurt my precious little ego.
Definitely enough reason to kill him.
"So can you get me in contact with the boss or not?" I can hear him tapping his foot impatiently. "I don't have all day."
I slowly push off of my chair, discarding my cigarette in the ashtray and rise to my full height, marvelling in the way the douchebags face slightly pales and he cranes his neck up at me.
I round my desk and move towards him, loving the way he takes an intimidated step back.
Such a fucking pussy.
"You don't just call Rosso for a petty little hit." I say calmly and when he takes another step back, I reach out with my hand and grip onto the back of his neck. "Not unless you want everyone within a ten mile radius to fucking burn."
My grip on the back of his neck tightens as he tries to pull away. But I pull him closer to me. "Now tell me, Amy. Do you want to burn?"
"My name isn't Amy-" I ignore him, fighting the urge to kill him. Reminding myself that I didn't need the feds lurking around because a rich white boy disappeared.
The chiming of my phone brings me back and I pull it out with my free hand, my other one still grabbing onto Amy, holding him in place as I glance down at my phone, reading Wes' text.
Heads up, drive by at Fusco's in 10.
And sometimes the world just worked in my favour.
"You and I are going on a field trip." I mutter, dragging Amy out of my office and towards the adjoined door in the back that led into Fusco's.
As expected, the diner's relatively empty. All our regulars were still off in their offices and wouldn't be coming in for another thirty minutes.
