glass coffee carafe on the wooden table in the middle of the messy living room, and in the brown leather recliner next to the table is Alex Romanov. Abram Baskov’s right hand man.
The fat fuck is lying there wearing a white tank top and basketball shorts, as if he’s ever played basketball or exercised in his entire fat life. Even in the dark Tommy can see the hair on his shoulders arching towards his back, covered in sweat and filth. Who would ever let this guy be their number two? Fucking Russians.
There’s no kids in the house, because nobody would be desperate enough to fuck this pig and risk getting pregnant, and of course there’s no wife. Alex lives alone and always has. He’s had a rough life, growing up in foster care and all, but it doesn’t make Tommy feel bad. He doesn’t give a fuck about what kind of life Alex may have had leading up to this point, because it doesn’t change anything.
Dominic called and pushed the button on Alex a few hours ago, so it is what it is. Tommy doesn’t question any of it, because Dominic is nothing if not calculated and smart. He doesn’t make a move without thinking about the next three. So, when Dominic told him he had the green light on Alex, Tommy knew the point behind it. Abram Baskov fucked up when he tried to get cute at the sit down. He didn’t realize that Dominic Collazo is a guy who always gets what he wants. You can fight and resist all you want, but eventually Dominic will outsmart you. He’s been involved in La Cosa Nostra his whole life, and sometimes people just have to learn the hard way. Which leads Tommy back to the glass carafe on the table.
Tommy thought to hit Alex in the head with the butt of his gun, but he didn’t want to risk damaging his weapon on this sloppy fucker’s skull. Tommy loves his two nines too much to take such a risk. So, he inches his way over to the table and grabs the carafe. Alex’s snores are loud and disgusting, and he never knows what hit him as the carafe connects with his face and glass goes flying everywhere.
Alex clutches his face in pain, and yells in terror, so Tommy punches him in the mouth to shut him up, then throws his fat body down to the floor. There’s blood gushing from one of the many wounds on Alex’s face, but Tommy’s not sure which one as he leans forward so Alex can see him. Alex is covering his face with his hands because of the glass that is surely lodged in his skin, so Tommy has to get his attention.
“Hey,” he says. Alex tries to look at him through his fingers, but there’s too much blood. “Hey!” Tommy snaps. Alex pulls his hands away from his face and they finally make eye contact.
Alex recognizes him, and his body goes numb with paralyzing fear. He knows what’s about to happen, and he knows there’s nothing he can do about it.
Tommy can see the fear in his eyes and it makes him smile. Russian mafia background or not, you don’t fuck with the Giordano family. You don’t fuck with Dominic Collazo.
Tommy reaches into his jacket and removes one of his trusty nine millimeters from its shoulder holster. He makes Alex watch him as he slowly chambers a round, screws the silencer onto the barrel, and aims the pistol at his chest.
“No hard feelings, Alex,” Tommy says. “It ain’t your fault Abram’s an idiot.”
“Fuck you!” Alex screams at the top of his lungs. He’s determined to go out like a soldier.
Tommy is almost impressed.
“Good night.”
Tommy pulls the trigger three times and the nine kicks back, but the silencer does its job and suppresses the noise. Alex’s body jolts from the impact of the three rounds to the chest, then it’s forever still.
He’s gone, but the job isn’t finished yet. Dominic wants the message to Abram to be loud and clear. So, Tommy removes the knife from his jacket pocket and kneels down next to Alex’s lifeless body. He’ll have to get rid of this fat fucker ASAP, but not before cutting off every finger on Alex’s hand—the same hand he used to point that gun at Dominic underneath the table.
It’s gruesome, but Tommy’s wearing gloves and doesn’t mind a little blood. It comes with the job. As long as the message is received,