Fishmarket North, Algonquin, Liberty City (June 1942)
"You little fucking greaseball!" Savage kicks to the head and ribs. Three bull-like men standing over him a circle. "You still think that mutt Gambetti is gonna come help you?" More strikes. A loud snap as one of Gravelli's ribs shattered. "No one fucking knows you're here. You see this knife? We'll fucking use it. You'll be in dices by the end of the day, indistinguishable from the rest of the meat when we sell off your body as beef to the supermarkets. You'll be fryin' in the pans of 50 different apartments in Algonquin by the end of the month."
Gravelli screamed in agony as the hits came, as more bones broke. He tried screaming louder, louder, out to anyone, anyone was listening. It didn't matter who. A passing pedestrian, his mother and father, Gambetti, the Pope in the Vatican, Jesus or almighty God himself. He hoped someone would hear him, listen to his confession, give him forgiveness for all the bad things he had done, for the life he had undertaken, for the people he'd killed. But it was undeniable. No one could hear him. They were sealed in a room in some dingy apartment, a gramophone in the corner blasting Italian opera the loudest he'd ever heard it to drown out screams.
He was booted square in the nose, which spurred a warmth that ran down his cheek, an intense heat that compounded over his face. He saw the molded carpet soak with his own blood, right before his eyes. At that moment, precisely, Gravelli knew that he was going to die. Eyelids flickering in pain, he savored the sight before him, knowing it was going to be his last. The copiousness of his blood was astounding. The molded carpet reminded him of painting canvas, the best kind; not overly white, just dirtied enough so as not to interfere but to enhance the colors of the artwork. Blood spread in prongs, like a hand, fingers long and straight. Beautiful.
Not any more beautiful, however, then the sound of a siren. The red of his blood was not more beautiful then the harsh red light. It highlighted the detail on the window, exposed dirt and dust like a cleansing bleach. Gravelli could not think this was anyone else coming for him but God and his angels.
"Fuck! The police! How did they know we were here?"
"Doesn't fucking matter! Move out! What we waitin' for?"
"We going to take Gravelli? The mutt's still alive."
"Slit his throat. He'll be dead before the cop gets upstairs."
One thug bent down, bulldog face tight with displeasure. "You deserved far worse end then this you little fucking pig. Consider yourself fucking lucky." Savage words out of a savage mouth. Blade drawn across Gravelli's throat in one fluid motion, yet he felt nothing. No heat, no pain. He even doubted if he was really cut at all. Slowly, suddenly, more warmth. Not intense in temperature, but in volume. Liters and liters of it. The blood on the floor multiplied, spreading more rapidly then he could see. He wrapped his had around his neck, felt the soft edge of his own cut skin, felt the liquid pouring out like a fountain.
The cop was upstairs in seconds. Two paramedics after him. They saw Gravelli, gasped, cursed. Something soft around his neck. Dimmed colors. Stretcher. They lifted him up, up, closer to the roof. He thought he was going to heaven. But then, suddenly, they went down instead. The sharp turns going down the staircase. Disorientation. Nausea. They went lower, lower. For a second Gravelli though back to the red. The cursing. The intensity of the red light and the sound, like the intensity of fire. The red angels had come for him. He was going to hell.
