7 Years Later

"Chuck, get your corpulent ass out of my pop's chair, or I'll give you a whole new orifice to breathe through," Cash threw out the threat as casually as he would off any greeting, sweeping into the cluttered living room.

Charles 'Chuck' Abnerkroft, Cash's friend, partner-in-crime, and parasite, was a large man with a heavy, jutting brow over gleaming, beetle black eyes. Of tree trunk thick limbs with a prominent under bite and lumpy gut, he looked like a remnant of Cro-Magnon era. His nails were poorly trim and yellowed while his oily hair was already starting to thin despite his relative youth. He had managed to stuff his feet into large, mud caked worker's boots and his jeans and flannel shirt were equally grungy. Staring up at the notably more clean cut but still rough Cash, Chuck scrunched his tiny eyes and rumbled, "Dude, ain't nobody gonna understand what'cha saying if youse keep using those big words."

Cold blue eyes rolled towards the ceiling before zeroing back in on the lifelong thug and he answered, "Right. Forgot that you beat up that kid to do your vocab sheets. You never actually learned it. Now, get the Hell out of pop's chair."

Giving no chance for him to respond, Cash set his own boot against the arm rest and grunted as he kicked over the patched up piece of furniture that had been around longer than he had. Its cushions had been stuffed numerous times as the senior Sloane hid money, drugs, guns, Christmas presents, and anything else he thought he might lose inside it. Some springs were starting to poke through the worn fabric, and it no longer reclined without a serious struggle. Regardless, it had been the throne of Cash's father for the past twenty-one years and it was going to stay that way until his dying day. He would make sure of that.

Chuck sputtered indignantly as he spilled from the chair that Cash righted tenderly before giving the resilient man a sharp kick in his considerable gut. He then reached down to help the bulky man to his feet, clapping him on the shoulder and warning, "I ever catch you in pop's chair again, Chuckie boy, and I'll chop off your own oversized arm and beat you to death with it. You got it?"

"Try it, Cash," he grinned, showing a mouthful of foul, miscolored teeth, "And I'll give youse a one-two that'll have you think Earth's spinning backwards for a week."

"Whatever," he scoffed and gave his friend a rough shove who merely guffawed. Moving into the kitchen, Cash growled at the mess of empty pizza boxes, fast food bags, and crumpled beer cans but when that didn't incite them into moving, he delivered savage kicks to everything, including a largely innocent rat, in the way as he waded towards the fridge. Ripping open the door, mostly to shove aside the refuse that had piled up in front of it, he whistled to himself as he studied the contents of the fridge before frowning.

"Chuck!" he bellowed.

"Thanks for dinner, Cash. I gotta head to the gym. Paulie says I can't compete in the next match if I miss 'nother practice," called the roughhewn man, his words followed by the slamming of the front door.

Snarling as he turned away from the fridge empty of any safely edible food and smashed the door shut, he stormed from the kitchen and halted in the living room, considering going after his friend before sighing. After spending a few more minutes scouring for something to abate the groans of his stomach, Cash pulled the handgun from his waistband, checking the magazine and, with the magazine still removed, performed a quick functions check. Content with his firearm, he slipped it back into place and ensured it was hidden by his bulky jacket. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a battered cellphone and made a call. He waited a minute before the other end picked up.

"Rodge. Salutations. It's Cash. Hey, I was wondering . . . were you serious about paying to have that other dealer . . . extricated from the business? . . . It means removed . . . Yes, as in kill. Yeah? How's the payout? . . . So long as it's in cash, we have a deal . . ."


Harmon Graves was a fixer. The Arnetti's had given him the title of consigliore, but he knew who and what he was. It was the same job from the chop shops of his youth or race tracks or any other part of the business. When something was broken or wrong, it was up to the sharp-faced man to step in and correct the issues, remove unnecessary components or push others into place. He knew every aspect business, had climbed the hierarchy from its bottommost rung to only several short of the top. This earned him the respect and admiration of the Mafia soldiers while his efficiency and loyalty ensured that his bosses kept him around. With the spread of the family, not everybody knew their boss by face, but everybody knew the hawk-eyed, grizzled Graves who moved amongst with a vigor that belied the silver of his hair and beard.

He stood in the kitchen of the Arnetti mansion, vigorously scrubbing a simple golden band with a pristine cloth when Alondra entered, back home for spring break. Startlingly pale for her heritage, she was a slender, almost ethereal, beauty who maintained a small, secretive smile, eternally amused by some private joke. She favored dark, elegant dresses that swept to the floor and flowed against her smooth, alabaster skin, accompanied by a faux fur collar that she preened and petted absentmindedly. The small smile bloomed at the sight of the older man.

"Senor Graves. Nonna said that you were tending to some errands."

"Was," he answered shortly as he twisted his only piece of jewelry back onto his ring finger where he inspected it before nodding in satisfaction. Clasping his hands behind his back, he turned to Alondra and inquired, "Miss Alondra. How's college?"

She heaved a labored sigh as she rifled through the liquor cabinet, "Stressful. The tests feel endless, everybody's an arrogant prick. I cannot tell you how many times I've nearly taken a scalpel to one of the cabrons while we've been practicing on cadavers."

"Your fortitude is greatly appreciated," he lauded her to which she laughed before tossing the amber liquid down her throat. She gave another giggle.

"Mind you, I'd be doing some of them a favor by remodeling."

"Please don't. Your siblings create enough problems for me to fix. I honestly don't need more."

"Gina's causing trouble?" she arched a brow in surprise before knocking back another glass.

"Your siblings excluding Gina," he corrected himself. He pinched the bridge of his nose and gave a small, tired shake of his head, "I've been shot, stabbed, poisoned, blown up, and lit on fire. But nothing has made me want to retire more than the messes those two make."

"Annoying little brats, aren't they?" she chuckled, "Papi should've tied them in a sack and tossed them in the river when they were still squalling bebes."

"I plead the Fifth," he grumbled, studying her objectively as she filled her small, squat glass yet again. She downed it immediately and was reaching for the large bottle before she had even set her glass down. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the counter, watching the process repeat once more before advising, "Maybe you should slow down there. You're gonna make yourself sick."

"I'm fine," she waved off his concern and then smiled, "And getting better by the glass."

"I'm sure. I'm also sure you'll be saying the opposite tomorrow morning."

"Don't treat me like a child," she snapped, her eyes narrowing dangerously. "I know the consequences to my actions."

"Sweetheart, I bounced you on my knee before you could even walk. You had a better attitude then, and if you don't fix it, I doubt you'll ever take control of the family," he warned her.

"I don't think I plan to anymore," she whispered, her stare intent upon her reflection in her draught, the glass clasped in both her hands.

He blinked in surprise, "What're you talking about? Ever since you could talk, it's been all we could do to get you to shut up about it for a minute."

"I know," she murmured before taking a deep breath and gulping down the drink. The dense bottom of the glass clinked against the counter and she leaned her head back to stare at the ceiling. She breathed out a long sigh and began, "College is the first time I've ever really been away from everybody. It's given me space to . . . think. My entire life, I've taken everything provided by the family for granted. We all do. It's simple. But I want something more than that."

"I'm not following."

"I don't just want to have the reins handed over to me. It's too . . . easy."

"Still pretty much lost."

She ran her hands through her raven black hair, twisting her fingers in it as she thought about her answer for a moment before looking to Graves who stood eternally stoic. Giving him a slight smile, she declared, "I'm going start my own business. Without the family."


So they didn't meet up in this chapter, but this was important moments in their lives. Its these decisions that set them on the tracks for a collision course.

Again, these characters are all ours. Nobody take them without permission. Not that there's enough people reading this to worry about that for.

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