A young boy growing up on the wrong side of the law in the city of the World's Greatest Detective.
A story, that is just as much influenced by The Joker and Batman: The Animated Series as it is by Goodfellas and The Sopranos. This is going to be a re-write of my SI story Falling Down, which I intend to transform into a proper OC while simultaneously trying to trim the unnecessary and 'weird' bits, that ended up in the first iteration since I had been flying more or less blind on that one.
I already struggle with putting down the words in a significant number, and really wrangled (still am) with the re-writing process, but I dearly want this to be half-way decent so please criticize to your heart's content.
Omertà
Chapter 1 (Alabama 3 - Woke Up This Morning)
It felt like hours, but I couldn't tear my eyes away from the stairwell leading up to the next floor.
Just last year I would have simply gone up to grandpa's apartment and watched some sweet old boxing matches on tape with him.
Now…, I let my gaze wander to our front door, the key still hovering over the lock. Now, I just didn't know where to go. Everywhere else felt better than my own home.
I did my homework at school, loitered at the comic bookstore longer than strictly prudent, and even got a sandwich at Timmy's place made by his mom.
Everything just to avoid this place.
But Gotham…after a certain hour…even a dumb ten-year-old like me knew to be off the streets when the sun began to set.
Key still dangling uselessly in hand I sighed in misery. I desperately tried to stretch this small moment into hours and thankfully found an excuse by looking out of the nearby window at the end of the dingy hallway. The dark overcast sky, the glass pelted and blurred by heavy raindrops, and the shine of the streetlights from below let you know that we were on one of the upper floors of our ratty apartment block.
What held my gaze however wasn't the apartment block across the street, no, just above, in the distance, I saw an absolutely massive skyline. Like titans cloaked in darkness, only the red aircraft warning lights and the occasional company logo gave some semblance of shapes to those structures.
I loved these giant buildings since I could remember, maybe I was a bit touched in the head, but somehow they reminded me of the great boxing champions, Marciano, Louis, and Schmeling. Standing tall, proud, strong, scared of nothing, ready to face anybody…unlike me.
Squaring my shoulders, as if ready to step into my own ring, I inserted the key and quietly unlocked the front door, and was immediately relieved by what I was hearing.
Nothing.
Which meant my parents were either asleep or out and I could avoid the drama at least for the rest of the evening.
Stepping forward I headed for the first door to my left, namely my room, and gently placed my school bag inside, that done I headed straight for our little kitchen and was thankful to note, that my dad wasn't in fact passed out on the couch in the living room to my right.
What I did note, however, was the week-old newspaper on the dining table, which got more and more wrinkles as the days went by.
Last Sunday dad had come home late, very late, and in very bad shape. It had been a scary mixture of anger, desperation, denial, and drunkenness, which I had never seen before in him…to such a degree at least.
A shiver went down my spine and I still woke up in a sweat whenever the pictures of that particular evening assaulted me in my sleep.
I had felt physically ill as I had spied him drunkenly stumble into the apartment late into the afternoon. Having spotted my mother's purse on the coffee table he had gone straight towards their bedroom, which my mother had locked from the inside as a precaution. I reckoned she had already heard the news from somewhere at the time and had known what to expect from him.
He had angrily rattled on the door and had slurred something unintelligible, but thankfully somehow still had enough sense not to break the flimsy wooden thing as he then had stumbled back towards the couch and had mercifully passed out in a drunken stupor.
It had been half an hour later when I had heard the bedroom unlock and I had spied my mom tiptoe out. Already in her 'workwear', which barely covered her thighs, and with her bright red heels in hand, she had quietly gathered her purse and tiptoed out of the apartment.
Almost exactly the same had happened the following Monday, only this time he had clutched the day's newspaper in his hand as if he had read it a thousand times while simultaneously trying to wring its neck just to toss the thing carelessly onto the dining table in favor of a bottle of cheap booze, which had been promptly smashed against the bedroom's door when he had noticed, that it had already been empty.
Immensely curious as to what had managed to send my dad into such a state and had gotten my mom to walk on eggshells near my father more so than ever, I had grabbed the newspaper the following morning when I had noticed, that I was alone.
Not a whole lot had been going on during this June weekend 1986, the Gotham Knights had lost against the Boston Colonials, temperatures were expected to reach up to 82 °F …
So far so boring, but page three eventually had revealed the big secret to me.
The Bertinelli family had been violently gunned down last week. The only survivor apparently had been a little girl.
The Bertinellis.
Deep down I had remembered a picture, I hadn't been blind regarding my dad's job, and so it had all kinda clicked at that moment.
My old man worked for the Mob in some capacity or another, his old boss, Franco Bertinelli, got snuffed out and now he was basically unemployed. Things weren't rosy before given, that Dad already had a full stash of booze and beer in one of the kitchen cupboards and Mom handled a passed out drunk on the couch like a precarious but common annoyance, but things seemed to have taken a turn for the worse since the murders. The slight shaking of my mother as she got near him on the couch was unfortunately hard to miss.
Pouring myself a big glass of water for the night I ignored the ever-growing pile of empty bottles in the sink and went straight back towards my room, hoping to be left alone and for an uneventful weekend without the shouting and screaming.
A boy could dream after all.
Putting the glass on my bedside table next to my old Jonah Hex toy gun I quickly got comfortable in my pajamas and opened the top cupboard of the wobbly furniture. Inside I gazed at my most prized possessions and the last gifts from my grandpa.
A Walkman and a bunch of audio cassettes, which grandpa used to painstakingly record famous boxing radio broadcasts.
'How about…hmm… Ali vs Norton?…,No…, Marciano vs Walcott…
"Let's go with Joe Louis versus Al Ettore, hadn't had that one in while," I mumbled to myself and gingerly put the cassette into the Walkman, while a smile of anticipation was slowly making its way onto my features. No matter the fight, the absolute thrill, and the vivid fantasies were always there.
Settling on my bed I closed my eyes and let my imagination take over.
"This is George King speaking from the Municipal Stadium in Philadelphia where you will…
Pressing forward I skipped the intro, which I knew by heart by now, and continued right at the start of the action.
In my mind's eye, I stood in my corner, filling the shoes of Joe Louise, gloves raised in preparation for the showdown.
"…on the way out of the corner…"
A slam of a door, so violent that it rattled through my room made me bolt upright and got my heart pumping. I squinted and instinctively tried to shield my eyes from the glare of the sun streaming through the window.
Avoiding the harsh sunlight my eyes went over the wrinkled 'Gotham Knights' poster on the wall over my dresser finally to the door, waiting, expecting something, anything, to happen.
When nothing happened and my heartbeat slowly but surely stopped racing, I swung myself out of bed and quietly, more than a bit hesitantly, made my way towards the door, all the while trying to listen for what might be going on the other side.
Taking a deep breath to steady myself I slowly opened the door, just a crack, and listened again. Still no sounds.
'Screw it!' Pushing my hesitation down, I opened the door fully and peeked outside.
Sighing in relief when nobody was there, I couldn't help but stop short when I spotted the only difference to last night.
On the coffee table in the living room.
A small pink purse lying on its side, lipstick, make-up, and other beauty stuff spilling out, but more importantly…
Hesitation instantly blown away, I made my way towards the table, hoping I was mistaken.
An opened packet of pills…half-full… and a half-empty bottle of wine including a glass, which obviously had been filled almost to the brim.
"Te… Temazepam" I still couldn't get the name out in one go, but I knew what it was, and more importantly I knew what it meant, given the way grandpa once went absolutely mental on my mom when I asked him about it.
Trying and failing to swallow my trepidation I marched towards the door of my parent's bedroom and quietly grabbed the doorknob…, which didn't budge. Locked.
Cursing under my breath I cupped my ear and pressed it as close as possible to the wooden barrier, this time praying for some kind of sound.
Nothing.
Holding my breath, I became very still.
Noth…
Rustling…Yes…the faint rustle of sheets…and…I strained my hearing against the blood rushing through my ears…thank God…I heard the faintest mumbling.
As if a weight was suddenly lifted from my shoulders I stumbled slowly back to the couch and settled on top of it.
I really didn't want to think about…the alternative.
Still in a daze my eyes involuntarily wandered around the living room, which was barren except for the TV on top of a cheap TV bench and a bookshelf, which on closer inspection only held a handful of books, some framed pictures, and a shoebox near the top.
Drawn to one picture, in particular, that of a black-haired boy and a drop-dead gorgeous young woman with long silky tresses of the same color smiling at the camera during the enrollment at my primary school, I neither could stop the frown from forming nor the glance to the bedroom with my sleeping mother.
Sighing helplessly, my gaze went to another picture, an older picture. A young good-looking brown-haired man. He was leaning on a bar of a pizzeria given the decoration and raised a shot of some dark liquid in a friendly manner towards whoever was holding the camera.
Leonardo Forster and Claudia Forster, nee Panessa, mom and dad.
I loved mom dearly and I loved dad…once, a long time ago, but…, this being Gotham, you hear of things, you know people who experienced things.
Lips pursed, I don't know what changed, but my mind finally made up, I went to the kitchen, silently dragged a chair to the bookshelf, and carefully reached for the shoe box. I knew what was inside.
Box held in both hands I sat back on the couch, placed the old container in front of me, and gingerly lifted the lid.
I carefully placed the lid next to the box, my gaze fixed on the thing inside as if it could attack me at any moment, and swallowed, my mouth suddenly very dry.
That was not a toy.
'Ruger Security Six' was engraved on its side, which meant nothing to me. The thing was a big-ass revolver and that was that. To complete the picture there was a box next to it, which read in bold letters .357 Magnum.
A quick glance towards the front door and another one towards the bedroom before I took the gun with shaky hands. I would be in so much trouble if I got caught, a few smacks would be the least of my worries.
Awkwardly opening the cylinder, I swallowed the last of my reservation and just as awkwardly began to load three bullets into the chambers before I finally lost my nerve and clicked it shut again.
Breathing heavily, mind empty, I quickly marched into my room and hid the loaded gun in my bedside table under the box with my tapes. That done, mind still eerily empty, I went back and let myself sack onto the couch in front of the opened box. I couldn't help but let my gaze settle on the contents.
Birth certificates, high school diplomas, a rental agreement, and so on, not nearly as interesting as the old pictures, which mom explained to me once and I secretly leafed through whenever I was bored and alone.
Little baby me, William Forster, born February 16, 1976 in the West Mercy Hospital, with an exhausted but happy Claudia and a proud family around her.
Mom's through and through Italian side and dad with Grandpa Wilhelm, whom I got my name from.
It seemed my parents were young and happy when they married given the dozens of wedding photos I found in a paper bag. Curiously enough there was also a letter from Franco Bertinelli with the photos, that stated that he's happily giving his blessing to the young couple and their intentions.
I couldn't help but linger on the small mess of polaroids. All these incredible pictures of mom and dad were endlessly facinating to me, as they seemed like completely different people, which was something that truly struck me recently. Maybe I was just imagining things, but, still, the older I got, less and less truly happy pictures of our little family seemed to have been made, which probably was just a coincidence,...right?
There were also some photos of just grandpa and grandma, an Italian lady, who I sadly didn't get to meet, and let me tell you, those were the coolest ones, the ones I was always drawn to.
A sharply dressed teenager on an old black vintage motorcycle in 30s Hamburg, Germany. A young man, smoking, in a dirty US Army uniform, a young man smiling in a boxing ring with a medal around his neck and a banner above his head, which read boldly United States Armed Forces Tournament.
Yeah, grandpa was a badass alright.
Sighing in regret I put the lid back on, placed the box where it belonged, and carefully carried the chair back to the dining area. Making a quick detour through the kitchen to make myself a simple sandwich for breakfast I made my way back to my room, closed the door, ate my fill, and got ready for some exercise.
Left foot forward, knees bend, slip left…slip right…roll…
This time I wasn't woken by the slam of a door, this time it was far worse.
Shouting.
Screaming!
Disorientated at first, the pained scream that followed the shouting was like a bucket of cold water and had me get out of bed in a flash. Heart pounding, I tumbled out of it and raced towards the door and mindlessly threw the piece of wood open.
All the while listening and hearing more slurred shouting, and then..., the first thing I saw was my father strike my mother. I just knew the image and the pained sobs would be forever burned into my memories, so much so, that I felt the force of the slap myself and unconsciously stumbled back in a daze towards my bed.
The screams, the sobs, and the begging of my mother pierced me like knives.
Knives, that killed all thoughts but one. My worst nightmare, but I saw it coming.
Over the rushing in my ears and the heart threatening to burst through my rips, I reached into the upper drawer of my bedside table, under the box, and felt a heavy weight settle into my palm. As if moved by someone else via remote I trudged out of my room in a daze, I dimly heard the man mumble something, but I didn't care, all I saw at this very moment was him keeping her down with one knee while fumbling around with his belt and pants and the terrified eyes of the woman underneath him.
I felt my face go numb and my mind go blank. I watched everything as if in stop motion, every single frame in crystal clarity, one moment I was in my room, the next I was at the coffee table, and again the next I stood directly behind him.
My eyes on his broad and shifting back, he hadn't noticed me, until suddenly, out of nowhere the barrel of the gun, held by my own two hands, entered my vision and…
BANG!
I heard a gasp before me, I saw him seize up, but I didn't stop, couldn't stop.
BANG!
BANG!
Click
Click
Click
My two fingers kept going on the trigger, even though I saw the figure in front of me tumble, tumble backward, and in my direction, but I didn't care, the screams of the woman still echoing in my ears and her terrified gaze burned into my mind.
Click
Click
The unnaturally loud crash of the figure smashing through the coffee table right next to me was like a lightning strike, that zapped me back into the here and now.
The here, where a growing pool of blood drenched the carpet and threatened to reach my bare feet. The now, where the rushing in my ears was becoming overwhelming and I nearly got a heart attack when two soft arms suddenly wrapped around my shoulders, and I heard quiet sobbing in my ear.
Frozen, emotions in turmoil, this felt like the best thing in the world, and I returned the hug wholeheartedly.
I didn't know how long we held each other, but at some point, my mom calmed down enough to give me a quick peck on the forehead and stand up. She still held my hand in a fierce grip, and I let her, as she visibly struggled to come to terms with the situation.
Suddenly, as if a switch was flipped, she perked up and searched for her purse.
She pressed me into her side as if to spare me the sight of the corpse of my father, bent down to grab her purse, and led me into the kitchen.
Letting go of me and retrieving, what looked like a little notebook, she quickly flipped through the pages. Despite her having let go of me I stayed as near as possible to her, painfully obvious even to me how close she was to losing her already fragile nerves.
Seeing her find the number she was looking for, my body acted on its own and I hopped on top of the counter, plopped down, my feet left dangling, and gently reached for her hand with mine.
Immensely relieved when her shocked flinch quickly turned into a genuine smile, I immediately returned it and lightly squeezed her hand. She gave me another quick peck on my forehead, and focused on the task at hand, concentrating, she carefully dialed the number and closed her eyes as she waited for the other side to pick up.
The seconds ticked by agonizingly slow until I finally saw her eyes snap open, relief seemed to fill her entire posture as someone picked up, and despite the situation, I was immensely curious who would be on the other end.
"Uncle Peppe…"
When this 'Uncle Peppe' had finally arrived she gave him a relieved hug which he returned with visible awkwardness but honest reassuring pats on the back. He seriously had looked like he wasn't used to being soft around people.
Quickly closing the door behind him when he had stepped in, mom had taken his hand and led him to the dining table. The gist of the situation had been handled on the phone, which was the reason why there hadn't been much talking since then and why we were currently all sitting in the dining area and letting Uncle Peppe quietly take stock of the whole situation in a calmer manner.
After what felt like hours he finally turned away from the corpse of my late father and took a long hard look at Claudia's face. No doubt taking note of every single dried tear track, her ruined make-up, and red eyes. Straightfaced his gaze finally settled on me, and I stared back.
He was undoubtedly a very scary man, but I didn't think I had anything to fear from him. Furthermore, I was feeling …calm, I reckoned. I was coming more and more to terms with whatever I did and just as importantly, I wasn't feeling a single shred of guilt at killing the man who was about to violate my mom, quite the contrary in fact.
He closed his eyes and shook his head once in a mixture of pity and annoyance.
"He used to be a good kid, but he lost the plot a while ago," He stated, referring to the man on the floor, and looked me straight in the eyes again.
"If you hadn't done it, I would have," he said it and I knew he meant it, he gave a quick glance towards Claudia checking how she was holding up and turned back to me. My eyes stayed on Claudia however and took note of the fond smile she was giving me, which I quickly returned.
Peppe, seeing that he had my attention again, gave me a nod.
"You did good, son, a true Panessa," he eventually added with a proud smile.
"What are we going to do now?" my mother asked with renewed strength, feeling the silver lining.
"I will deal with the body and the carpet," Peppe answered nonchalantly.
"Do you have money?" he asked bluntly in return.
Claudia bit her lip and eyed her bedroom. "I hid around 5000 Dollars."
"Good, I want you to grab everything important, write a cancelation of your rental agreement and leave the town. With the Bertinelli Family dead there's a lot of chaos and confusion and I have a cousin in Naples, Florida who has an inn for old folks where you can get settled." he rattled off while my mother looked increasingly hesitant.
"It's now or never to leave this place, Claudia!" he implored.
Seeing my mother hesitate I decided to keep the ball rolling in what I thought was the right direction.
"Can you tell us about your cousin, do you trust her?" I asked pointedly, I didn't care if I was overstepping some boundaries here, but I wasn't stupid, real trust was real currency here in Gotham, and I needed to hear this.
He raised a lone eyebrow at me, but answered, nonetheless.
"She left the city young. She was always a kind soul and didn't want to be a part of this life."
"She's around my age," he added after a moment's thought for my mother's sake.
A tension, that I didn't even notice until now left me and I turned towards my mother, who was still visibly wringing with some internal conflict, which seemed to include me given her frequent glances between Uncle Peppe and me.
I...I wasn't stupid, I knew I was holding her back, I was in the way, and with my dawning realization an invisible weight was beginning to settle in my guts.
Mind made up, I bit my lip. I had to make the decision for her.
Hopping off my chair, I ignored the gazes of the adults and raced into my room, straight for my little bedside table and ripped the bottom drawer open.
Eternally grateful to my grandpa I grabbed the two leaflets, raced back, and smacked them without much fanfare on top of the table in front of mom.
"That's Fork Union Military Academy and that's Fishburne Military School," I pointed out as soon as I was back on my chair before I went on, "When Grandpa Wilhelm heard, that I was about to enter my last year in elementary school, he explained some stuff," I said before pausing, trying to get my thoughts in line.
I saw my mom open her mouth to say something, but then Uncle Peppe gently took her hand and cut her off with a quick shake of his head, his gaze on me, expectant.
Still struggling, I decided to simply let the words tumble out of me, and tried my best to stay strong. A boxer didn't cry.
"I don't want to be in your way!" there I said it and instantly had to look away when I saw my mom's anguished features.
"Billy-" my mother cried out, overwhelmed and close to tears, not understanding what I was saying.
"Mom-" I tried to cut her off, but Uncle Peppe suddenly interrupted me.
"Those kind of schools are not exactly cheap," he said plainly, cruelly dashing my grand plan with those simple words. Struck speechless I could only watch as he leaned back in his chair, his flat stare still on me until a tiny sigh escaped him.
"Can you cook?" Claudia and I stared at him, not quite understanding where that came from.
'Instant Meals' I wanted to say but thought better of it. "I can learn it," I finally answered instead.
He nodded once, more to himself, apparently coming to a decision.
"I will take him," he said resolutely, but seeing my mother getting pissed he hastily elaborated.
"I mean, he can stay with me until he finishes high school. He will help in the restaurant and the kitchen, and when he's old enough he will get a job as a waiter or kitchen help to earn some money. When the time comes, he can join you down south."
"Deal." I quickly said and tried to ignore Claudia's anguished stare.
Thankfully, she relented eventually, and things were put into motion.
The ride from the southern part of the East End towards Old Gotham in Downtown was a relatively quiet affair after my amazement at sitting in the rear of Uncle Peppe's old black Chevy Caprice wore off.
Mom in the passenger seat with an almost vacant stare out of the window and Peppe calmly behind the wheel, with our suitcases in the trunk, the only thing of note really was me rewinding my cassettes with practiced fingers and a worn pencil.
"So what music are kids listening to today?" Peppe suddenly asked and I caught his somewhat interested gaze in the rear-view mirror.
"That's no music," for emphasis, I held up the cassette in my hand so he could read grandpa's neat handwriting on the site. "They are all boxing matches; this one is Marciano vs. Louis '51."
"No way," Uncle Peppe suddenly exclaimed, his head whipping over his shoulder, startling my mother in the process, who looked bewildered at his apparent excitement. The traffic was momentarily forgotten before he luckily quickly got a hold of himself again. "My dad took my brother and me to the fight in Madison Square Garden back in the day when we were kids." I saw his eyes light up in the mirror and I couldn't help smiling at his infectious mood, even mom had a faint smile. "Man, oh man, never saw my dad get so worked up in my life!" he finished wistfully, and I got the feeling he was eyeing me now in an entirely new light.
Life was good. I mean, as good as it could be in this city, but after a month of helping out in Uncle Peppe's Pizzeria in Old Gotham, which imaginatively was named Uncle Peppe's, and living in a decent apartment right above it with the man himself things had started to become a sort of routine, which helped me immensely with coming to terms with my situation.
During the first two weeks Uncle Peppe had driven me to my new elementary school with his old black Chevy Caprice, which I still thought was the coolest thing ever. I had to give it to the old man, he looked like a total boss driving around in that boxy machine, like someone you really didn't want to cross.
To be honest, I was fairly glad I was his charge because no matter what the guy did, he usually ended up looking quite intimidating, which in hindsight probably was the point.
It had taken me about a week to get it, but him driving me to the school was just as much about showing me the way as showing everybody else, that I belonged to him, and you better not fuck with me.
Anyway, after two weeks I had felt some teachers getting antsy and I had decided to use the rusty, banged-up BMX I had found near the dumpsters at my school. I just changed the tires and deemed it good enough.
Probably not the best idea for a kid, but I wanted to retain some independence and it was only a 15-minute ride.
School, the less said the better, apparently, I was labeled the quiet weirdo since I found it somewhat difficult to start over with all the new faces. Tests were done and dusted, not bad, not great, right down the middle, which I and more importantly Uncle Peppe were fine with. I was always mindful of being friendly, respectful, and polite with teachers and kids alike, partially because mom and grandpa raised me well and I didn't want to lose Uncle Peppe's respect with childish antics.
Working in the pizzeria was actually quite enjoyable in the sense that it was easy enough and usually kept my head and hands occupied.
After school, if it wasn't already done by the waiter, Mateo, I usually prepared the tables from the previous evening for midday customers who tended to spend their lunch break here. I checked and refilled the toilets with the necessary toiletries and occasionally swept the floor when Mateo was out on the streets dispensing new menus or leaflets announcing special offers from the current menu to get rid of perishables. Day after day new and different little jobs were slowly added when I didn't complain.
It had been all a bit uncoordinated at first until Uncle Peppe had motioned for me to join him at the bar, where he always quietly sat, either a Ramazotti or a glass of wine nearby, and today's newspaper in front of him to keep an eye on the business and out for would-be troublemakers.
Since I apparently was actually willing to work, he had calmly explained to me the job of a busser or busboy and listed the respective tasks I had to fulfill. Obviously, I accepted since I currently had nothing better to do.
Of course, I wasn't going to be a full-blown employee he had clarified, I would work only a couple of hours and when I gave him an early notification I could skip altogether, funnily enough, a cleaned wine bottle was going to serve as my piggy bank.
The times I wasn't working or guests from a rather obvious clientele appeared I was kicked out to get some fresh air and make some friends in the neighborhood. When I had initially been hesitant to get outside Uncle Peppe had just told me some street names, that still acted as my boundaries and not to worry about anything else.
Then, as I actually had been about to head out for the first time he had somewhat sheepishly added and I quote "to stay away from the Chinks in the east" and handed me an absolutely massive knife, which I had numbly accepted and that now always heavily rested in a pocket of my pants.
That's how I spent my first six months in Downtown, Gotham City.
It was a quiet and dreary Thursday. Outside a light snow drizzle kept the regulars away, which was fine either way given that we had a special reservation locked in for this very afternoon.
To kill some time Mateo and I decided to go head-to-head at the dartboard, which was our usual spot when the place started to die down. Even though he seemed to harbor the tiniest hints of delusions of grandeur given that he was the son of an 'associate' of Uncle Peppe's and regularly daydreamed about a particular lifestyle, Mateo was an alright guy with dark slicked-back hair that looked like he had just auditioned for Grease.
It was a comfortable silence, only broken by the rhythmic quiet thunks of the darts hitting the board and the occasional clink from the glass of wine Uncle Peppe was currently nursing at the bar while watching a horse race on the muted tv hanging above the bar.
Suddenly, Mateo noticed two very familiar limousines park at the curb right outside the ristorante.
He meaningfully nodded his head towards the windows, making sure that I noticed as well, and wordlessly handed me his darts. He calmly made his way behind the bar, already preparing the glasses and fresh bottles of wine.
Meanwhile, I calmly placed all the darts back in the box under the board, stuffed my button-down into my pants, and made my way towards the door. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Uncle Peppe down the rest of his glass, which Mateo dutifully took away, and put on his jacket, looking ready for business.
Taking position, I quietly held the door open for what could only be described as a band of stereotypical mobsters.
The first guy stepped in like he owned the place and ruffled my hair.
„Sei un bravo ragazzo, Billy." (You are good boy, Billy)
That was Tomasso Panessa, I wasn't well versed in the organized crime that so painstakingly obvious surrounded me, but certain names and faces you were expected to recognize and react accordingly. All the more if it was family.
The last to enter was also family, a heavy-set man by the name of Claudio Panessa, and the brother of Uncle Peppe, who by the way was actually my cousin once removed.
He smiled down at me and with a wink discreetly placed a ten-dollar bill in the breast pocket of my shirt.
"Divertirmi un po'." (Have some fun.)
Thankfully the men didn't dump their coats on me, and I was able to quietly grab my puffer jacket and slip out.
I had a place that Uncle Peppe wanted me to check out and a note from him for the owner.
Heading east, the snow on the roadside starting to pile up into a grey ugly mess, I finally saw the entrance to Gate Street and its iconic Paifong in the distance. My grip involuntarily tightened on the knife in my jacket.
Stories told by Uncle Peppe and my own common sense in regards to this city made me somewhat wary of being this close to the Triads. Thankfully, I had to turn left now and some five minutes later I finally stood in front of my destination.
'Wills Gym'
Author Note: I intend to keep William more firmly in the Panessa corner and go with more 'fitting' choices (E.g. Boxing instead of Judo). I will tone down or do away with the SI-induced weirdness and make the entire process of William growing up and the various situations more believable (E.g. I aged him up by four years).
