There was no one to hear Christy scream as her captors hauled her into a grimy, barren warehouse. Bits of wire and nondescript equipment littered the floor around her. The men herded her into a windowless room and the older man left, leaving Christy with the smaller man. Christy looked around the room and was relieved to see the absence of any sort of bed or mattress. Other than a wooden chair and a bare lightbulb on a string, the room was empty. But if that wasn't the plan, what was?
"What's going on? What do you want?" Christy asked.
"I'm sorry you got dragged into this. Carver's just mad at your dad," the skinny guy said.
"Who isn't? Look, you better let me go before he comes looking for me. Know what happened to the last guy that threatened his family? They couldn't identify the body," Christy said. The young man took a step away from her like he was afraid just by association. He parked himself in front of the door.
"It shouldn't be long. Carver will be ready to- he'll be done soon," the man said.
"What's he gonna do?" Christy demanded. Now that she could really look at him, she saw that her captor was barely older than she was. He was tall and skinny, even though he looked small next to Carver. He had limp black hair and an unfitting baby face.
"I'm really not supposed to talk about that," he said.
"Are you at least going to tell me your name?" Christy asked. Her hands were on her hips and she was already feeling defiant. If he was going to be so mousy, she was going to press her advantage.
"It's Sean," the boy said.
"How'd you get mixed up in this, anyway? You don't seem like the type to hang out with someone like Carver," Christy said.
"I'm not supposed to talk about that either," Sean said.
"So you're just going to stand there and stare at me?" Christy asked. Sean didn't answer, and that did it. Christy had picked up a few things from her dad. She knew how to hotwire a car and how to use a gun, though she'd never seen the thrill of firing at targets. One of her dad's more annoying and effective weapons was a simple death stare. Vito could pin a guy down from across a room and make him wish he was already dead without even touching him. If Sean was going to stare at her, she was going to stare right back.
New York City was a melting pot of cultures and ethnicities. One street might be draped in cheery red lanterns, and the next was filled with the noise of solemn Russian hymns. Vito didn't care where a criminal came from, and he'd seen them all. It wasn't often he visited Little Ireland, but he knew the way. Woodlawn's sidewalks were lined with Irish flags and cheery four leaf clover insignias, proudly declaring the town's heritage. Vito wasn't looking for the nice, welcoming storefronts and touristy pubs. He wanted the town's seedy underbelly, where politics ran high and overseas contentions weren't forgotten. He stopped in front of a broken, half-lit sign promising cheap whiskey and cheaper women, and then he stepped inside.
Cigarette smoke and bawdy songs were thick in the air. Green lamps shallowly lit the wooden tables and stained bar inside the pub. A dozen patrons sat in various perches, mostly on the wooden stools in front of the bar. Two or three looked up at Vito's arrival, but the reaction was light. After Irishmen, Italians were the most numerous group in Woodlawn. Vito set about getting the reaction he needed by slamming the door shut and shouting.
"Anyone here know Carver Kilkenny?" he called. The room fell silent for an instant, and then everyone went back to their drinking. Vito stomped up to the bar and stood next to the closest patron.
"Hey, you know Carver Kilkenny?" he asked. The man swiveled on his stool and ignored him.
"You gonna order something or what?" the bartender asked as he wiped down the counter.
"I'm looking for Carver Kilkenny," Vito repeated.
"Who wants to know?" the bartender asked churlishly.
"Maybe the cops. Maybe none of your business," Vito said.
"Why don't you take a hike?" the bartender asked. He dodged back a step at Vito's glare.
"This guy giving you trouble?" came a voice from behind Vito. He turned and saw three men clustered around a pool table. One was smacking a beer bottle against his empty hand, and the other two looked like they meant business as well.
"Maybe you guys can help me," Vito said, and he walked closer to the men.
"Maybe we can. We can help you find the way out," the man said. "Now use it before someone gets hurt."
"I wouldn't want that," Vito said. Before the man could react, Vito punched him across the head, sending him spinning into and across the nearest table. Patrons scattered as the second man ran at Vito. Vito stepped aside and clotheslined him, grabbing the beer bottle from his hand and smashing it across his head as he went down. He grabbed a tablecloth from one of the tables and threw it at the third man as the first started to get back up, streaming blood from his nose. The first man ran into Vito, knocking him back a step against a wall. Vito grabbed him in a headlock and smashed his face into a table. As the man tried to get back up, Vito grabbed a dart out of the wall board behind him and slammed it into the man's hand, pinning him to the table. The man's screams filled the air as Vito turned to meet the second man, who was coming at him with shards of glass in his hair. Vito blocked his punch with a crooked arm and twisted to throw the man to the ground. He heard the third man coming at him from behind, and he bent forward at the waist to flip the man over him and onto the second man. He brought his knee into the second man's nose as he flopped on the ground, and then the pair was still. The only one left in the pub, other than the fighters, was the bartender, who was huddled against the wall behind the bar.
Vito picked up a glass from the nearest undisturbed table and poured it over the two moaning men on the floor beneath him. With nothing left to impede his way, he advanced on the bar.
