He was a low level jackass out to make a quick buck, now he was dead. No drugs in the school zone.
The only thing I hated more than a drug-dealing fuck who pedaled to kids, was someone who broke Omerta. For those who don’t know, that’s the sacred code of my people. The men in my family have been living by it since my great grandfather came over from the old country. Murdering fuck that he was.
His little misunderstanding as he called it, had cost a kid his life. A kid with a promising future, who was looking for a little pick me up because he’d bitten off more than he could chew with football and class and a whole slew of other shit that no seventeen year old should have to deal with.
Now he was dead, and the brain-fucked dad who’d been pushing him too hard was wishing he’d have done shit different. I should cap his ass too for being a fucking moron.
Then again, who am I to talk? My dad had passed his empire on to me. Granted the shit was mostly legit by the time he passed the reins, but still. There were still pockets that could do with a little cleaning up. I didn’t mind getting my hands dirty once in a while, but the days of running wild in the streets were long gone.
Great grandpa Alfonzo had ran with the scarred one in Chicago back in the golden days. The poor shoeshine that was breaking his ass to make a buck and put food on the table had a very unique skill. He could slit your throat where you stood and you wouldn’t know it. At least that’s what grandpa Al was always boasting about his old man. The Stiletto, that’s what they called him.
By the time gramps had passed shit on to dad it was a whole lot calmer than those days, and the family had branched off into more legitimate endeavors, which brings us to today and yours truly. I’m the new face of the underworld, the kind of fucker that makes grown women leak on themselves when I walk into a room. Hey, that’s what the fuck they told me. They know I’m a bad boy, but they can’t resist.
Where the fuck had my mind wandered to? The fucking guy was starting to stiffen on my damn Persian rug, the fuck! I pressed the button under my desk and sat with my head resting on the chair back. I hate like fuck having to kill someone, and every time I do it I tell myself never again. But the shit’s easier than dealing with the same fuckery over and over again.
My men came into the room to take him out and I went back to work. There was always some shit going on around this bitch. Crime was a never-ending taskmaster. Those fucks who complained about their nine to five bullshit jobs should walk a day in my fucking shoes.
I was bored with the damn paperwork in two hours flat; how the fuck did the pencil pushers do this shit? It was my own fault though. Since I don’t trust any motherfucker walking, I have to take care of this shit myself. The last motherfucker got thrown off the roof, thieving fuck.
But in hindsight, I could see how crunching somebody else’s numbers day in and day out could push an asshole to that point. People should just be more careful who the fuck they tried to rob that’s all.
I heard a whole lot of commotion outside in the hallway, just before my boy Chase came through the door with something that was kicking and screaming. “Whoa, whoa, whoa; what’s all the racket?” He pushed it... whatever the fuck it was, towards my desk.
All I saw was a wild mass of jet-black curls, and a tiny form under it with tits, I like tits. My interest wasn’t really peaked though, I have women coming at me from all angles, it gets tiring if you wanna know the truth. I was about to ask my boy what the fuck? He was supposed to be on a job, not fucking around with some wild ass female. And then I got fucked.
She picked her head up and I got hit in the gut and the heart. I was halfway out of my chair and I got stuck in motion for a hot minute. Totally fucking bowled over.
I regrouped fast enough that I was sure neither of the room’s other
The only thing I hated more than a drug-dealing fuck who pedaled to kids, was someone who broke Omerta. For those who don’t know, that’s the sacred code of my people. The men in my family have been living by it since my great grandfather came over from the old country. Murdering fuck that he was.
His little misunderstanding as he called it, had cost a kid his life. A kid with a promising future, who was looking for a little pick me up because he’d bitten off more than he could chew with football and class and a whole slew of other shit that no seventeen year old should have to deal with.
Now he was dead, and the brain-fucked dad who’d been pushing him too hard was wishing he’d have done shit different. I should cap his ass too for being a fucking moron.
Then again, who am I to talk? My dad had passed his empire on to me. Granted the shit was mostly legit by the time he passed the reins, but still. There were still pockets that could do with a little cleaning up. I didn’t mind getting my hands dirty once in a while, but the days of running wild in the streets were long gone.
Great grandpa Alfonzo had ran with the scarred one in Chicago back in the golden days. The poor shoeshine that was breaking his ass to make a buck and put food on the table had a very unique skill. He could slit your throat where you stood and you wouldn’t know it. At least that’s what grandpa Al was always boasting about his old man. The Stiletto, that’s what they called him.
By the time gramps had passed shit on to dad it was a whole lot calmer than those days, and the family had branched off into more legitimate endeavors, which brings us to today and yours truly. I’m the new face of the underworld, the kind of fucker that makes grown women leak on themselves when I walk into a room. Hey, that’s what the fuck they told me. They know I’m a bad boy, but they can’t resist.
Where the fuck had my mind wandered to? The fucking guy was starting to stiffen on my damn Persian rug, the fuck! I pressed the button under my desk and sat with my head resting on the chair back. I hate like fuck having to kill someone, and every time I do it I tell myself never again. But the shit’s easier than dealing with the same fuckery over and over again.
My men came into the room to take him out and I went back to work. There was always some shit going on around this bitch. Crime was a never-ending taskmaster. Those fucks who complained about their nine to five bullshit jobs should walk a day in my fucking shoes.
I was bored with the damn paperwork in two hours flat; how the fuck did the pencil pushers do this shit? It was my own fault though. Since I don’t trust any motherfucker walking, I have to take care of this shit myself. The last motherfucker got thrown off the roof, thieving fuck.
But in hindsight, I could see how crunching somebody else’s numbers day in and day out could push an asshole to that point. People should just be more careful who the fuck they tried to rob that’s all.
I heard a whole lot of commotion outside in the hallway, just before my boy Chase came through the door with something that was kicking and screaming. “Whoa, whoa, whoa; what’s all the racket?” He pushed it... whatever the fuck it was, towards my desk.
All I saw was a wild mass of jet-black curls, and a tiny form under it with tits, I like tits. My interest wasn’t really peaked though, I have women coming at me from all angles, it gets tiring if you wanna know the truth. I was about to ask my boy what the fuck? He was supposed to be on a job, not fucking around with some wild ass female. And then I got fucked.
She picked her head up and I got hit in the gut and the heart. I was halfway out of my chair and I got stuck in motion for a hot minute. Totally fucking bowled over.
I regrouped fast enough that I was sure neither of the room’s other
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