“Hey – hey man, I – don’t shoot me, bro!” he babbled as he raised his hands in the air in surrender.
As soon as bloody-faced Soccer Jersey saw the gun, he yelped “Oh shit!” and sprinted in the opposite direction.
“Who do you work for?” I snarled at the bearded guy.
“DBA,” he whimpered.
“…who?”
“Th-thedi Brozzi Assassini.”
Di Brozzi was the name of a street in le Piagge, one of the poorest neighborhoods in Florence. I’d offered Don Rosolini’s deal to dozens of prostitutes over there.
Assassinimeant ‘assassins,’ ‘murderers,’ or ‘killers.’
So basically the Brozzi Street Assassins.
Which clued me in that I was not dealing with the cream of the crop.
TheCosa Nostra.
TheCamorra.
The‘Ndrangheta.
Those were groups to be feared.
But what kind of people called themselves ‘the Brozzi Street Assassins’?
A bunch of fucking idiots, that’s who.
Guppies with delusions of grandeur.
“Go tell your buddies toneverpush drugs anywhere outside of di Brozzi again,” I snarled, “because the next time I see you – or them – I will put a bullet in your fucking head. Do you understand me?”
He nodded his head rapidly. “Yeah – yes, whatever you say.”
“Good. Now drop that knife –carefully– and get the fuck out of here.”
“Okay, okay,” he whimpered as he held out his knife to the side and dropped it to the ground. It clattered on the asphalt.
“Who do you work for, man?” he asked in a trembling voice.
“The Rosolini family,” I snarled.
There was a look of shock on his face.
“…the guys who whacked the Agrellas?” he whispered.
I always reassured prostitutes that the Rosolinishadn’tkilled the Agrellas –
But sometimes my bosses’ reputation worked in my favor.
This was one of those times.
“Yeah,” I snarled. “Nowget out of here.”
The guy turned and bolted down the alleyway.
