A calm, ice-cold voice outside: "Victor. Open up. Mr. White wants a word."
All three froze.
Jason's hand eased off the knob. Michael took a deep breath, sprinkled saltwater on Victor's head, and whispered, "Ribs cracked. Can't talk from the pain."
Door opened. White stepped in—like a surgeon in a butcher shop.
Two goons behind him. One held a bloody wrapbandage—Slav's.
"Congrats, Victor."
White smiled like a cadaver in bio class. "Hell of a fight. Odds for Saturday against 'Butcher' are already 5-to-1."
Michael stepped forward. "Mr. White, Victor's ribs might be—"
"Really?"
White walked right up, stared at the sweat on Victor's brow, then pressed hard on the ribs.
Pain shot through like lightning. Victor bit down, no scream. Sweat poured—this hurt was real now.
White pulled back, wiped fingers with a silk hanky.
"Shame."
Soft. "But if you go out there saying you're fine… then lose next week? I could still clear thirty large."
He turned for the door, paused. "Oh—you heard. That poor Slav didn't make it. Spine shifted. Dead before the ambulance."
Glanced back. "Too bad. He owed me a chunk."
Jason stood. "Mr. White, Third Grandpa sends his regards."
White's face went stone. "Three's not here. Doesn't need you talking for him."
Jason's teeth chattered but kept going. "Victor's not mob. He's going pro. This was just helping Third Grandpa and you. We're grateful. Thanks for the gift."
White laughed. Goon tossed a bag.
"Your ten grand."
Jason and Michael packed up, hauled Victor out. At the door, White said, "Victor—need anything, come see me. Got a spot for you."
Victor forced a grin, cussing inside, thanking out loud.
---
Tires screeched on wet asphalt. Two black Cadillac Fleetwoods skidded to the bar's back door like predators.
Jason, Michael, Victor stepped out—spotted Frankie with a typewriter (Tommy gun), and guys piling out of the cars.
Victor counted. Eight. No—nine.
All dark suits, ties loose, some packing heat at the hip.
Frankie up front, drum mag fat and ready, head high, yelling:
"Victor! Jason! Michael! Over here! Move it!"
Last word a bark. Pedestrians across the street sped up.
They reached him. Frankie tapped shiny shoe on the curb, water beading.
"The hell you dragging ass for?"
Hopped in the passenger seat. "Get in!"
Doors slammed. Convoy peeled out like the starter pistol fired.
Victor slammed back into leather. Nose hit with cologne, gunpowder, old blood.
Frankie twisted around, arm over the seat, eyes wild.
"Fuck them Irish pricks!"
Voice loud enough to rattle eardrums. "We rolled ten deep—five Tommys, five shotguns, all hot! And those green-hat bitches didn't even fart!
Michael forced a smile. "Frankie, chill—your ear's bleeding."
Frankie wiped it, saw red, laughed harder. "Ha! Not mine! Slav tried kicking me with a stiletto—I made her deep-throat the barrel and do ballet!"
Victor clocked the driver—right hand wrapped in bloody gauze. Passenger dabbing face with a red hanky.
This wasn't a pickup after a meeting. This was a crew fresh off a shootout.
"Victor, you fucked him up good!"
Frankie leaned in—whiskey and smoke breath. "That Russian? Shot up a whole syringe and still got up. Two chicks couldn't drain him. You? One punch—brain paint on the wall!
Jason shifted, uneasy. "We said one fight—"
"Then what?"
Frankie's grin vanished. "White played dirty. Most of the losses? Irish money. Nearly a million. Covers us a month."
Silence. Just AC hum.
Victor set hands on knees—visible. Slowly opened White's canvas bag.
Bundles of crumpled cash.
Fives, tens, even rolls of coins taped up. Victor's gut dropped—White said ten grand. This was chump change. No respect.
But respect was in White's pocket.
He started counting, fingers steady in the bouncing car.
"Six hundred."
Slapped two wads on Jason and Michael's thighs. "Your 10%."
Frankie whistled. "Man of his word."
Victor kept going—pulled ten neat hundreds from the mess, a stack of tens at the bottom.
Handed them to Frankie. "Tell Third Grandpa thanks. Brothers worked hard."
Cash hung in the air. Frankie didn't take it.
Face weird—like holding a bad joke.
"Third Grandpa said…"
Slow shake. "You're blowing up. Brothers keep theirs. This one? Third Grandpa's selling you a favor."
Car hit a speed bump. Money shook in Victor's hand.
Invisible hand around his throat—favor was worse than a loan. Last guy who owed Third Grandpa a favor? Feeding fish breakfast, lunch, dinner, and rent at the lake bottom.
"Tell Third Grandpa thanks."
Voice sounded far away. You thank even when you know it's a trap.
Frankie grinned, gold tooth flashing. "No rush. Third Grandpa's memory's real good."
Tunnel swallowed them. Darkness ate faces.
Victor stared at his blurry reflection. Dad's last words:
Owe the mob money—they take everything.
Owe them a favor—they take your soul.
Coins clinked in the bag like a countdown. Victor sank into thought. An idea floated up.
---
Soon, Frankie dropped them near Uncle Joe's. Waved wild, yelling "Tell the old man goodnight!" as they peeled off.
Victor watched. "He still lives outside?"
"Dad won't let him in."
Michael shrugged. "Can't leave the life."
"Don't worry."
Jason nodded at the house. "Frankie's kid's still home. Big bro's at peace."
Victor suddenly: "When you two moving out?"
Uncle Joe's kids: Frankie (21, oldest), Jason and Michael (twins, 18 like Victor), little Rama (12).
Jason eyed him. "What're you cooking?"
"Southside Toughman in a week."
Victor offered. "Got plans? Like making real cash, renting a place? Cramped here—can't even bring a girl back without whispering."
Michael scratched head. "Why whisper?"
Jason clapped hand over his mouth. "Ten grand gigs don't grow on trees. Southside's small pots. Heavyweight/cruiser only. Won't make much."
"First place is fifty grand."
Michael blurted. Victor winced. "I ain't some Black phenom debuting as champ. I'm a fat dude—in fat-loss mode, always in fat-loss mode—bar fighter."
"Know your place!"
Jason dragged Michael. "Let's go!"
Victor called again. "Wanna make money? Tomorrow, 7 p.m.—Alibi Bar. I'll be there fifteen minutes."
---
Later, somewhere else:
"Why's he buying us drinks?"
"Us."
"Okay—he buying us drinks?"
"He's climbing."
"Climbing? What—like he's embarrassed Fiona was on top that night? Jesus, with his weight—MADNESS. Victor the fat pig actually banged Fiona!!"
"Shut it! Brain, work! Don't bring that up again!"
"Why? Whole block heard. Little Carl almost called cops—Dad talked him down."
"Back to the point—climbing means he needs muscle and backup."
"Meaning?"
"Where's he at?"
"Foco's Gym. Paying his own way."
"Yup. Wants a coach, manager? Who's he gotta kiss up to? Card sharks ignore him. Only the desperate bite."
"You saying—"
"Yup."
"Damn. No wonder he bagged Fiona. Ruthless!"
"That matter?"
"Can't sleep now. Hurts."
"Climb out—close the window."
"Nah. She's with that half-head Mark now."
"The one Victor beat?"
"Yup."
"Give me a hundred. Two days—I snap pics, give you the negatives."
"Thirty!"
"Ninety! Camera's pricey."
"Just paid three months room and board. Got $110 left."
"Fifty. Other sixty buys you another month of food."
"You're brutal."
"Pleasure doing business."