Talia

Carano San Giacomo sat at his desk, a glass of Anisette in front of him. He picked it up and sipped, savoring the flavor of the liqueur. There was a knock at his door. Slowly, deliberately, he put the glass down.

“Come,” he said, annoyed at the disturbance. He was getting ready to call it a night when Mike had called him with his problem. He was waiting to hear back from his guys before going to bed.

“Boss, this just came for you,” a muscular young man in a blue turtleneck said, stepping into the room. He handed Carano a small package.

He unwrapped it, seeing it was a video tape. He was taken aback, not expecting Mike’s work so soon.

“Mike dropped this off?” the aging man asked.

The muscle guy stood at a relaxed attention and said, “No, some hot little thing.” He put his hand up, showing the height of the girl. “A tight little red-head. Probably one of his whores from the movies.” He wished she would’ve stayed around, but practically ran away after delivering the tape.

Carano was a little pissed his guys hadn’t called. He would’ve liked to meet this mystery woman. He had a few questions for Mike, but that could wait until morning.

“Thanks,” Carano said, dismissing his man with a wave. He wanted to watch the movie and go to bed. If it was good quality, he’d tell his guys to have it sent out for reproduction.

Carano walked over to his VCR and popped the tape in. He sat on his desk and watched, a smile on his withered face. The smile melted within minutes. He watched Mike be butchered by that whore. Carving him up like a fucking ham. Gore, violence and rape never bothered him. He’d grown up in Sicily during the hay-day of the mafioso; those were real gangsters. This movie, the depravity on his TV screen nearly made him faint. Not only the images, but the sounds of his man being slaughtered, the hiss of the blade through his flesh and the smile on that cunt’s face as she did it all. Then, she turned into that thing. He’d seen enough.

“Rocco!” he yelled. The door flew open and the turtleneck guy, Rocco, stood hulking.

“Yeah, boss?”

“Listen,” Carano stood up, turning the TV off, “when the boys call, tell them to torch the warehouse and if they see a black-haired bitch, I want her alive. Dead is ok too, but alive is preferable.”

Rocco, dumb as a box of rocks, but a good soldier said, “No problem, boss,” and walked out.

“Fuck,” Carano said, rubbing his balding pate. His heart was racing, feeling like a grenade. He needed to relax and some fresh air couldn’t hurt. He grabbed a pack of cigarettes and lighter and left his office. He didn’t particularly like Mike, but the things done to him on that video were too much to bear for the old man.

His house was huge, bordering on mansion size. He couldn’t stand the city, but lived close enough to conduct business. The property was large as well. A sturdy, wrought iron fence surrounded it, along with a gate at the front, which had state of the art cameras and audio. This wasn’t just a house; it was a compound.

The night was cool, but he wasn’t planning on being outside for long. Carano lit up a cigarette, exhaling through his nose. A slight gust of wind ruffled the trees and with it came a smell. The smell of a dog. He’d given up on attack dogs years ago. They were too much money and the fence kept everyone out.

Carano looked, walking around the house. Sensor lights came on as he moved, dispelling the darkness with each burst of illumination. No matter how many lights he had, there were still shadows, giving hiding spots to the creatures of the night. Carano peered into a pool of darkness, blacker than the night. Something moved.

“Who the fuck is there?” he said, his heart slamming against his ribcage. He wished he’d grabbed a gun before walking outside.

A low growling came from the shadow.

A pair of red eyes lit up in the darkness and in their crimson light, shimmered a razor.