Page 5 of The Enforcer

2Alfonso

Some men liketo fuck first thing in the morning. Some men need a good espresso to jog them into consciousness.

I prefer pain.

When Salvo said he needed someone to check on a problem Giuseppe the butcher was having, I’m sure he hoped Giulio would go, but Giulio’s been hiding out in his apartment as much as possible since Zahra arrived. So, Salvo got me, and in the end, that was a good thing.

I take a leisurely stroll from my apartment through the Piazza Garibaldi before the sun is even in the sky. Salvo will probably have a fit about me walking alone by myself, but sometimes he’s needlessly paranoid, so what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. I enjoy prowling the city first thing in the morning when the streets are still dark and the air smells like raw flour and the sea. And trash. Okay, sometimes the city smells like trash, but that doesn’t stop me from enjoying those last few moments of night.

I don’t skulk in the shadows. I don’t need to. The high of being able to walk through these streets in full dark like I own them — because I do, through Salvo, at least — is the best high in the world. I don’t need drugs or alcohol or figa; all I need is this.

Actually, most days, all I need is the crack of my fist against someone else’s jaw. There’s nothing that makes me feel more powerful and human as that.

I know something’s wrong as soon as I turn the corner. Even this early in the morning, something doesn’t feel right. I’ve been surrounded by the sounds of the city coming awake around me, an echo of the cacophony of this place in full swing. The clash of metal as a large delivery truck hits a pothole, a rough curse, the faint sound of a boat in the very far distance. On this early morning stroll, these are all sounds I recognize as familiar.

Giuseppe pleading is not.

Most people learn to run away from danger while young. The first time fear ripples up their spine, something elemental, something that goes as far back as the dawn of the planet, tells them to turn around and get as far away from whatever triggered that feeling as possible. If they don’t know, they learn eventually.

Not me. Fear feeds something foolish and curious inside me.

But I don’t run toward danger. I’m reckless, but even I have my limits. I keep walking toward the sound of Giuseppe’s pathetic voice at the same leisurely pace. I do take my hands out of my pockets and crack my knuckles while I’m far enough away that no one can hear the sound but me. But when I’m close, danger prickles over my skin, so I clench my fists and roll my neck from side to side, and I feel at ease.

That’s the problem with me. This is the reason Salvo probably would have preferred to send Giulio in my place. Someone else might have run for backup or at least stopped to think through the options. Giulio probably would have done some reconnaissance, at least.

Not me.

I duck into the alleyway that runs along the side of the bakery and am rewarded by two things immediately. Salvo didn’t know what Giuseppe’s problem was — the old man was too nervous to say — which is why he wanted to send Giulio to get to the bottom of the issue. That would have taken time. But my method of running headfirst into danger also works. I hear Giuseppe’s nervous stammering, and his wife’s pleas, and a thug threatening him. Even I can put two and two together: Giuseppe’s being shaken down.

My second reward comes in that moment of triumph that I solved the mystery all on my own.

And now that I know what’s going on, I can do what I do best.

When the old men talk about getting into fights, they focus on the pain of getting hit, but that’s not the full picture. There’s also the crack of skin, meat, and muscle when fists collide; when you feel someone else’s skin give way under your blow, the slick splatter of blood and spit hitting the concrete when you shake off one punch in preparation for another. I don’t mind getting hit, but I prefer to hit — who doesn’t — and I could talk about it all day. My perfect recall never lets me forget a single fight I’ve been in, not one blow I’ve taken or given. I remember it all. I feel it all, still.

When he sees me, this skinny fuck I don’t recognize releases Giuseppe’s collar and backs away because he understands fear; he knows that the best thing he can do — the only option in this tight alley — is to back away from the big hulking monster with the sick smile on his face. Me. I shrug out of my coat and drop it on the ground. Giulio likes expensive things, not me — I’d only ruin them with sauce or wine or blood.

I watch the other man as he tries to get his bearings and figure out who I am, why I’m here, and if he can take me down on his own.

He can’t.

I hear Giuseppe and his wife pleading for something, but I don’t listen. I hear the blood in my veins, my pulse slow and steady, the sound of my shoes on the gravel, and his panting breaths. He sounds like a cornered animal because even if his brain doesn’t know it yet, he is.

When he comes for me, it’s a desperate play to punch past me and run. I appreciate the nerve so much that I let his blow land. It’s like getting hit by a child, and that, more than anything, annoys me.

This bambino fragile is shaking someone down in my territory? How disrespectful.

I return his punch and feel the contact travel from my knuckles and up my arm in a comforting vibration. The air leaves his mouth in a pained groan. These familiar sensations bring me fully awake and almost make up for that terrible punch.

Almost.

He crumbles to the ground, and I back away from his grip, still standing between him and his escape. I give him a moment to catch his breath, but not too long.

“Alzati,” I say in a calm voice that Giulio sometimes says scares even him. But this is me being kind, giving him a warning he doesn’t deserve because this is my morning routine; this fight is how I’ll welcome the day.

I could write an essay on the moment I know that this asshole isn’t trying to collect himself but is plotting on how to take me down. I was terrible in school, though, so maybe I couldn’t write that essay, but believe that I know. It’s in the way his body stills as I circle him and the slight tilt of his head as he tries to keep me in his line of sight.

And I can tell you the moment he makes a critical error. It’s when he lets me circle behind him. I can imagine he just needs a few more seconds to catch his breath, but none of us is promised a few more breaths in this life, and a single inhalation is more than enough time to die.