Chapter 7 - The Debt is Paid in Red
Behind the Impala, Frankie Cole was trembling so violently that his teeth clicked together. He had wet his pants. The smell of ammonia and cordite filled the cramped space behind the rusted bumper.
He had watched Sullivan die. He had watched nine hardened street fighters wiped out in under two minutes by professional executioners.
*The maid,* his mind screamed in hysterical terror. *The fucking maid from Queens was connected to the DeAgostinos.*
Frankie tried to crawl under the chassis of the car, but a gloved hand suddenly shot beneath the metal, grabbing him by the ankle with an iron grip. He was yanked violently backward across the floor, scraping his chest raw against the rough concrete.
He was flipped onto his back.
Luca and Marco stood over him, zip-tying his hands behind his back before he could throw a punch. They hauled him to his feet like a sack of wet laundry and threw him onto his knees in front of Vincent.
The aluminum Louisville Slugger lay on the floor near Vincent’s feet.
Vincent looked down at the bat, then looked at Frankie.
“You swung it, didn't you?” Vincent asked.
Frankie’s face was bruised, covered in sweat and grease. “Listen to me, Don DeAgostino... please, I was just doing what Sullivan told me! I didn't know she was yours! I swear to God I didn't know! If I knew she was your girl, I wouldn't have looked at her!”
Vincent picked up the baseball bat. He weighed it in his hands. It was lightweight, balanced, hollow aluminum.
“She is not my girl,” Vincent said quietly.
Frankie’s eyes flared with a desperate, fleeting hope. “Then let me go! I’ll leave the state! You’ll never see me again!”
Vincent stepped closer, his eyes cold as granite.
“She is not my girl,” Vincent repeated, raising the bat. “She is my *queen*. And you struck her like a dog.”
“No! Please—!”
Vincent brought the bat down with terrifying, calculated precision directly onto Frankie’s right forearm.
The sound of the aluminum striking bone was a sharp, hollow *crack*, followed instantly by the sickening crunch of Frankie’s radius and ulna snapping in half.
Frankie’s shriek shook the corrugated walls of the garage. He collapsed sideways, vomiting onto the concrete, clutching his mangled arm to his chest.
“That was for her arm,” Vincent said, his voice completely level.
He handed the dented metal bat to Luca.
“Put him in the back of the van,” Vincent ordered. “Take him to the boathouse basement. When the sun comes up, let him watch his own skin burn. Then douse the garage with gasoline and light it.”
“Yes, Don Vincent,” Luca said.
May you like
Vincent turned his back on the carnage, walking out into the pouring rain without looking back once. Behind him, the warehouse was splashed with fuel, and within minutes, towering orange flames were licking the Queens skyline, turning Mickey Sullivan’s empire into ash.
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