Chapter 8 - The Alleys of South Philadelphia
Raymond let out a shriek that sounded like a scalded cat, releasing her wrist as he staggered backward, his hands flying to his face, cursing and rubbing his burning skin against the brick wall of the bakery.
"You little bitch—I'll kill you—I'll tear your head off—"
Before he could lunge forward again, the heavy oak door of Castellano’s slammed open.
Three men stepped out onto the sidewalk.
First came Tony, holding a meat cleaver with the casual indifference of a man carrying a loaf of bread. Behind him came Marcus, one of the former state troopers who worked security.
And behind them both walked Vincent Castellano.
He wasn't wearing his overcoat. He wore his gray vest, his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, revealing forearms corded with old muscle and faded blue tattoos from his days on the docks. He didn't run; he walked with that same slow, unhurried pace of a man who already knew how the story ended.
Raymond, still wiping orange chemical dye and tears from his face, squinted through his good eye at the old man.
"Back off, grandpa," Raymond snarled, spitting onto the sidewalk. "This is a domestic matter. She's my girl. I'm taking her back where she belongs."
Vincent stopped two feet from Raymond. He didn't look at Raymond’s face. He looked down at Raymond’s shoes, then up at the dented fender of the New Jersey sedan idling at the curb.
"You have thirty seconds to get back in that rust-bucket," Vincent said, his voice barely audible over the hum of the diner sign, "and drive straight across the Ben Franklin Bridge without stopping for red lights."
"Or what?" Raymond laughed hysterically, reaching inside his jacket for the handle of a snub-nosed revolver. "You going to bore me to death with your old-man stories?"
He never got the gun out.
Marcus moved with the terrifying speed of a trained professional. He didn't punch Raymond; he caught Raymond’s right arm at the elbow, twisted it upward behind the shoulder blade with a sharp pop of separating cartilage, and drove the larger man face-first into the hood of the Ford.
The metal groaned under the impact.
Tony stepped up beside them, resting the flat of the meat cleaver casually against the roof of the car, right above the driver’s side window. The driver inside—a small-time punk from Camden—froze, his hands instantly flattening against the steering wheel where they could be seen.
Vincent walked slowly over to the hood where Raymond was pinned, his cheek pressed flat against the dirty chrome of the Ford. The old man leaned down until his mouth was an inch from Raymond’s ear.
"In this neighborhood," Vincent whispered, "we don't hit women. And we certainly don't bring trash from Jersey into my street without paying the dumping fee."
"I didn't know—nobody told me—" Raymond gasped, his breath hitching as Marcus applied another inch of pressure to his elbow.
May you like
"Now you know," Vincent said straightening up. He looked past Raymond at the driver inside the car. "Take him. And if I ever see either of you within three counties of South Philadelphia again, I won't send my boys. I'll send the tax man."
Marcus released his grip. Raymond collapsed into the gutter like a sack of wet laundry, clutching his dislocated shoulder and whimpering curses into the asphalt. The Ford reversed with a screech of tires, mounted the curb for a second, and then tore off down Fourth Street toward the bridge, its taillights bleeding red into the Philadelphia night.
