Evans Horrorscope

1. Auflage 2014
ISBN: 978-1-4835-4301-7
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 312 Seiten

When a psychic is forced to provide prediction to the mafia in order to keep their crimes from being foiled, Helen Wilson must weigh the balance of her gift with the consequences of now complying with the mob. When an under boss believes she is a threat to their criminal enterprise, he has the psychic killed. Her death causes a physical manifestation of the signs of the Zodiac, who then seek revenge for her murder. The signs then begin a mission of revenge, as each creature targets those involved in the psychics death.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Evans, Brian

Leseproben

Chapter Two

"When I tell you to fucking pay, you fucking pay. I don't want to hear any more of your bullshit," a voice could be heard from the sidewalk as a couple decided to walk the other way. They just happened to be passing Craig's Safari Bar in New York City, a small bar about three blocks from the old Twin Tower buildings.

"All right, all right...relax man, I've got you," another voice replied.

The bar was previously a coffee shop, until Peter Vaughn inherited it from his father, who had passed away just a year before. Inside, Luigi Nicolo laid down the against-the-law on Vaughn, threatening the man as he intended to do about fifteen more times that day in various stores, cafés and bars that answered to the Nicolo crime family. The family wasn’t new to New York City, but they were the typical mafia organization. They killed people. They stole. They received shipments by barge that contained large amounts of drugs. Those just beginning to become useful were handed the task of extorting money out of local businesses until they were able to climb the ranks of “the family.” What wasn’t typical was the violence; beyond gory, and always meant to convey a very strong message: Do not fuck with us.

As a result, none of the other “families” in New York or New Jersey would associate with them. Because of the blood that connected them all that flowed out of Sicily, it was best just for the remaining families to look the other way, rather than to end up looking like a scarecrow in a cornfield, which the Nicolo family had done before...just to send a message. Minus a head.

What gave the Nicolo family carte blanche was their brutality. Given the nature of the mafia in general, you were something special if all of the other families came to the conclusion that it was just best to stay out of your way.

After Luigi had squeezed out the $2,600 that Peter Vaughn had to offer, Luigi looked down at his cell phone to see a text message from Omar Rosario, trusted assistant to AC Nicolo (Antonio Christopher Nicolo). Omar and AC went to school together in Sicily, and when the family had moved to the USA in 1966, AC made certain that Omar came along. AC worked his way up the ranks of the New York City mob, and by 36 years old was known as the head of the Cosa Nostra in the city that never sleeps. Anyone who challenged him did nothing but sleep, but it was the sort of sleep where they’d never wake up.

“AC is in the living room.”

Translation: Get your ass to the house right now, as something serious is about to go down.

Luigi breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that if he was about to be killed, the invitation would have been a much friendlier one. The kind of invitation where you thought “the boys” would simply be sitting around the bar and downing shots of whatever fit their fancy. Most of the family feared AC as much as the rival families, who long ago had realized that any attempt to interfere with AC’s dealings made a bullet in the head appear like a massage. There simply was no easy way to die in this crew, and they weren’t like the Chicago bosses who would direct their Las Vegas counterparts to merely bury you in the desert somewhere. If AC had his way, the bodies of his victims would be pinned up on the billboards that lit up Times Square. He just didn’t give a shit, and lived his life as if it were over long ago. There was just no instilling fear in a man like that.

The twelve-minute drive to the East Side in New York, 82nd and Park Avenue, seemed like a long drive to Luigi. He never heard directly from Omar unless something serious was about to occur. Usually Luigi, low man in the chain of command, would get a call from AC’s son, Thomas, if for nothing more than to give him something to do. AC’s intent was to keep Thomas away from the violence; but after Thomas was caught killing animals and bringing them to show off to his middle school, AC realized that some things just run in the family. AC gave Thomas the light work of playing air traffic controller, sending the family out to do the deeds, and letting them know when it was clear for take-off and arrival. Still, Luigi didn’t feel fear as much as he did anxiousness over having to have any sort of direct discussion with AC. For the last year, however, AC had shipped his son off to Italy for reasons unknown.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” Luigi said, as he pulled up to the tall building that his uncle owned. A young man of about 20 years old approached the car from its passenger side, and kneeled down to the window as Luigi used his automatic window control to bring it down.

“I am to park your car myself today,” the young man said. “Omar said I should tell you that.”

Now Luigi was concerned. Typically he would just pull up to the valet, who would give him the garage code number of the day, and he’d self-park. The code was changed daily to keep out the occasional pain-in-the-ass investigator or FBI man who was seeking another notch on his belt.

“Really?” replied Luigi.

“That’s what he said; he just wants you up there. I don’t know more than that,” the young man said.

Luigi got out of the car and handed the keys to the valet.

“Be careful driving it; I just got it waxed,” Luigi said.

The red 2012 Mercedes-Benz SLS AMG was Luigi’s pride and joy, putting him in the hole to AC to the tune of about $200,000. It was a hole Luigi had best earn quickly, unless he wanted to be put in a hole himself.

“I will, Mr. Nicolo,” the young man said. Luigi watched the 20-year-old Xbox fiend drive away in his pride and joy.

“Fuck,” said Luigi once again.

The doors to the tower that AC lived in and owned were framed in gold, and had bullet-proof glass. The glass was so thick that you couldn’t see clearly into the lobby until you opened the door. Men were stationed in that lobby 24 hours a day

Nicolo was greeted by the three security guards (using the term lightly, given they were all convicted felons).

“How are you, Nicolo? Welcome, welcome! Go right up, he’s waiting for you,” said Manuel Pietro, who looked like Steven Seagal in a very bad mood at all times. Just getting a “How are you” from the man was a surprise to Nicolo.

“I’m good, Manuel, I’m good. Everything good?” asked Nicolo.

“Everything is fucking peachy,” Manuel replied.

The other two men stationed in the lobby were Michael Bonanno and Massimiliano Milano, two individuals who have been many a passerby’s worst nightmare when strolling through an alley at night, should such people happen to walk by when they were both doing a deed initiated by AC.

Manuel, Michael, and Massimiliano were Station A on AC’s security team. They were the first group of men you’d see before all hell broke loose, should you be attempting to walk through those doors without an invitation. It was their job to make sure that whoever came through those bullet-proof glass doors belonged there. If they didn’t, they didn’t leave the building unless they were either cops, or that by vote they were granted an exit. Most of the time they were two out of three for letting someone go; but on one occasion, all three decided to take a man by the name of Tom Diego out of the building via a meat grinder. It had become clear that Diego had intentions of putting a little Brown Recluse Spider in the old man’s flat. Although Tom didn’t know what was contained in the package thought to have been a gift from the Giulio family, a family that once thought it could outwit the Nicolo family for a takeover, it was a failed attempt, and cost Tom his life. The Giulio family, all of them, have not been heard from to this very day.

Daily visits from the FBI became almost routine, as well as the occasional New York City Police Detective. The Nicolo family were always ten steps ahead of any plans by authorities to bring them down. A few members of New York’s finest were on the payroll, and those who didn’t agree to do so, either transferred on their own, or were transferred by the Nicolo family to a grave. When that happened, there were usually four or five body bags accompanying each officer whose decision not to play ball led to early retirement.

Luigi stood in the elevator with Manuel as it brought them up to the penthouse suite. Thirty-six floors high, it left thirty-five floors beneath it to make any attempt on AC’s life. AC had grown accustomed to the attempts, and the penthouse had proven to be a safe haven to all, with security that would have made even the most sophisticated special agencies envious.

The elevator doors opened slowly as Manuel and Luigi stepped out. Luigi stood about 5’11”, and was small compared to the height and size of the monster-like security guard.

“He said to just have a seat, and he’ll be out in a minute,” said Manuel.

The guard stepped back into the elevator and headed back down to the lobby. Luigi looked around at the spectacular living area of AC Nicolo. No matter how many times he’d seen it before, it was a sight. The large white sofa, the gold lamps, the maroon walls, the mahogany wood that surround the living space; it looked like something out of a movie. The horse statues and awards from organizations that catered to the ego of AC were spread across the left side of the room when facing it from the elevator. It looked like a museum of wealth and power, and AC...