Mafia's Mistake

CHAPTER TWO

Lucia

The smoke stings my eyes as I wipe down the scarred wooden bar, fighting to maintain my undercover persona. This dingy mob hangout known as The Blind Tiger is a far cry from the straight-laced life I left behind at the NYPD.

Even the city’s grittiest precincts couldn’t prepare me for the seedy dregs hunched around these battered pool tables and ripped vinyl booths. I catch a couple of made men engaged in hushed conversation in the corner out of the corner of my eye – low-level Russo capos lording over their meager slice of turf.

Just a typical night for them, boozing and acting like big shots while flaunting the brutal enforcement that keeps their illicit income flowing. While I spend every waking moment reminded that one wrong move, one slipup, could blow my cover and tear my entire life apart. Knowing fully well that I had a lot at stake and losing wasn’t an option.

My hand strays beneath the bar where my apron conceals a compact digital recorder – my lifeline on this impossibly dangerous operation. The captain’s words echo through my mind like they do every day since I acknowledged this with a pit of dread:

“This is our best shot at bringing down Antonio’s gang. You’re our woman on the inside. Do not blow your cover, no matter what happens. We’ve been after these pricks for years and we haven't gotten anything tangible”

I smooth my hands over the crisp, starched apron – still creased from the packaging. Getting hired as a bartender here was just the first step. The real work is ingratiating myself, earning trust, and staying sharp for any illegal activities to capture as evidence.

The door groans open and a cool burst of fresh air offers a momentary respite from the stale, smoke-hazed atmosphere. I look up and instantly my pulse spikes.

An impeccably dressed, broad-shouldered man, walked in with a swagger. The cold, reptilian eyes and pockmarked features are unmistakable from my preparation – none other than Antonio, the entire reason I found myself in this underworld cesspool to begin with.

He was at the head of their feared crime syndicate controlling this territory like his own bloody fiefdom.

I watch Antonio make his way to a reserved table at the back, the crowd parting like the Red Sea. Fingering my recorder, I angle myself into a prime eavesdropping position as Antonio leans in conspiratorially, whispering into one of his bodyguard’s ears.

This is it – my first chance to get the goods that could take this sadistic snake down once and for all. Make all the sleepless nights and turmoil worth it. Casually wiping the bar, I hold my breath and rest my finger on the record button, bracing myself.

Suddenly, Antonio’s dead eyes swing my way with an intensity that freezes me in place. I imagine all the horrors those cold, merciless eyes must have witnessed him claw his way to the top of this criminal empire.

“You. Bartender.” His voice is a guttural rasp edged with authority. “Pour me a scotch on the rocks and keep them coming. We’ve got business.”

I watched as another player in the game made his way into Antonio’s reserved table, his white suit was well-fitted and somehow it matched his young face.

I force a polite smile and small nod, retreating to make the drinks. Get it together, I commend myself. This is your shot – your one chance to make a difference against these soulless bastards.

Steadying my breath, I retrieve the scotch and approach their table with my best-disinterested bartender mask firmly in place. Up close, the sickly sweet stench of the visitor’s cologne turns my stomach while Antonio radiates a palpable, crisp menace.

“Your scotch, Mr. Antonio” I keep my tone coolly neutral, lingering nearby to capture any potential criminal conversation on my recorder.

The man in white immediately launches into a loud, drunken tirade about another family undercutting their gambling rackets. Antonio simply nods, calmly swirling his tumbler in a way that somehow makes him even more threatening.

Just as I’m resigning myself to another fruitless night, Antonio raises his hand and silences his visitor with a single look. Those lifeless eyes bore into me with unmistakable malice as he leaned in conspiratorially.

“That’s enough. We’ve got bigger fish to discuss.” My breath catches as Antonio’s voice drops to a tense whisper, making sure I catch every word.

“I want you to put a crew together for next week. We’re going to send a message to that fuckin’ Mick O’Reilly that his business on our turf is done. Don’t care how many of his washed-up soldiers we have to put in the ground to remind them who runs this city.”

I grip my recorder tightly, straining to capture every damning word as Antonio discusses the brutal assault with chilling nonchalance. Having to fight to keep my composure as he casually mentions doling out deadly violence over territory disagreements.

As his visitor nods obediently like a feral dog receiving its next order to kill, I weigh my options. Walking away now to transcribe risks missing further confessions. But feigning a premature refill might tip them off that I’m overly interested.

My nerves thrumming, I refill their drinks and settle back into my role, unobtrusive but within earshot. Reminding myself this is merely the first salvo in an ongoing war against these monsters who clawed their way to supremacy through fear and bloodshed.

If I play my cards carefully, bigger breaks and harder evidence are bound to come. The kind of irrefutable proof the DA's office dreams of dismantling Antonio's entire sadistic empire once and for all.

No matter how many sleep-deprived nights or tests of fortitude, I vow to see this mission through to the end. To brave the depravity and lie to myself about finding the intestinal courage to keep going, no matter how pitch-black the abyss becomes.

All so I can one day look into Antonio’s soulless eyes as he’s led away in chains and let him know that I won. That I was the one who took him and his criminal legacy down for good.