The Spitfire

Chapter 2: Prince Of The City

My name is Shane Flanagan. Those who know me, and even some who don't, fear me. In my line of work, this is a good thing, a very good thing.

You see, I'm a very bad man, bad to the motherfucking bone. I make no excuses for myself. I would stomp a motherfucker just for fun. Well, maybe not so much these days, but when I was younger, yeah.

Now I would shoot a motherfucker for stepping on my kicks, and it didn't matter if they were Chucks or Gucci. It all depended on what kind of mood I was in and who's doing the mother f*****g stepping.

But I digress, as I was saying, people feared me all over this f*****g place. So tell me then why this little slip of a girl thought she could mouth off at me and get away with it?

Now, this Arianna Rossi is a real pain in the ass, know what I mean?

She lived upstairs of this pub that I'd just requisitioned from its previous owner. I needed her place for something else, so she had to go.

It's not like I was throwing her out on the street or some f**k. I owned enough residential buildings, all of them way nicer than this piece of s**t that I could hook her up with a new pad, but no. She had to dig in her heels, giving me s**t about tenant's rights and lease laws and f**k all. The f**k?

She must not have heard. Anyway, my little stepbrother James went to see Miss. Rossi on my behalf for the one- hundredth time, and apparently, this crazy ass chick had hauled off and shot him in the ass.

Now James is a lying f**k, so I took his version of events with a grain of salt. That's why I'm here now in my office at my new pub, sitting across from the pain in the ass, who didn't seem to know I could end her in ten seconds.

"So, Miss. Rossi, we meet again."

Crazy lady rolled her eyes at me. I looked over to my right-hand man Michael who seemed to be having trouble not laughing.

Of course, he would find this s**t funny; his wife, my sister Sophia wasn't much better in the crazy stacks. In fact, all the bitches around here seemed to either be on the rag or plum mother-f*****g nuts. Except my ma, ma is an angel among women.

Now, as for James, that f**k wasn't really my stepbrother, he's not my father's son, and he's not my mother's. Rumor has it that my grandfather, who I inherited the business from, used to mess with his mother.

How the f**k he ended up in my house is a mystery, but I was a kid when all this s**t happened, so I don't know f**k.

Grandpa stepped down three years ago when I turned twenty-three.

Dad's a heart surgeon; he's as far removed from this s**t as you can get. I take lives; he saves them. We have running debates on the subject every Sunday at the dinner table, but that's for another time.

Right now, I'm trying to figure out what to do with 'the mouth.'

"Why did you shoot my little brother?"

"I should've known he was another pig."

Michael almost choked the f**k.

"Do you know who I am, Miss. Rossi?"

"Yeah yeah, the big bad Shaney Flanagan, so what?"

Did she just call me Shaney?

I had to glare at Michael to shut him the f**k up.

"So you're not afraid of me, huh?"

"Contrary to what has been written, I don't believe in playing poor and helpless to give my enemy a fake sense of power before he attacks. I believe in kicking them in the balls to start s**t off."

"You read Sun Tzu?"

"What's it to you?"

"Just wondering why a little girl like you would be reading the Art of war."

"Because I have to deal with dumb motherfuckers every day, next question."

This chick was f****d in the head; there's no other explanation. I can't off someone who's touched; ma would have my hide.

Besides, I could think of better uses for that mouth of hers.

***

Arianna

***

Well, you've gone and cooked your goose, but good, haven't you Ari, are you insane?

I'm sitting here wondering why the hell my mouth won't stay shut. Now mind you, I give as good as I get, but this is Shane f*****g Flanagan; the guy takes out people for less, and here I am giving him s**t.

I blame my dad; my dad rest his soul, always taught me, 'never show fear' if you can't fight your way out of it, talk your way out.

Well looks like your sage advice was about to get me, whacked daddy. It wasn't just that either; for some reason, I wanted to show this specimen that he was just a man. If I nut kicked him, I'm sure I'll get the same reaction as I'd get from Joe the bum up the street.

Now he's studying me like an insect under a microscope. Study away, buddy; when you figure it out, let me in on it, hell if I know what my problem is.

"Well, did you have anything else to ask me? Some of us actually work for a living." See, my mouth had finally had enough of me and decided to get me done in or maimed one or the other.

"You still haven't told me why you shot him."

"Oh that, I didn't like the cut of his pants, people shouldn't wear their butt crack for the world to see, first of all, it's tacky as all hell, and secondly it's unsanitary, why the CDC hasn't cried outbreak on that s**t yet is beyond me."