MARKED!
954 Words
His eyes were fixed on the garish building.
He stood slowly from the bench. Lit a cigarette. Cheap one. All he could afford on what Antonio paid. But he never smoked it. Just needed something to do with his hands.
Jack crossed the street slowly. No rush. Casual. Calculated. Trying to maintain a low profile
The door of the Maybach opened.
There she was.
Mariana, revelling in her unflinching arrogance.
A character he wondered how Antonio, despite his famed brutality condoned.
Clad in an ostentatious fox-fur coat in this scorching Miami heat. Oversized glasses that hid everything but gave away more than she knew. She reeked of pride.
Two men stepped out first.
Broad shoulders. Black suits. Tactical posture.
Then two more behind her.
Glocks, by the shape of the bulges. Knives, maybe. Definitely Luca’s men.
Jack recognized the angular face of the tallest, Gianluca Moroni. Former hitman turned consigliere. Not the kind of guy who attended tea parties.
He exhaled. Deeply. Quietly. Smoke curling beneath his lips.
She was meeting Don Cassio Luca.
At Antonio's club’s rival turf.
That wasn’t a visit.
It was treachery. Betrayal at its peak
Jack stepped cautiously behind the hedge that lined the club’s glitzy valet entrance.
He reached into his tweed coat and pulled out his burner device - old Nokia, modified. Untraceable. Perfect for sins that required no footprints.
He dialed Antonio.
Busy.
He tried again.
Voice message.
He silently swore under his breath. Not loudly. Just enough to taste it. Bitter.
Antonio would want to know. Now.
Then Jack paused.
His eyes narrowed behind dark shades. His pupils flared slightly. Something clicked.
Mariana hadn’t looked back.
Not once.
She always did.
She knew someone was always watching. Whether ATF. Or the Feds.
She liked it. Fed on it. Wore it like her Tom Ford perfume.
But not tonight.
Tonight, she walked like someone confident.
Or protected.
Or doomed.
The velvet rope drifted apart, slowly like a comedic scene out of Sesame street
An elegant concierge clad in a pink tuxedo bowed.
She ignored him.
Then she vanished into the dark interior of The Transatlantique.
One of the bodyguards lingered.
Eyeing the street. Jack turned his back. Feigned lighting the same cigarette again.
A grunt.
The guard flanked the others.
He was alone again.
Jack muttered, "Bad night to be a shadow."
He tucked the phone back. No message.
Too risky.
He had to see what was happening inside.
He checked the alley beside the building.
Blocked. Two more guards.
No chance.
Then he remembered.
The club had rooftop maintenance access. He’d used it a decade ago during a high-profile cheating scandal involving a mayor engrossed in a wild threesome. In his booty was a bag of cocaine the size of a baby whale.
Jack moved.
Down the block. Into the old bookstore alley. Past a rusty fire escape. He climbed. Hands steady.
His joints didn’t thank him. But adrenaline drowned out the pain.
He reached the third floor. Cautiously crossed over a narrow roof ledge. Then up another shaft and dropped inside a boiler room behind the kitchen.
Warm.
Noisy.
Smelled of steak and bleach.
Nobody noticed him. Yet.
He pressed himself behind a rack of perishable goods. Waited. Listened.
Footsteps. Conversations in Russian. Or was it Serbian?
Didn’t matter.
Jack slipped through the door. Found a service corridor. Then the guest lounge, decked in velvet, chrome, and lust.
He remained in the shadows. His eyes scanned until he saw them.
Mariana Cabello-Morello.
She was seated.
Head tilted like Medusa without the wriggling serpentine hairs.
Laughing softly.
Across from her. Don Cassio Luca.
Bigger than Jack remembered. Bearded and portly. Grayer too. But same wolfish grin. Same devil in a 10,000 dollar shiny suit.
And atop the table between them?
A black case.
Small. Rectangular. Steel.
Deals didn’t happen in briefcases anymore.
Unless they were deadly.
Jack’s jaw clenched.
So that was it.
A Morello. With a Luca.
Trading secrets?
Trading what?
He needed proof.
He lifted his burner again. Took one photo. Just one.
That was all Antonio needed to lose his last excuse for mercy.
But Jack didn’t leave.
Because something strange happened.
Mariana placed her hand on Luca’s.
A soft gesture. Romantic perhaps.
Lingered.
Luca didn’t pull away.
He smiled. The kind that was sensuous, romantic.
And kissed her hand.
Jack blinked.
Once.
Twice.
She wasn’t betraying Antonio.
She was replacing him.
Crooning from across the stage, a saxophone.
The club lights instantly dimmed signaling the arrival of a jazz ensemble on the state.
People clapped.
No one saw Jack slide back into the corridor.
He made it outside slowly. Took the same way back. The alley. The bookstore. Slipped into a cab across the street.
Only then did he call Antonio.
Three rings.
No answer.
He left a message.
“Your wife’s cheating on you, Tony."
He ended the call.
Paused.
Looked out the cab.
Back at the building.
A man stepped outside The Transatlantique.
Gianluca Moroni.
He was looking straight at the cab.
Straight at him. It was cold and menacing.
Their eyes met.
No smirk. No threat.
Just understanding.
They’d seen him.
And now he was marked. He hailed a cab.
Jack Darcy sat in the rear of the cab seat.
Lit the cigarette properly this time. Puffed. Smoke curling from his nose.
Then whispered, “Shit.”
Antonio was in danger and he had to be told.
Jack lit a cigarette. Smoke billowed through his nostrils and out the window. It disappeared into oblivion.
Mariana was threading a dangerous path - playing Russian Roulette with the Morellos and the Cassios was like walking on thin ice.
It was bound to crumple. It was just a matter of time.
- Writer
