Page 62 of Marcello

“A nice little party,” he said as he reached in his pocket. “Show me the cash first.”

“Right,” I said, and took my hands out of my hoodie pockets and dug in my jeans.

I pulled 40 euros from my wallet and held it out.

“Don’t be so fuckin’ obvious,” he whisper-snarled. “Haven’t you done this before?”

“No, my friends usually get it for me,” I lied again.

He sighed in disgust and said, “Fold up the money and shake my hand.”

I folded up the money and reached out.

He shook with the hand that had been in his pocket a few seconds before.

I felt the cash slide out of my fingers –

And slick plastic touch my skin.

Unfortunately, I fumbled the exchange. A tiny plastic baggie with a bit of white powder fluttered to the ground.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” the dealer snarled, then added in Neapolitan, “You fuckin’ shithead!”

“Sorry,” I mumbled as I bent over to grab the baggie.

One of the high school kids called out in Neapolitan, “Hey man, don’t trust that guy – all his shit’s cut with baby laxative!”

A bunch of high schoolers laughed – specifically the ones smoking weed. Apparently, the Camorra guy was their dealer.

The thug turned around and barked in Neapolitan, “Shut the fuck up and mind your own business!”

I stood up, almost in a dream, and put my right hand in my hoodie pocket.

My fingers closed around the gun.

I could fire through my sweatshirt pocket.

I had a clear shot at his kidneys – point blank range, just two feet away.

Do it – do it NOW!

The high school kid laughed at the drug dealer. “Or what, you’re not gonna sell to me anymore?”

SHOOT HIM!

“No, I’ll just fuckin’ kick your ass!” the dealer shouted.

DO IT!

“You and what army?” the kid taunted.

FUCKING SHOOT HIM!

The Camorra thug snarled, “Don’t make me come over there and – ”

I did it.

I pulled the trigger.