Makros kicked the door to the club's cooking room open. Everything had been evacuated to a safe place due to the agent's presence, so it was mostly empty.
Two of his trusted soldiers stood apart in the dark space. In the middle was a figure on their knees, their head kissing the ground.
The door banged shut behind him. Before he could open his mouth, one of the boys shot forward and offered him a cigarette.
“Thank you, Giovanni,” he appreciated the boy he had watched grow into a man. From a petty street thief, he had turned him into a man who could back up his boast.
Wasn't that what he did? Turned boys into men and men into real men.
The other stepped out with a lighter.
“GraciasMario,” he said to Giovanni's partner.
He had found him as a baby in an abandoned carton on the streets. Fleas were making a feast out of him while people walked past without stopping to help.
They had not eaten for days. Who wanted a liability to add to their distress?
Against the judgment of the Don, who insisted they were not a charity organization, he picked him up and got him a nurse.
Eighteen years later, he was the boss now, and that little boy had grown into a man who handled a pistol better than he could at his age.
Then there was the one in the middle.
Makros took a puff and stepped forward. He let the cigarette fall from his hands, landing directly on the boy's shirtless back.
He hissed with pain and jerked up. The motion caused the cigarette to fall to the ground, but the burn on his skin was sure to cause a scar that may never fade.
“Look, he's alive.” He laughed maniacally, his gaze darting between his boys.
They laughed, too, but paused when he stopped.
“Boss–”
“Don't you dare!” He lifted a silencing finger.
The boy flinched and withdrew into his shell.
“What did you do to him? I don't see a mark on his body, yet he's so weak.”
“A little something-something, boss,” Giovanni, the little daredevil, said.
He chuckled but became serious shortly after.
“I need a chair. Get me a fucking chair, would you?” He directed at Mario.
Faster than light, he moved his feet and dug out a chair for the boss. Placing it down, he stepped back as Makros sat down.
Carefully, he pulled out the pistol he had taken from his office and placed it on his lap.
“Look at me,” he ordered.
The boy, a pool of sweat on his forehead and his face twisted in pain, obeyed his boss's order.
“What is your name, again?” He questioned, leaning to the side.
“Arturo,” he stuttered.
“Arturo,” Makros repeated, nodding his head. “You work at bartending?”
