THE SECRET PACT

SIMON WAS A self-sufficient service provider for the mafia. A butcher, responsible for cleaning up the mess they made in their scams. He was thoroughly familiar with all the ways to get rid of the dead and the evidence. He had no side, no quarrels, he worked for anyone who paid him, and no one dared touch him, because if they did, they would lose an important piece when it came to getting rid of their own mistakes. No one knew what he did or how he did it, but it was certain that he would not fail.

Carl and Tom took Will's body out of the trunk and laid it carefully on a table in the place. He would be given a wake with the traditional mafia honors.

After Tony left, Benedetti contacted the cleaning specialist and hired his services. When he hung up, he and Tom pulled up two chairs that were at the back of the warehouse, where they sat down to await his arrival.

Benedetti took off his jacket and began to examine the wound on his arm. Nothing deep, just a scratch left by an enemy bullet. The bleeding had already stopped, so he shouldn't worry. To help fight off the fatigue and alleviate the boredom, the old man felt for a few moments in the pockets of his jacket on his legs, until he pulled out his pack of cigarettes, which were already running out, such was his addiction. The newbie just stared at the corpse bathed in scarlet. After lighting the lighter and burning the end of the tobacco, the man took a long drag, letting the fire consume as much of the poison as he could, and then exhaled the smoke. After fulfilling the old, almost ritualistic habit, he started a conversation:

— Better get used to it, kid. No more predictable things from now on...

— Yeah, I see... — the young man replied, with a sober look at the corpses in front of him. "You did well, son, you managed your own way, though." Not just anyone can join the family, and that's why. It's not like in the movies, maybe not like everyone else. — the last drag consumed half of the cigarette.

Leo thought the old man was tense from smoking so avidly.

— There are no scripts, no journeys, and most cases don't have happy endings. Just stories lived in shades of gray.

Carl Benedetti coughed a few times. Tom observed:

— This is still going to kill you...

— I've been trying for thirty years and I still haven't succeeded! — the old man grumbled, catching his breath.

— This kills twenty times more people than crime, every year. — the young man said, in a moralistic tone.

— Where did you see this? At school? — Carl Benedetti replied, putting the cigarette in his mouth again.

— I saw it on TV.

— History...! I'm sick of this nonsense! They ban drugs, but turn a blind eye to cigarettes... They fight criminals, but allow smoking! This doesn't make any sense. Marijuana is worse, that should be banned — he said, pointing to the bloody corpse on the floor.

— Just look at the Kid now!

Kid was the typical portrait of a drug addict most immersed in addiction. Although hearing Tony mock his death so coldly bothered Leo, deep down the old man was right. He was there, dead, because he had gotten too involved in crime. He had gotten involved in crime because he owed too much to the drug dealers. He owed the drug dealers because he had given himself too much to his addiction. At the end of his story, marijuana killed him with a shot to the head. And at the end of the story, crime, marijuana and Benedetti's cigarettes were the same thing.

— Yeah…

Tom sighed sadly, looking at his corpse.

— Not everyone is so lucky… — Benedetti nodded.

— You know, son, I've been putting a cigarette in my mouth every day for thirty years and I risk dying because of it, but if I really wanted to, if I really wanted to, I could stop.

— I've been in the family for thirty-five years, time has passed... — and he grumbled as he realized how time was passing.

— It goes by fast, but since the first time I took a man's life, I understood that I had entered a path of no return. I can stop being a smoker, but could I stop being a murderer?

Leo looked at Peter, thoughtful. Benedetti continued:

— The first shot is like an abyss... and you only understand that when you're already falling. Once a murderer, even if you never do it again, you're a murderer forever.

— Have you ever been afraid of dying? — Tom asked thoughtfully.

— I was in Vietnam, there every day you're afraid of dying, you don't know where those damned guys with slanted eyes would come from, shooting at your comrades and disappearing off the map. And it was a recruit, just like you, who saved me... Gregory Evans, the damned hero.

— Isn't that who I think he is?

— Is there another damned Vietnam veteran out there saving people? Leo laughed.

— He was there for a little over a week and our entire platoon was wiped out, except for him, me and our captain. If it weren't for him, I wouldn't have these damn nightmares every night, hearing my friends dying next to me, one by one... and now you ask me if I'm afraid of dying? If I'm going to die, let it be quick and in a single dose of and death...

Leo laughed at his mentor's answer. After a smirk, he replied:

— It's ironic that you should say that, if you're slowly killing yourself...

— Just tell me one thing that isn't ironic in this life...

Leo couldn't find anything to say in response. In fact, he didn't bother to think of anything. Carl Benedetti cleared his throat a few times and, after taking another drag of his vice, continued:

— I'm a victim of fate! That's what I thought at first, I thought that life had made me this way, but that didn't work... It didn't free me from the guilt. Then I started to think that this was my mission, to take other scoundrels like me out of the world. It even helps sometimes, to have a greater goal, a mission given to me by myself. Until one day a son of a bitch with better aim will come along and it will be my turn... I've even thought about God... A guy up there who made me live this life, or if there would be another way, or if he would have another life for me, I don't know, maybe I would feel differently...

Tommy threw his body forward and rested his arms on his knees, intertwining his fingers:

— I heard about a killer who ended up in a church. He said a miracle saved him. He died playing the organ, shot by another madman...

— Ironic, isn't it? — Benedetti asked, smiling.

— Well, he died anyway...

— And music? — he laughed. — I have no talents. That's why I live the way I do, shooting isn't a talent, it's aim!

Leo just smiled.

— I'll tell you something, kid. — Carl Benedetti continued. — This life is a big, long game. The cards are already marked, we just need to keep playing...

— I don't know, — the young man reflected. — When I think about Katy, I can't imagine her being like you or me. I don't think it's like that...

— Well, maybe we're playing different games...

The conversation went on for a few minutes, until Simon appeared, knocking on the door. Benedetti opened it halfway and he hurriedly entered, looking at every corner of the place.

— Is that all? — he asked, as he yawned and looked at Kid's body.

— Yes, — Benedetti replied. — We're going to wake Will tomorrow, Tony just needs to tell Hellen the news.

— Will? Wow! — Simon exclaimed, seeing the driver's body on the table from afar. — And I thought I would grow old like him... What happened?

— On the head, closed coffin.

— Sad my friend, very sad.

Then he turned to Tom and said:

— Hey kid, help me with this piece here, there's a bag just for him in the trunk.

Leo helped him get up and carry the body to the trunk, where they bagged it so as not to dirty his car.

— See if you can find a way to make it disappear quickly. — Benedetti said.

— If I still work with this today, it's because no one has ever found it. — Simon replied irritably.

— You're the best, Simon!

— It's been a while since I had a job with Tony, — he observed, raising his eyebrows. — Are things getting hectic again?

— Not that he wanted to... — Benedetti sighed.

— We never want to...

— Listen, can you drop us off somewhere close to our homes? — Carl Benedetti asked.

— The bald forty-something with a dry sense of humor hesitated until he saw that he had no options, answering as follows:

— Okay, okay... So now Tony wants me to carry them alive too?

— Me, alive? Not so much, — Benedetti replied, laughing. — But that one must still be growing hair! — he pointed at Tommy — These days I'm nothing more than gunpowder and nicotine, my dear!

Laughing a dejected laugh, the three left. Each one was taken to a corner near his house and Simon went off to finish off the deceased.