“A man who doesn’t spend time with his family can never be a real man” Don Vito Corleone
“Knock louder, Frankie boy,” Nicolette laughed. Sitting in front of the screen, she watched as Big Bad Frank Paloma lost his shit right there on the front porch. His hand landing on the wood as he whispered through the door for Gypsy to open up. The old man should do his homework. She was already sitting in the saferoom by the second knock. Watching the rat run the wheel, little did he know that the cat was closing in. Not yet, though. Nicolette wasn’t ready to bite off his tail. Not yet, at least.
Nicolette tapped into the security door system. It was time to fuck with his head a little bit more. “Frankie boy, remember me?” she laughed. On the screen, she could see him looking around for the voice. Little did he know she was miles away safe and sound in a warehouse with his wife. If he only knew the amount of power her voice had over him, he would crumble into a shell of a man. At nineteen, she was mature beyond her years. If this man, this boss, could see what she did, he would bite the bullet before she fed it to him.
“I see you, Frankie. Are you ready to piss your pants yet? I think I see a little dribble,” she said. She was laughing when he looked down at his slacks. The man was losing it and quicker than she anticipated.
“Who the fuck are you? Where’s my fucking wife, you dumb little cunt?” he yelled. Beating on the door, Frank didn’t care at this point if someone called the cops. He could buy his way out of anything. That is the mentality of his kind. Men with too much power are the best ones to knockdown. “Why the fuck isn’t this whore opening the door?” he asked.
“Maybe you should pull out that big gun and blow the knob off. Oh, that’s right. You lost your prized gun, didn’t you?” Nicolette asked. She knew what happened to the gun because it sat on the table in front of her. Well, without one key factor. Gypsy’s prints were now gone. The gun held each memory on the fragments of dust inside. As her finger stroked the metal slowly, her mind captured every life lost within the chambers of the weapon. The one problem with being a soul eater is that you feel the horror of every shot fired. Every life lost. The pain, the suffering radiated through her veins like a stream of molten lava. This weapon had dimmed the lights of many far sooner than God had intended. Frank would feel the wrath, and she was Judge, Jury, and in the end, Executioner.
Searching the porch for the eye in the sky, the moment he found it, Frank stopped, his face looking as smug as a child who stole candy. “Open the fucking door. When I find you, I will make sure you don’t take another breath. That fucking kid won’t either. You just sealed her death warrant,” he said. Frank was sure this was the work of that little blonde whore, but how? That wasn’t her voice. He knew her screams all too well. He had made sure to be the reason for half of them.
“Tsk, Frankie boy, don’t threaten me. You already know I have Angelina here with me. Do you want to tell that boy his mothers dead because his father couldn’t shut his fucking mouth?” she asked. “Or should I have a conversation with Angelina and enlighten her about that business trip you took when Frank Junior was born. What you were doing that night your wife shit out your kid?” Nicolette asked. As she laid all the cards on the table, Frank’s face showed his age as the seconds passed. He came there with confidence that he could brutalize Gypsy once again, but little did he know, Gypsy was never going to be hurt again. She would never have to hide in a panic room, shaking in the corner. When this was over, she would walk free, and no one would touch her again. Some have an angel on their shoulder. Little Miss Kennedy had the Devil herself.
“You fucking cunt! I burn this mother fucker to the ground!” he said. Eyes darkening, Frank Paloma lost it. His world, his empire, crumbling down right in front of his eyes, and there was nothing he could do about it. His wife, taken, his pride took the biggest hit of all.
While he ranted, she made a call to the police, her last resort. She explained to them that she had noticed a stranger man on the porch of Miss Kennedy. One that looked like he might have a mental disorder. She wanted a wellbeing check on the homeowner. Once dropping the name Kennedy they assured Nicolette that they had a car in the area and would be there within minutes. “You have two minutes, Frankie. Use them wisely, but let me leave you with this fact. If a man of your power cannot protect his wife, he can’t defend his men. What’s going to happen when the world finds out that while you ate your spaghetti, I took your wife? Where were your men? Sleeping on the job?” she asked. Hearing the sirens in the background, Nicolette went silent, but she listened.
Two black and whites pulled up to the Kennedy compound and met with a very troubled Frank Paloma.
“Sir, do you know the woman who lives here?” the first officer asked.
“What the fuck do you think? I’ve known Gypsy for years,” Frank said.
The second cop shook his head, “I think you have the wrong house. This home belongs to Mary Kennedy.”
“Right, she goes by Gypsy. She’s a who.. Can I leave? I think you’re right. I have the wrong place,” Frank said. “All these places look alike,” he added.
“Let’s see some ID first,” said the first cop.
Frank pulled out his ID, temper fuming, Frank was tormented with thoughts of what that bitch had said to him.
The cop took the ID, looking it over, smiling when he read the name. Handing it back, still smiling, the officer knew he was dirty, but the one thing you learn in the academy is who to shake, and who to leave alone. “We’ll walk you out, Mr. Paloma. I’ll let the resident know this was a false alarm,” said the first cop.
Sitting back at the computer, watching as the rat walked away, Nicolette waved to the screen, “See you soon, Frankie boy. Don’t worry. I’ll bring the cheese.”