Vinny Smith felt the familiar burn of shame flush his disfigured face beetroot red. Ever since his confrontation with Freddie Evans Jr six years prior, his life had slowly begun deteriorating right out from beneath his feet. He'd suffered a number of fractures and breaks in his face, and his nose had been so badly damaged that it required re-constructive surgery, which his parents were forced to pay for with their savings. Infection had set back his recovery a few weeks and by the time he'd been released from hospital he had fallen so far behind in school he had to delay his exams.
Now, six years later, his father's health was failing, which meant Vinny had been spending the past few months picking up the slack at their restaurant. It was a successful place in Canary Wharf that had been in a slow decline over the past few years, which only made the fact that it was none other than Junior himself striding into the place that afternoon sting even worse.
Things had gotten to the point where they had almost lost the restaurant, their only source of income, and they had been offered money from the mob. Vinny's father Gerry was shrewd enough to know that it wasn't really a choice; they would take the money, and because of it they would be indebted to the mob for as long as the ruthless bastards saw fit.
Vinny knew that his father hated him at times, really hated him for the way he'd treated Junior. He had been only a boy then, sure, but he had made a very adult mistake and now they were all paying for it—as if he hadn't suffered enough!
He also knew that the only reason the mob had given them this "opportunity", if you could call it that, was because of his personal history with Junior, but he wasn't sure if it was a way to make amends or take the piss.
Knowing the Evanses, he'd bet on the latter.
Junior was looking smart those days, which only infuriated Vinny further, not that he let it show. He was a real gangster now, only twenty-two years old but he was earning a decent amount of quid as a "collector", which basically meant he came around collecting payments from various shops, pubs, and restaurants in exchange for their services. These services usually meant either they'd leant them money or they were offering protection, both of which Vinny was more than well aware of were complete scams. There was no way to refuse their offers and no real way to get out of the deal afterwards. It was always a losing offer for the people unlucky enough to be forced to accept it, which meant thugs like the Evanses always won.
Junior looked to be in a good mood, striding in chipper as a fucking lark and dressed in all-black. His suit was smart and his hair trimmed properly; Fred had always told him that the first thing people noticed about you was how you looked. You could carry yourself like the Queen herself but it didn't matter if you were wearing trainers and jogging bottoms.
He peeled the sunglasses off of his face and looked around the dimly-lit restaurant. 'Well, blimey, Vin; you done summink to this place since I seen it last. New coat of paint, is that?'
'No, Evans,' said Vinny, and the amount of self-control it took not to grit his teeth was astounding. 'Done fuck-all.'
'Well, would be on our pound if you did, wouldn't it?' said Junior, and he knew he was rubbing it in thick. Vinny's hands gripped the counter so hard his knuckles were blanching. 'Must be the lighting or summink. Don't think I ever come up here this early.
'Anyway... speakin' of our pound. Where's me money?'
This was the part Vinny hadn't been looking forward to. Usually they made around thirty grand on a good week, but the recent mob influence had actually hindered their sales. Now Gerry's as the place was called wasn't known for it's valuable service and friendly relationships with its customers, but for the thugs always hanging around it, half of which constantly took the piss and demanded they eat there for free. It was taxing in more ways than one, and the truth was after labour costs and the actual money it took to run the restaurant, they just couldn't afford doling out five grand a week to the mob.
'Well...Junior,' began Vinny, swallowing his knob and reasoning that if he softened the blow a bit by being friendly, the punishment might be less severe. He was acutely aware, however, that whenever he interacted with Junior he was always on incredibly thin ice. 'There's...less this week. Only about three grand. But, I promise you, next week we'll have your five grand, and then some.'
He loathed Junior. Truly, truly loathed him, especially now that he was forced to grovel. What really rankled was the fact that the cunt was enjoying every second of it.
Junior ran his hand over his face in a seemingly-thoughtful gesture, but Vinny could see the pleasure in his eyes. He nodded a few times, sniffed a bit, and then wordlessly began digging around in the inside pocket of his suit jacket. From it, he removed a long, broad knife, which must have been a machete of some sort. It was a wonder how he'd actually had that tucked away in there, and somewhere in Vinny's subconscious he wondered what else he was armed with.
Setting the machete down on the counter top, certainly as a show of intimidation—which was fucking working—he reached in once more and retrieved his mobile phone. Seeming to check something apparently much more important than Vinny's pleading, he took his time in making a show of it before finally returning his attention to his former classmate.
'You have until Friday,' he said suddenly, as if he'd just come up with the idea, and his voice had grown serious. Vinny, even more than he had before, felt the gravity of his situation. 'That's three days from now. Have whatever left that you owe me, including interest, by midnight.'
Without warning, Junior had grabbed the machete and slammed the blade so hard into the counter it sliced through and remained standing on its own, and Vinny jumped nearly a foot in the air. 'Chop chop.'
Clearly amused by himself, Junior lit up into a grin and enjoyed the terrified reaction he'd gotten from the bloke. Prying the blade from the surface of the counter, he placed it back into his jacket as well as the envelope of money Vinny had procured, smoothed his clothes and hair, and strode away from the restaurant whistling.
Vinny watched him leave with a hatred inside him he'd never felt before, so intense and so powerful that it scared him.