of a lot less painful to die by a spray of bullets than it is to have an uncontrollable disease spread throughout your body and gradually kill you. If you’re real lucky, the shooter is skilled and ends your existence with the first shot. A blow to the head, maybe one to a major artery—every shot that comes after is simply for decoration. It’s a message to your family when they’re at your funeral, staring at a closed casket because no undertaker could fix the holes in your face, that you were nothing but a piece of shit.
In case you’re still wondering, our old man’s casket was closed, he didn’t spare his family in any regard. He uprooted our lives when he got deported back to Italy and tarnished our family name when he was murdered by the Sicilian mafia and my sister thinks I’m going to end up just like him.
Perhaps she’s right. That might even be the reason our uncle refuses to make me a made man in his organization. Apparently, I’m only good to make people disappear, otherwise I’m a fucking disgrace. A soldier with a tarnished name that he pities. A man with no future whatsoever.
The barmaid returns with my vodka, setting the glass on the table with a thud.
“Is there anything else I can get you?” she grinds out. I let my eyes rake over her one more time, before lifting the glass and quickly downing the contents. If she’s spit in it or what, I don’t really give a damn. It still manages to go down.
“Another,” I demand, slamming the empty glass on the table. My eyes cut to hers. “Oh, and while you’re at it, tell your boss I’m here.”
Her eyebrows pinch together.
“Mitch is pretty busy,” she replies.
I don’t know how much this broad thinks she knows about me but clearly, she doesn’t know enough. Leaning forward, my eyes narrow into tiny slits.
“I don’t give a fuck,” I sneer.
Not a single fuck.
“Right,” she mutters, standing a little straighter. “I’ll relay the message.”
With that she disappears. I lift my glass and suck the ice cubes into my mouth as I divert my attention to the stage. Sultry music blares from the speakers and the smoke from the fog machine starts to clear as the next stripper steps out, wearing a fitted blazer that barely touches the tops of her thighs. I’m not sure if it’s the six-inch heels or if her legs are really that long but I imagine them wrapped around me. I lift my chin to see if her face matches the rest of the stellar package, but between the blonde waves framing her face and the rim of the fedora that shields her eyes, it’s impossible.
I inch forward, completely enthralled, and watch as she wraps one hand around the silver pole. With her free hand she unbuttons the blazer, revealing the swell of her breasts and a toned stomach.
She hooks one leg around the pole and arches her back as her body swings around it gracefully. The hat falls from her head and those blonde waves cascade down her back. Once she’s done making that pole the envy of every man in the place, she stands with her back facing the audience. Completely fascinated, I lean my elbows on my knees and anxiously await her next move. Her body is in sync with the beat of the music as she sways her hips and slides the blazer down one shoulder. Then it slips from the other shoulder. The blazer finds its way to the stage and I take in the package. The beautifully toned back, the narrow waist and the flare to her hips. As she bends forward, my eyes fall to her ass. Unlike every other broad in this dive, there is nothing fake about this girl and I decide I wouldn’t mind wrapping all that long blonde hair around my fist as I fill her from behind.
It would be the highlight of my fucking week.
My cock twitches at the sight and I press the heel of my hand to my zipper as the barmaid places my second drink in front of me. Without tearing my eyes away from the stripper on the stage, I bring the glass to my lips and down the vodka in one gulp. My molars grind the ice cubes as the dancer takes another spin around the pole. She’s nothing like the women who took the stage before her, she makes an art of dancing