bc

The World Under

book_age16+
13
FOLLOW
1K
READ
revenge
mafia
gangster
drama
mystery
bold
genius
realistic earth
crime
like
intro-logo
Blurb

BLURB

The story revolves around an African-American—Paul, taken under the wing of a Sicilian-American Crime Boss—Rafael Visconti, and thrust into the cold universe of the underworld at a tender age by cruel, implacable fate. The story gives vivid accounts of his education in the Mafia’s way and their strange world, his knowledge of his past, the strains and tension in his new family, and the distrustfulness and treachery of his new world. The story shows how Paul must learn to thrive in a quick-changing world of the underworld, show where his loyalty lies, and avenge or make peace with the past which now reared its head in the present.

chap-preview
Free preview
The name is Paul
CHAPTER ONE My name is Paul. Surname and middle name? I have got none. I bet you must be thinking I’m an anomaly, or something remotely close. But I’m not, so you had better keep your thoughts of me clean and straight. I haven’t the vaguest idea what my mom or dad looks like, or anything about any of my families, either. Still, regardless, I’ve got this one man worth more than any of my pedigree if they ever lived at the moment in my life. He made me journey the path of no weakling. He’s my Godfather; the pop I’ll regret not knowing. I’m a tall, feat-bodied guy with a quick-fire temper, and dark hair buzzed in a brush cut. I stood supplely at six-feet-two”. I do do beers, gamble a lot, and keep my distance from bitches, but that goes without saying; I ain’t no saint. I must add that, I’m a high school dropout—dropped out of Millennium Senior High in ninth grade, after coming to grips with the fact that I wasn’t cut out for formal education and her stringent systems. But anyways, I found out I was cut for a fate even greater and was later schooled and groomed in another— The Criminal class. An ever-shifting world of intrigues. Seventh Avenue, Westside Manhattan, New York City, for the most part, had been the bigger part of my history. For one; I was literally raised from the cradle here. The bulk of my life can be defined by this place. Walking up 39th Street on the famously known Garment District on a fine, starry night like this, I’m more drawn to the streets and the city as a whole. The bright light of Manhattan is like no other in the whole of New York City. The crystal blue air of the day and the vibrant nightlife are just so amazing that I have never in a thousand daydreams dreamt of a future without this place. And for a city that never sleeps, the streets of Manhattan are always busy all night long, with nocturnal creatures—hustlers, cutpurses, muggers, and cutthroats—just about everywhere from alleys to dead-end streets, ready to pounce on easy targets at the off chance. As I made my way along the sidewalk, I can easily spot dark, menacing eyes flashing from their hidden places afront shopfronts, alleyways, and street corners. But they know better than to stay clear of my path. How could I not have seen them? I’m a Made Man, remember? I hope you never forget that! Also, I know you must be wondering what my business is with the Mafia. Or, better yet, how is it possible for an African-American (or should I just lay it on thick here for the record, by saying a nigga) like myself to be made a Made Man—a position attainable only by Italians by American Mafia standards. Not to worry; you’re gonna learn that pretty soon along the way. As a member of the underworld, wariness and stealthiness are prerequisite traits, as is good judgment. Another good thing about being a mobster of course is, that you can tell if the air was walking, figuratively I mean; and can as well distinguish what from whatnot. My destination tonight is my usual hotspot—FLASHDANCERS NYC, a strip club on West 45th Street off the theater district, and the intersection that connects Times Square with Seventh Avenue. An approximately fifteen minutes walk from my home and turf. Drinking alone in a club with my guard down serves me a purpose; I get streetwise. I would wager that the case is one and the same for all gangsters everywhere. Fully aware that I might be put down just anywhere, at any tick of the clock with the squeeze of a trigger, I still must live my life. Well, I guess as gangster as I am, I’ve got only one shot at life like everyone else. Also, I figured walking down the street alone as a cloud and frequenting a strip club both serves the purpose of getting a message across to my enemies, too—I was not afraid to die; and that, I’m willing to bet my left kidney on is enough problem for an enemy, who’s half wise and sound. *** Wild revue and riotous noises rented the air from every corner of the club as the seamless flow of electronically synthesized music blasted from the concealed woofers and subwoofers systems scattered across its sprawly main floor area. Accompanying the techno music wafting through and through the big hall of the club were dashing lattices of laser beams, projected colored images, and loads of visual effects, which cast off their alluring lights across the main floor in brilliant longitudinal spires and strips. On every angle and corner of the large exquisite main floor, patrons seated at the ‘ringside’ gyrated along with the music in their own wild, torqued motion while watching performers all around the main stage whirled and twisted around poles like monkeys. The lights coming from various lightning fixtures; Neon, laser, and LEDs dancing over their half-unclad bodies. In the middle of the racket and revelry, I sat quietly by the counter at the main bar, chugging at a dry Martini provided earlier by a red-haired bartender at my order, and leaving the once brimful tumbler empty. Unbothered still, I rested my forearms on the countertop, staring wide-eyed into empty spaces, and paying little or no mind to my vibrant surroundings. Dredging memories to me is like keeping your wounds open and fresh. It always brought to the surface memories that are best kept buried in the dark and, in a box. I know very little about myself, and that little, I’ll share with you as relayed to me by the man I called my pop; Rafael Visconti. “A penny for your thought, handsome.” A brunette lady in a black scanty outfit said, flouncing sultrily into my line of vision, and cutting right through my reverie. Seemingly annoyed by this act and unwilling to show it, I feigned indifference, flashing a ready smile. “Hey beautiful, wanna hit some bottles with me?” She let my question pass without a response, squeezed her way to the tight spot between my thighs in one fluid motion, and ran her acrylic fingernails over my chisel-carved jaw. “I’ve noticed you’ve been all by yourself since you step in couple of minutes ago. How about some company to keep you from being lonely?” “Not too bad an idea, darling. But in as much as I will hate so bad to turn you down, the strange fact is, I’m never lonely in my own company. Which means I will be just fine by myself.” I stated flatly without sounding a mite harsh. She ignored my cold response, filled the empty tumbler lying idly on the counter, and helped herself to a swig. “A company could never go wrong, y’know?” she remarked drily after polishing off the content of the tumbler and setting it back on the counter. I only gave a nod to that, trying my daring best to keep my eyes off her exposed thigh that ran amuck with inked tattoos. I couldn’t help wondering on the spot if they were temporary or permanent, and at the same time, concluded in my mind that she was a performer here in the club. “The name is Jane,” she murmured against my neck, “and I work part-time here in the club.” She added right after, further confirming my inward conjectures. “Paul, and nice to meet ya,” I maundered back. “I’ve never seen your face around here before, Jane.” I did a quick follow-up on that and watched as she squeezed away as before from the juncture between my laps, lewdly drinking in my details. Her bright almond eyes alit with the flame of a passion so mundane and carnal, and something far darker. “Guess that’s because you’ve not been looking at the right places. See you around here some other time, Paul.” She said slickly, spun around, and sauntered back through the way she had come earlier. “That’s it then, Jane,” I hollered back, not meaning a word of it, and watched as she retreated deeper into the background of the club’s main floor. When I looked away from her and back at the main stage, the atmosphere around it had become fully charged and pepped-up, with a stream of fog already growing and spreading through every inch of the hall, and the boisterous patrons twice ecstatic as before. I’ve learned earlier in life that we’re made by our past, and that sometimes, cutting off with them is one hell of a mistake. We are who we are; The sum product of our past and present. For me, my past had begun on a night; twenty freaking years ago. A murky, dismal New Year’s Eve. My fate had been sealed that sullen night, and so did the path which I must tread through life. . *** Growth is a painful process. The round-eye, fourteen months toddler staggering across the vinyl floor of the big, ample living room was learning this the hard way as he picked himself up from the floor after yet another fall. Now upon his feet, he looked over his shoulders, at the member of his family cocooned around the TV set some paces away, waiting for any form of pacification or encouragement from any of them. Getting none, he moved on, angling his way across the room in his unstable gait. Johnny Carson was a household name in America in the late fifties, and his show, the Tonight Show Starring Johnny Carson —a popular American late-night talk show, which succeeded its antecedent Tonight Starring Jack Paar on NBC had gained its first airing on the First of October 1962. Boasting an unprecedented viewership and a host of big names in politics and show biz as its guest in its early years. And as well, becoming the most profitable show on television in the mid-seventies. Just like any other typical family of early Eighties America, the husband and wife, and their four years old son, all of whom had shunned the famous Timesquare New year’s ball to stay in their home had their noses literally buried in the screen of their TV, while enjoying another beautiful night of Johnny Carson’s Tonight Show. Angelina, the frail wife, and mother of the family looked away from the screen just in time and caught sight of her toddler son spilling on the floor from the corner of her eyes. In a somewhat swift response, she eased herself gently from the arms of her husband wrapped around her neck like tentacles and made toward her jowly son, now seated on the floor resignedly. Seeing he, at last, had the attention he had long desired, the boy beamed a smile and let out a gurgle as his slight-figured mother crossed the room, and closed in on him with a smile of her own. “You’re getting there already, boy. All you need is some time.” Angelina remarked, hoisting the boy off the ground and bringing his head to rest on her bosom. With smooth, even strides, Angelina returned to her husband’s side, sinking back into the couch with her cute, little boy bouncing in her arms. “The boy is making a huge leap every blessed day,” Angelina said concerning the boy, nestling her head in the deep hollow of her husband’s neck. “Good of you, my little champ. Papa loves you.” The dad commented, combing his fingers through his wife’s dark, fleecy, straight layered hair, and returning his attention to the screen. But his attention was suddenly seized within a second of that by his older son. “Dad, can I have some more chocolates?” the boy asked with a soft, pleading look. “Only this once, son,” he replied curtly, clearly unwilling to be disturbed. “Thank you, papa.” The boy mumbled his thanks coyly. “Now, go get some chocolates, boy.” He ordered, rumpled his undercut hair, and transferred his attention back to the TV screen as before. Angelina from where she was seating snugly beside her husband watched her eldest son scurry away from the living room, feeling the beats of her husband’s heart against her ears as she laid her head in the juncture between his neck and shoulder. As if he never left, Angelo, their eldest son returned with some chocolate bars, his face scattering in a broad smile. “I got you some chocolates too, brother.” He said upon his arrival, freeing a bar of chocolate from its nylon wrap and handing it over to his little brother, now bouncing off their mother’s laps. He watched as his brother mirrored his countenance with an innocent smile of his own, before wolfing down the chocolate. Angelina and her husband spent most parts of what remains of their New Year’s Eve split between ‘Johnny Carson’s Tonight Show’, and attending to the occasional needs of their kids. Moments later, Angelina waltzed through a gap in the door into a small, rectangular room with her toddler son tightly clutched to her chest. He’d drifted off to sleep some minutes earlier, whilst they were nose-deep in Johnny Carson’s Tonight Show and had devoured his chocolates to the very last before eventually falling asleep. Careful not to disturb his sleep, she laid him gently on his back in the comfort of the crib, watching in a mother’s adorable way as he turned on his side. “Sweet dreams,” she said shortly afterward, leaning in a little to plant a kiss on his forehead. With the thought of ‘Johnny Carson’s Tonight Show’ that was still airing at the back of her mind, she wasted no further time, turned away from the cot, and the boy laid in it, walked through the door from before, and left it silently shut behind her.

editor-pick
Dreame-Editor's pick

bc

Katso minuun pienehen

read
1K
bc

The Alpha Assassin

read
42.1K
bc

Billionaire's Wrong Bride

read
934.7K
bc

Vengeance is Mine

read
4.9K
bc

Vielä sydän lyö

read
1K
bc

Laululintu

read
1K
bc

Käyköön oikeus armosta

read
1K

Scan code to download app

download_iosApp Store
google icon
Google Play
Facebook