Playing With Fire
The New York City streets were filled with people of all ages walking quickly even at midnight. Among these people was John Bianchi, a twenty two year old second generation Italian-American. Bianchi, tall, skinny, and young, was on his way to negotiate with Michael Ricci, a banker who moved to New York from Florence decades ago. Ricci came from old money, probably dating back to the Renaissance, and both families had a Capulet and Montague type feud going on. Bianchi’s family owed money to the Riccis and eventually it all turned violent. Even approaching a Ricci as a Bianchi was stupid and guaranteed to get you killed however John was out of options.
His mother was due to get an invasive heart operation, and he finally found a doctor at an underground illegal hospital who would perform the surgery. He was asking for an exorbitant amount of money, all in cash, but he was Bianchi’s only hope. His mother had been involved in gang violence back and illegal drug dealing back in the 70’s, and to escape prison she faked her own death. No one knew she was alive, there had been a fake funeral, fake body, and everything. Her health insurance had been completely cut off.
John approached Ricci’s apartment building, it was in the bad part of Manhattan, even though Bianchi knew Ricci could afford living in much better places. He buzzed the bell and gave his name. After a long pause he heard a low male voice whisper, barely audibly in a rather chilling voice, come in. Bianchi entered the apartment, it was dark and filled with cobwebs. It looked neglected and sent chills down his spine. He pressed the elevator button and waited but nothing happened. It seemed that the elevator had stopped working and not been used in years. He decided to go up the stairs. Four flights later he reached Ricci’s floor completely out of breath. Regaining himself he straightened his blazer and fixed his hair looking in a cracker mirror.
The whole apartment looked like the set of a high budget horror film. He regretted not telling anyone where he was in case he didn’t make it out. He knocked on Ricci’s apartment door. Ricci opened the door, looking the exact opposite of Bianchi. His eyes were bloodshot and smelled of weed. He reminded Bianchi of the homeless man who lived at the end of his block.
“John Bianchi,” Ricci said, sounding extremely tired. “Long time no see.”
“I need money,” Bianchi said. He decided there was no time for pleasantries, he wanted to get straight to what he needed and leave. “Someone I know needs an operation, I found a doctor, I’ll pay you back.”
“I wasn’t born yesterday. You’re dirt poor you ain’t payin’ no one back. Why should I lend you money? After everything your family has done.”
“I’m selling my share of my company. I’ll have the money in two months.”
“You’re selling?”
“Yes. I have no choice.”
What Ricci didn’t know was that Bianchi’s company had gone bankrupt and there was no money left. Bianchi was out of money, he didn’t have two dimes to rub together. But before Ricci would figure this out Bianchi and his mother would be in New Jersey living under new identities.
“How much do you want?” Ricci asked, reaching for his checkbook.
Bianchi sighed in relief.