Hip To Be Square. - [Selfie]
The summer sun shot through the window at around five in the morning. Rays of warmth and joviality highlighted the sinister smirk manifested upon Richie’s sharp features, whilst gradually dissolving the rest of the shadows in the room. The room was a fucking mess; a suffocating composition coupled with an offensive colour scheme, ridden with week old stains, overrated Russian literature whilst everything was out of place. Without being biased, it didn’t take much observation to understand exactly what the owner of this home lacked.
Perhaps, had he paid more attention, Richie Lombardi wouldn’t be sitting in his kitchen right now.
“What the-” The Russian loyalist stumbled backwards, bumping into the cabinet besides him, and rushed to pull out a gun.
Fiore appeared from behind, twisting his arm round backwards. One strong hand gripped the Russian’s shoulder, as she dug the barrel of the gun violently between his shoulder blades.
“Let’s not get silly now, comrade…” From Richie’s seated position, an imperious gaze – one that was deliberately unnerving, offered to those as a prologue before meeting a series of unwilted, and rather unorthodox plans – settled on the Russian, gloved knuckles embracing the round shape of the chair’s armrests.
“Have you ever seen an Italian woman up close?” Before the Russian could answer, Richie continued. “Didn’t think so. They make your Russian whores look like rabid dogs, don’t they?” A hoarse chuckle resonated within the room. “I’m sorry, I’m very sorry. I’m being extremely rude in your own home, but you’re being very quiet.”
Richie stood up. His lips curled into a wide, sardonic smile as he clasped his hands together. “I hope it’s okay I let myself in.”
“What do you want…”
“I didn’t mean to startle you, by the way. Simply wanted to politely introduce myself, not that I exactly need one, but I entirely missed the timing. My fault.” Richie was stood at the kitchen table, keeping his hands busy with a bag of powder, a card, and a rolled up twenty dollar bill.
“What. Do. Y—”
“Peter, isn’t it?” Richie looked over his shoulder. “Your wife and children must be very worried about you. Chicago’s not too far, you should visit them more.”
A string of Russian insults left the other man’s foul mouth, and a struggle of power between Fiore and the Russian was heard for merely a second or two. Suddenly, the Russian wailed in pain as he fell to the floor.
“This new silencer is beautiful,” Fiore mused.
“Bit too early for that, isn’t it? Couldn’t hold him off without it?” Richie asked, agitated. Fiore merely rolled her eyes. “Anyway, comrade…” He stepped to the side, gesturing towards the table. On the surface were multiple lines of cocaine. Fat fucking lines. “Breakfast? It’s a present… from the French.”
The Russian let go of his leg, a look of surrender glazing over his tired eyes, but remained silent.
“No? Alright, then.” Richie snorted the first line in one smooth motion, making sure he took up every single grain. A sliver of nostalgia was evident in the minuscule thawing of ice-blue eyes as Richie remembered the times when he and Alfie had to break up lines of this size in two. Richie closed his eyes for a brief moment. His thoughts drifted away, and drew up pictures of Alfie in hospital, Alessia in hospital, Buddy in hospital, even ones of when Ronnie’d been hospitalised in the past.
Every single fucking time he’d failed the family.
A burning wave of pure rage crashed into him. His jaw tightened to such a degree that it should’ve popped open. He would’ve slammed his fists against the table, but... that would’ve ruined breakfast.
“Shoot him again,” Richie said coldly before snorting another line.
Richie grabbed the kitchen knife on the table. He turned to face the Russian. This time, his visage was absent of the nonchalance, and the amusement that was usually so infuriating to others. The only emotion Richie cared to betray was that he was really fucking angry. “I’m very upset, Peter. I’m upset, and I’m getting impatient…” He charged forwards, hovering over the Russian with the tip of the knife flirting with his temple. “So, you’re going to give me what I want, or... I don’t know how else to say this, I’ll send some of my men to butcher your fucking family. I don’t want to kill innocent people.” Lie. “You don’t want your family to die. So, tell me, Peter, who accompanied you in the mission to kill my fucking boss?”
Peter didn’t speak until Richie was forced to call George. The voice of his wife, his children, but mostly the voice of George Gigliotti taunting his wife was enough for Peter to give up the names of the Russian loyalists that’d shot up the country club that day. All Peter had done that day was drive. Drive them in, drive them out. For that, he’d suffer the easiest death of them all, but he’d die with the least dignity.
Later on in the evening, the loyalists received an emergency message from Peter’s phone. Franky hid the car elsewhere and stayed on watch. It didn’t take them long to arrive at the house. Five lines in, Richie’d underestimated the quality of Russian brotherhood. It didn’t matter much; they were all going to die.
‘They’re here,’ Franky’s message read.
Four men slowly entered the house, shouting for Peter.
“That’s quite a racket you’re making,” Richie drawled from top of the stairs with two guns in hands, aimed at the two Russians closest to him.
“Bit too early for that,” Fiore commented in a mocking tone, two guns aimed at the other two men.
One of the Russians reached for their gun. A Black Talon bullet punctured his thigh instead. The Russians cursed and cried. They always cursed and cried, no matter the occasion. Franky walked in through the front door, which officially made the Russians surrounded.
“Lesson learned, boys?” Richie smirked. He nodded at Franky to begin bounding their wrists and their ankles together. Franky pushed the men onto the floor to kneel side by side in a line as Richie continued to speak. “Hurts, doesn’t it? Tell your boys how much it hurts, and to not fuck around. The next one to try pull something silly will get one in their dick, and up their asshole. Just how you fucks like it.”
“Italian basta—”
“AND DON’T FUCKING SPEAK!” Richie yelled with fervour. He paused, sighing sharply as he looked at the men. A smile stretched along his lips, and he continued calmly, “… Unless I ask you a question.”
It’d been too long since Richie had carried out a series of unwilted, and rather unorthodox plans himself. These days, he found himself in the position to tell someone to teach a lesson to someone else. A position of power meant giving up the freedom to be as reckless as he was, but it was a small price to pay. Moments like these became rare, which meant when Richie was presented with such an opportunity, he didn’t want it to go to waste.
“Coat, please, Fiore.” Fiore hung a white raincoat on Richie’s shoulder. He buttoned up the coat, straightened it out, and turned to Fiore. The Russians watching this had every right to assume that this was part of his act. However, they’d be wrong. Richie was just that vain. “Do I look okay?” Fiore didn’t warrant him with an answer. Richie pulled out his iPhone, and played Huey Lewis And The News’ infamous song Hip To Be Square. He hoped at this point the Russians had caught on.
“Bag, please, Fiore.” A black bag emerged from behind the wall. Richie bopped his head along to the song, mouthing the words to the song idly as Fiore dragged the bag across the room. “Thank you, sweetheart.” He said sarcastically.
Richie untied the bag. A repugnant smell immediately filled up the room. He glanced at Fiore, then at Franky with a smirk fixed in place. “It’s very simple, boys. One of you shot Alfie Auditore, another shot Buddy Auditore, one of you fucking idiots tried to kill Alessia Auditore, and the other killed an innocent girl. I want to know who shot Alfie Auditore. So, raise your hand if you shot my best friend, Alfie!”
No response.
Richie sighed, exasperated. “You’re all going to snitch on each other at the end, so you might as well do it now… No? Alright, well, allow me to take the liberty and introduce a catalyst to this mix.” He reached inside of the black bag, and one by one tossed out Peter’s mutilated body pieces. They wouldn’t know it, but his head went first. Easiest death. “That’s your friend, Peter! He snitched on all of you. Funny, isn’t it? You came to help him in a time of emergency, but he gave you all up to me, and I love it. So, your friend, Peter, got cut up to death, which is pretty obvious. Whoever shot Alfie will meet the same fate.” Richie observed the reactions of the four men, and he’d already narrowed it down to two. “Whoever tells me who shot Alfie Auditore first will have my mercy. The other two… I’ll decide how I feel.” He walked over to grab an axe that’d been leaning against the wall. “So… Does anyone not want their balls chopped off?”
“I-Igor!” Richie’d known this one would be the one to speak up first. He kept looking at the others, eyes darting all over the room, with sweat droplets dripping from his forehead. Ugly and unhygienic, he didn’t have to open his mouth for Richie to identify him as a Russian.
A betrayed horror was painted all over one of the men. “You,” he pointed, “must be Igor.” He smiled. “We’re going to have so much fun.” He patted Igor on the cheek. “Franky, Fiore, take these to Ronnie.”
“Y-you promised me mercy!” Alarmed, the ugly fat one shouted.
Richie rolled his eyes. “Don’t ever fucking believe what I say. Didn’t you learn that in Russian loyalist training?” He laughed in disbelief. “Like I’d keep my fucking word to you, you fucking retard. Don’t worry, she’s pregnant, she can’t wield an axe.”
“Shouldn’t we… find out who these pricks shot for Ronnie?” Franky asked.
Richie scowled. What a fucking brown noser. Franky probably seasoned his meat with Ronnie’s shit. “No, Franky. She’s pregnant, not disabled.”
Richie plugged in his earphones, and changed the song from Huey Lewis to Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody. With a condescending flick of the wrist, Fiore and Franky left with the three men. Richie walked round behind Igor. He wasn’t even armed. What a joke. With the kitchen knife, he cut the binds from his ankles and then his wrists before slamming Igor’s head into the wall behind him.
I see a little silhouetto of a man…
Richie threw the knife over to Igor.
Scaramouche, Scaramouche, will you do the Fandango?
He motioned for Igor to come towards him. A declaration for a fight.
Thunderbolt and lightening; very, very frightening me!
“Galileo!” Richie shouted, and swung his axe. Igor backed away. “Galileo!” Swing. This time, Igor pushed forwards, waving his knife around in any attempt to catch some skin. “Magnificoooooo.”
I'm just a poor boy.
Swing.
Nobody loves me.
Swing.
He's just a poor boy.
Swing.
From a poor family.
Swing.
Spare him his life from this monstrosity.
One final swing. The axe struck Igor straight down the head. “DID YOU REALLY THINK YOU COULD GET AWAY WITH WHAT YOU DID, YOU STUPID FUCKING BASTARD!” Swing, swing, swing. He plummeted the axe over and over again into Igor. Richie stood back for a moment, deep breathing as he looked at the mess before him. He licked the blood that’d splattered onto his face off his lips. It tasted like victory. The Russian’s face was hardly identifiable. A mere crimson coated stump of a man.
‘Come and clear this mess up,’ Richie messaged Franky, and changed the song back to Huey Lewis. He took off his raincoat and threw it over Igor’s body. Only then did he feel something wrong. He looked down and saw a cut in his shirt with the blood quickly staining the material. ‘Bring a new suit, and bring Wren.’












