熊 褌 繩 中年

Mr. Ambrizio - Stepping Up

Nate and I were working out in the weight room at The Gym. This place wasn’t just a meathead haven—it was the muscle-bound heart of a sprawling criminal network. On the surface, it looked like any old hardcore iron paradise. But look a little closer, and you’d see the truth: this was a stronghold for made guys, their hangers-on, and anyone looking to curry favor with the family.

Not everyone was straight out of a mob movie. Sure, some were walking Sopranos stereotypes, but many were just construction foremen, truckers, sanitation guys, business owners, lawyers—you name it. What they had in common was connection. The kind that wasn’t printed on a résumé. The family’s influence reached wide and deep. There wasn’t a corner of this state and the surrounding state they couldn’t touch.

Yeah, a few civilian fanboys came through, but they were always vetted. They knew the rules—shut your mouth and keep your head down. Ninety-five percent of the time, nothing happened here but heavy lifting and grunted reps. But that five percent? That’s what made this place legendary.

I say “big guys” for a reason. Gear wasn’t just available—it was part of the ecosystem. Didn’t matter what kind you were after, it flowed through The Gym like water. Most of the guys tied to the family were monsters in their own right. And the higher up you climbed in the organization, the bigger those monsters got. The boss had a nickname: The Monster Maker. Nobody called him that to his face, but everybody knew what it meant. You didn’t go to war with these people unless you wanted a bloodbath.

Nate and I? We were nobodies. Low-level drivers and gofers. We went where we were told, picked up envelopes or truckloads of God-knows-what, and dropped them off to whoever we were told to. Half the time, we didn’t even know what we were hauling. But it paid better than any 9-to-5. Still, we wanted more. More juice. More respect. Nate especially. There were lines I wasn’t willing to cross. Nate? I wasn’t sure he even saw the lines.

In the scheme of things, neither of us were huge, but I tipped the scales at 260, and Nate was a solid 290. We’d been lifting for about twenty minutes when Fucking Tony Ambrizio walked out of the locker room.

If you asked Google what a mob enforcer looked like, it should spit out his picture. Six-foot-four and tipping damn near 400 pounds of muscle. A thick mane of steel-grey and black hair, matching thick mustache, tanned olive skin covered in ink, and a thick, massive gold chain resting heavy on his chest. He didn’t walk—he loomed.

Tony wasn’t just a made guy. He was a capo, one of the underboss’s inner circle. Even other captains gave him space. Not just out of respect—but out of fear. See, Tony wasn’t crazy, not in the traditional sense. He was cold, sharp, and savage. The kind of guy who didn’t blink while yanking your spine out of your body.

Nate’s eyes locked onto him like a dog on raw meat. I nudged him. “Hey, stop staring.” I knew this was the kind of made man Nate wanted to be.

“Yeah, sorry,” Nate mumbled, but his eyes kept drifting back. So did mine.

Thirty minutes in, Tony was pushing weight that most elite powerlifters would call a personal best—as his warm-up. Every rep, every grunt, made him swell, veins bulging like cables. Between sets, he stretched and flexed, and it was like watching something transform—like his body was getting bigger just from exertion.

I caught Nate openly staring. I discreetly saw Tony through the mirror, his eyes turning in our direction. He was blatantly staring back. I jabbed Nate again, “Quit it.”

Then it happened. One of the family’s other big enforcers walked over—some giant named Jimmy-something—carrying a gallon jug of neon blue liquid. He handed it off to Tony with reverence and respect. Tony cracked it open, chugged the whole thing in one go, and muttered something to Jimmy—while looking straight at us.

Jimmy turned to glance our way, then back at Tony, saying something low. My stomach dropped.

“Shit,” I whispered. I started grabbing our stuff. Nate didn’t move.

I kicked him in the calf. “Let’s go.”

We made it three steps toward the locker room before Jimmy cut us off.

“Hey.” One word. Commanding. Deadly calm.

We froze. Jimmy approached, big as a damn doorframe. His eyes raked over us.

“Mr. Ambrizio is heading into the cage,” he said flatly. “He’d like you to join him.”

I looked over, Tony sat there like a statue, watching us. I turned back. “Uhh, we were just finishing up—”

Jimmy stepped in, and his big hand poked me in the chest hard. I stumbled back.

“I’m not talking to you, kid.” He turned to Nate. “This ain’t a request.”

Nate hesitated for just a breath, then said, “Yeah. Sure.”

“Wait,” I said, stepping between them. “Nate, you don’t have to do this. You know the stories. Just say you’re injured or—”

Jimmy cut me off with a snort. Then, to Nate: “Best way to survive this is to fight. You sandbag, he’ll know. You flop around, try to play soft, he’ll beat you into paste. But you show him you’ve got guts, fire in your belly, you might just walk out under your own power. This is how you prove you’ve got what it takes to move up.”

Nate looked at me and said, “It’ll be alright. Go get some coffee or something. I’ll see you later.” His face was set like stone.

I saw Tony heading our way massive, every step a low rumble. Jimmy turned to me. “Get your shit and get outta here. Don’t let me catch you waiting in the parking lot. Go sip your latte or whatever.”

Nate gave me a small nod as he followed them into one of the private fight rooms.

I walked to the locker room, looked back once and the three of them disappeared behind that reinforced door.

It was a little after 8 p.m. when I got the call from Lutheran General. ER staff said Nate had been brought in. I hauled ass over.

He was sitting up when I got there. One eye swollen shut, the other blackened. Lip split wide open. Nose broken. The entire left side of his face looked like a swollen fist print.  His left arm was in a cast. Dopily smiling from under a haze of painkillers.

“He said I got guts,” he kept saying.

The doctor told me he also had four cracked ribs. He asked what happened.

I just asked back, “What did he say?”

“Fell down some stairs,” the doc said, clearly not buying it.

I shrugged. “No idea.”

They released him the next morning. Paperwork said AMZ Iron Works was covering the bill—one of Tony’s shell corps. That told me everything.

Nate was quieter after that. Wouldn’t talk about the fight. Wouldn’t tell his family either. He healed, slowly. Stayed at his parents’ place for a couple of months. They kept asking me what happened. I kept giving them the same answer: “Ask Nate.”

Five years later, I still think about that night.

Nate got what he wanted. These days, he’s 350 pounds of pure muscle and menace. The only thing he delivers now is beatings to people who are late on their loans, or when he was at The GYM, he delivered that same blue gallon jug to Mr. Ambrizio.

He’s crossed lines I don’t want to know about. We’re still friends, but we live in two different worlds now. He’s never thrown it in my face. Hell, I think he even put in a good word for me.

I don’t drive anymore. I send drivers. I tell them where to go and what to haul. It’s a step up.