Excerpt: Heirlooms ::: Crash Academy

The Street just outside of Maria's apartment was lone and bare. Night had loomed over the city, and although it was more or less the city that never slept, this one street remained quiet during the night hours. There was the occasional car going by, some hopeless adolescent walking home, and perhaps the passing of a black cat.

The door to the apartment sung open, and Ricky came out. He stood at the top of the stoop, enjoying the crisp air as it penetrated his skin. He sighed softly, then pulled his long trench coat on and black leather gloves. Winter was coming, and he could smell it in the air. His childish half could not wait for it to snow.

He had just enjoyed another lovely evening with the girl of his dreams. The two had watched old movies, made their own ice cream sundaes, and in the end found themselves enjoying a childish kissing session on Maria's couch. All the while he tried not to recall her leaving in a matter of days.

He skipped down the steps with a lively beat and went around his car, parked at the curb, to the drivers side. He squeezed a button on his car remote as he removed the key-chain from his pocket, and his electronic locks clicked. He climbed in and shut the door in one swift motion. He slid his keys into the ignition and started his Aston Martin.

As he reached for the shift he froze. His green eyes traveled up to the rear-view mirror. There was a car parked directly behind him, and back a few yards. It was too dark to see if anyone was inside. He squinted, but to no relief.

He smiled and laughed playfully, shaking his head. "You're paranoid, just so paranoid..."

He laughed again, quietly this time. He rolled down his window to take advantage of that crisp air, before he started to fiddle with his radio to find something relaxing to listen to for his trek back to Long Island. And to home.

Behind him, out of sight, a black Cadillac idled. The man inside took one last drag of his cigarette, before he he dropped it into the car ashtray and ground it out with the tip of his thumb. His left hand went to the counsel on the drivers side door to put the window down, and his right hand reached into the inside pocket of his cheap leather, thrift shop jacket.

He pulled out a handgun and switched it to his left hand. He flexed his elbow before he stretched the entirety of his arm out the window. He watched the silhouette in the Aston in front of him sit back up, and he carefully aimed for the back of the head, right above the spinal cord. It didn't have to be exact, but just hit the head. It just had to be accurate enough for there to be no doubts.

He grinned like a jackal as he pulled the trigger.

A shot rang out in the night time air, soon after followed by the shatter of a glass window; the rear-view window of he Aston Marin. The man pulled in his arm quickly, gun and all, and stowed the weapon under his seat. He quickly rolled his window up.

His eyes did not leave the figure in the car, which had slumped. He reached for his cell phone to call his boss, Vito Massino, then decided against it. He did not want Richard Giovetti breathing while he delivered the news. Mr. Massino did not like it when mistakes were made. No, he'd make sure.

The man slipped out of the car and looked around. It was clear, but he still did not feel secure. He flipped the collar up on his jacket as he approached the car. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears. Was he excited? He must have been; it was an honor to him to have been the man to assassinate Richard Giovetti. And he would see the don dead. He would be the first to see the don dead.

He slowed to a shorter gait when he reached the bumper of the Aston. He smirked even more now. Richard Giovetti was dead; his body wasn't even flinching under the pain. He had done it. He took another step, than another, until he came to the drivers side door.

And his smile faded.

The front windshield had been cracked and almost shattered. A bullet hole had gone clear through the glass, not slowed down by any means. Not even human flesh and bone. He could not have missed, he never missed.

He turned his head to look into the drivers side window, to look at his victim.

And then this man was shot dead.

Richard Giovetti watched the man fall to the ground, a bullet-wound to the head. The mans eyes were wide with fear, s hock, and surprise. The very same look Richard Giovetti had expected the man to have, once he saw the barrel of the young don's gun aiming directly for his forehead.

Ricky sighed very heavily, and returned his gun to the glove compartment. "You just had to look, didn't you?" He whispered calmly as he opened the door to his Aston, staring down at the man. "You know, curiosity killed a cat, once."

He leaned over and slipped the mans wallet out of his coat pocket, reached in, and took a wad of twenties. He looked the money over, then shrugged and smiled. He gestured to his wind-shield. "Compensation for the windshield. You don't mind, do you? Great, you're a real gentleman."

He closed the door to his Aston and turned up the radio. He rolled the window up, and silently drove off from away from the curb. He would make the phone call as soon as he got home; the call to dispose of the body. He would not leave Maria, or Lord forbid Angel, to come across the body themselves. They were much too innocent.

The tail lights to his car slowly came together the further he drove, like two squinting eyes. Soon, the vanished, as he turned a corner and disappeared into the crisp, night air.

He hummed softly to Frank Sinatra as he drove home.