Chapter 3 – Pieces in Motion

A third and hopefully anticipated chapter. Please enjoy.

The bell rings, and half the class disappears before the sound even fades. I take my time, stuffing books into my bag, hoodie up, head down. Teachers don’t ask anymore. They just watch me leave like I’m a storm cloud they’re praying passes over.

Outside, the air smells like burnt rubber and cafeteria fries. The sky’s that weird mix of orange and gray — not quite sunset, not quite safe. I start the walk toward Rico’s old shop. Two years since the feds left it alone, and it’s breathing again — louder than ever.

The Saints took it over after Lonzo and his people fled. Rico didn’t fight it. He owed Loui too much to say no. Now it’s half garage, half front, all business. The closer I get, the louder it is — tools clanking, bass spilling into the street.

I step through the side door, same one I used to sneak through as a kid. The air is thick with smoke and oil, and the floor is slick with that shine only hard work and bad choices make.

“Yo, Aurelio!”

It’s Tank, wiping grease off his hands, leaning over the hood of some busted Buick. He nods toward the stairs.

“Marlo’s up in the office, waitin’ on you.”

“Yeah?” I say. “That bad?”

Tank grins. “You’ll see.”

I take the metal steps slow, each one groaning under my weight. Up top, the office hasn’t changed — same cracked blinds, same dusty desk, same smell of cheap cigars.

Marlo’s behind the desk, flipping through a stack of bills like it’s morning paper. He looks up.

“You late.”

“Bell just rang.”

He shrugs. “Then school’s too long.”

I drop my bag onto the chair across from him. “What’s the move?”

He leans back, the old chair squeaking under him. “Small run tonight. Simple handoff.”

I frown. “Didn’t you just have me drop envelopes last week?”

“This one’s different.” He reaches into a drawer, pulls out a baggie — thick, tight, heavy with promise. Tosses it to me.

I catch it, feel the weight.

“What’s in it?”

“Fourteen.”

I blink. “Fourteen hundred?”

He grins. “You heard right. One-four. Take it down to West Side Laundry — Fifteenth. You’re meeting a guy named Matt. Always there. Corner by the dryers, looks half-dead most days.”

“Yeah, I know him,” I say. “Always high, but still clocks in.”

“That’s the one. Don’t talk long. Hand it off, make sure it stays in his pocket, walk. He handles the rest.”

I stare at the bag again. “Why so much? That’s—”

“More than usual,” Marlo says, voice low. “Means they’re startin’ to trust you. Don’t make me regret it.”

I nod slowly. “Got it.”

He smirks. “Your old man would’ve killed to see you earn this kind of trust.”

I shove the bag in my backpack, zip it shut.

“What time?”

“Soon as it’s dark,” he says. “Laundry closes late. Don’t rush. Just keep your eyes open. And Aurelio?”

“Yeah?”

“If anything feels off, you walk away. Don’t try to be your father.”

That one sticks. Loui tried to fix too much too fast. The street doesn’t forgive heroes.

I head down the steps. Tank nods as I pass. “First real drop, huh?”

“Guess so.”

“Then welcome to the real world.”

Outside, the air’s colder. Sky darker. Streetlights hum like they’re whispering. I zip my hoodie, check my bag, and start walking toward Fifteenth and Ash — a block where the machines never stop spinning, and neither do the lies.

For a minute, I wonder if this is how it started for Loui. One job. One bag. One promise he thought he could keep. I shake it off and keep walking. Because whether I want to admit it or not — I’m already halfway down the same road.

The laundromat door swings open, and the smell hits first — detergent thick and sharp, smoke from some long-dead cigarette, something metallic that twists my stomach. I glance at the flickering fluorescent lights, shadows stretching across the machines and the slick concrete floor.

I step forward, hoodie tight, backpack heavy. The door swings a fraction too fast; my shoe catches the threshold. I stumble, catching myself on the frame. The scrape echoes like a gunshot in the empty room.

Matt’s there before I fully recover, arms crossed, broad shoulders pressing the fabric of his black work shirt. Veins knot his forearms like rope under skin. He leans forward as if testing the floor for weakness.

“You nervous, kid?”

I shake my head, but my voice betrays me. “You’re bigger than Marlo described.”

He laughs low. “Marlo don’t know nothin’ except I get the job done.”

I move past him toward the back. The air grows sharper here — oil, bleach, something I can’t place. The curtain at the far wall sways slightly with the draft. I pull it aside.

Behind the desk sits a man I never thought I’d see in this city again. Lonzo Carvello.

I nod, pull the baggie from my backpack, set it on the desk. “Marlo said to give it to Matt.”

Lonzo waves a hand, slow, deliberate. “Matt works for me now. The Saints don’t run this side — they rent it.”

My stomach twists. “Since when?”

He leans back, one hand around a whiskey glass, the other lifting a cigar. He takes a slow pull, lets the smoke hang.

“Since they stopped making this place a profit,” he says evenly. “They fell behind. And in this city, if you can’t keep up with the big dogs… you get eaten.”

He leans closer. The smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Your friends, Aurelio, are not the big dogs here.”

I clench my fists. He notices. “Careful. Your old man used to look at me like that right before he made a mistake.”

Matt chuckles behind me. “Boss, kid’s got heart. I’ll give him that.”

Lonzo nods. “Heart’s good. As long as it doesn’t get in the way of my money.”

He stands, circles the desk, stops in front of me. “You know who we got problems with, Rio?”

I shake my head.

“The Colombo Mob Family,” he says, voice sharp. “They don’t respect bloodlines or rules. Your father got caught in their mess. That’s why he’s dead. Not because of me. Because of them.”

He lets it hang like a hook waiting to see if I’ll bite.

“Now they’re back in town,” he says. “When they start sniffing, I need eyes on the street. You see anything off, you tell Marlo. Marlo tells me. That’s loyalty.”

He steps closer, drops his voice. “And if you ever start thinking maybe you’re on the wrong team… you come see me first.”

For a moment, I smell his cologne — clean, expensive, out of place in this room. He pats my cheek once, like I’m a kid again, then looks away.

Matt pulls a mop from the back, muttering curses in a language I don’t know. I step toward the front — and then it hits me.

The old man, folding shirts moments ago, is facedown between the washers. One arm twisted under him, a baseball bat dented dark red lying beside his head. The hum of the machines continues like nothing’s wrong.

Three men stand by the counter, slick hair, leather gloves, clean shoes that don’t belong in a place like this. One twirls another bat lazily, a grin splitting his face.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt laundry day,” he says.

Matt stiffens beside me, muttering under his breath. “Colombo.”

The man with the bat looks us over. “Relax, big guy. Only one swing. Just a message. Nothing personal.”

I freeze. Memories flash — Loui swinging, the hit, the warnings. My stomach knots.

From the back, Lonzo steps out, calm like he’s seen this before. “You think hittin’ civilians sends a message?”

“Yeah,” the man says. “That you’re still breathin’ when you shouldn’t be.”

The bat clatters as he drops it. He adjusts his cufflinks and nods toward Lonzo. “Tell your Saints friends to stop movin’ product through Fifteenth. You’re in our yard now.”

Matt crouches, checking the old man’s pulse. Shakes his head. “They only hit him once. Didn’t even take his wallet.”

Lonzo lights a cigarette. His hand doesn’t shake. “That’s worse than takin’ it. Means they’re confident.” Smoke curls lazily toward the ceiling. “You see this, Aurelio? This is what war looks like before it starts.”

I can’t answer. All I can do is stare at the blood seeping toward the drains.

Lonzo steps closer. “Clean it up. Call the boys. We’re done playin’ quiet.” He looks at me — eyes sharp. “Go home, Aurelio. Forget you saw this.”

Matt mutters, mop in hand. I slip out into the night. The bell above the door shakes behind me. The smell of bleach, blood, and smoke follows me into the street.