WHEN THE SECURITY GUARD OPENED the door for Leo, another one immediately appeared to introduce him to the building, a dirty, thin, poorly dressed figure with a long beard and the appearance of a pimp. Tom greeted him, lifting his hat slightly. The guard at the door searched him, feet, legs, waist, back and arms. Surprised, he nodded to the pimp, clearly his superior, saying that he had found nothing wrong with the young man. The latter, without saying anything, also nodded for Tom to follow him.
The two walked through the narrow corridors of pure darkness, passing by the dozens of rooms that were there. The place was smelly, it stank of sweat and drugs and did not inspire any cleanliness. Truly depressing, it gave an idea of the kind of person Smithson would be. Tommy tried to justify himself, looking for any argument he could find that would make Smithson a worse man.
Perhaps the idea of killing a vile and sordid human would make him feel less guilty about doing it. He observed the women there. Of all ethnicities and ages, meeting all the filthy types of men the city created, they only had one thing in common: the look of unhappiness they couldn't hide. Among them, Tom found one that almost made him feel good about eliminating the guy Smithson. The little blonde girl looked to be just over fifteen years old. Exploiting a girl! I'll do well to expel you from this world, Smithson!
Even with so much evidence of the great vileness of the one he was facing, Tom couldn't get used to the idea of taking someone's life. Not for the man who deserved to die, but Tom saw himself as he did it.
Who would he become after committing the act?
There was no going back, this was his destiny. Among the poorly lit corridors and staircases of that dark place, Tommy walked towards his criminal maturity.
AFTER GOING UP TWO FLOORS, at the end of a corridor decorated with some leaks, he reached a door guarded by an armed man. The individual checked again to see if he had any weapons and, finding none, told him to wait there, along with the person who had brought him. He opened the door and asked if the boss was willing to see him. Given the authorization, Tommy was allowed to enter. The young man's heart was pounding as he entered that room. His hands trembled when he saw the stocky, old man with such a vile appearance, slumped behind the huge table full of papers piled up with old food and alcohol of all kinds. His security guard remained by his side, standing, watching him the whole time, even after sitting down to talk to Smithson.
— What does Capretti want with me? — Smithson asked, while devouring some kind of greasy pasta. Tommy quickly glanced at the window, wondering what escape options he had. He then looked at the security guard at his side and said:
— What I came to talk about is up to you and me.
He then looked back at Smithson.
— This guy is my right-hand man, I have nothing to hide from him — said the glutton, filling a dirty glass with whiskey.
— If the conversation is friendly, I'll fill a glass for you.
— No, thank you... — he replied, seeing the dirt that was all around him.
— Then just talk — he said, between sips of his drink.
— My time is not a waste to waste like that!
— I already told you — insisted Tommy — I came to talk to you. I'm sure you don't want others to hear what I have to say.
As all the clues showed, that man certainly had many small, shameful faults, which served as an argument on Leo's lips.
Smithson became suspicious. He furrowed his eyebrows and pulled a revolver from the drawer, leaving it on the table, among his dirt. He waved for the man to leave the room, but, reluctant to do so, he left and closed the door.
— Very well — the man said. — I hope it's something very important for you to be doing all this... or I'll answer to Capretti using your skin to write.
Smithson then threw the glass on the table and began to observe the young man who was staring at him, unable to hide his nervousness.
— I like that hat...
Leo took off his hat and held it over his waist.
— Come on, tell me!" Smithson insisted.
— Tony knows about the movements that are happening here and he is not at all pleased...
— And what did he send you here for? To make me ask permission? I don't even know your name, kid!
— It's Tommy Leone, but that doesn't matter...
— And why not? — the man said, laughing at him.
— Because you won't be alive to remember it!
As he said this, Tom reached into his hat and pulled out the small . 22 revolver that was attached to its crown. The fat man tried to grab his gun, but he fumbled, knocking the whiskey over the table. Before he had time to react, Tom hit him in the middle of the forehead. The man fell dead in the President's chair he was sitting in.