The Schibetta kid walked into the repair room like he owned the place, and Vern had to laugh. Who did he think he was? He supposed the little dago thought he was taking back his birthright: like it hadn’t been fucked out of him 4 years ago.
Taking out Pancamo should have settled the score – an eye for an eye, his son for the man who ordered the hit. Vern had no real issue with the Sicilians, even if some members of the AB disagreed – they were white enough, in his mind, and as such they were a group it was best to try and remain on at least somewhat friendly terms with.
If Little Italy disagreed, though, it was fine by him.
I always wondered – was Adebisi’s dick bigger than mine?
There wouldn’t be any further problems, Vern presumed as he and his boys left – not with Schibetta, and likely not with the rest, either. Coming in the way he did, no backup, meant the others already knew what Schibetta himself refused to accept. Once a prag, always a prag, and a prag’s worth less than dirt in here.
He glanced back at the pool table just before pulling the door shut behind him, taking in Schibetta’s battered, bleeding body. It made him strangely nostalgic – the image of Beecher lying on the floor of the gym, arms and legs jutting out strangely where he and Keller had snapped them moments before, rising to the forefront of his mind. He smiled.
Better off broken, the both of them.