It’s the middle of November and I’m trudging through three feet of snow because, much to my dismay, bodies don’t just bury themselves. It’d be helpful if they did, especially with the fucker I currently have slung over my shoulder giving me one hell of a neck cramp. But, what can you do? Assassins gotta assassinate. It’s part of the job description…literally.

Anyhoo. This particular body belongs to Ivan Rostov, mid level Russian mob and all around delight. That last bit was sarcasm if you couldn’t tell. The boss had very specific reasons I had to kill this particular mobster, but fuck if I know what they are. Above my pay grade and all that bullshit. I just do what I’m told and kill who they tell me to.

“This is important, Johnny!” Mr. Boss man has said over the phone. I don’t know his actual name. It’s better that way. Plausible deniability is my middle name. I’d give you finger guns if I had a free hand. “Don’t fuck this up. He needs to disappear and his car needs to be at the south dock by midnight. Don’t disappoint me.”

The “or else” was implied. Mobsters, Am I right?

I decided burying this blob of a man would probably be better left to the critters deep in the New Jersey woods. If he is found, which is doubtful, he’d be scattered over miles anyway. They’d have to find all his teeth to even attempt to identify him. Good thing I pulled them all out first. I can’t help the chuckle. It’s funny.

Once I find a nice, cushy hill to dump him down I roll my shoulder out. “Good riddance.” I say and spit on the ground. I don’t exactly get along with the Russian mob. Growing up in the shadow of New York City, I was recruited early into the Italian families. It was easy enough for me to proove myself, but I always knew I’d end up here…or jail. It was a toss up. Still is. By the time I turned 19, I was already top muscle for the bossman. By 25, I was officially a made man after proving myself handy with a gun and discrete where it mattered. Hey, if the money was right, I’d disappear anyone. Kind of like Ivan.

Trudging back to the ridiculously flashy red and impractical in the snow 70’s Challenger, was faster and much more pleasant without a body thrown over my shoulder. It was smooth sailing from here. Just drop the car at the dock and walk away. Simple.

I could hear the mafia luitenants now. “Johnny Mancini, you son of a bitch, great job!” “Those ruskies deserved nothin’ better”

It makes me smile as I wait for the heater in this hunk of junk car to warm up. Leather jackets aren’t exactly the most effective winter gear but I’ll be damned if I sacrifice looks for practicality. Blowing into my hands only helps for 2.7 seconds and I kick at the cars dash. “C’mon! Heat up!”

Color me surprised when the car knocks back. I freeze because that distinctly came from the trunk. “Oh you have got to be kidding me.”

Another knock and I have to close my eyes and turn on the radio because whatever, or whoever, is in there is none of my fucking business. “Im not paid enough to worry about this” I say to myself over the sound of Christmas music playing on whatever station this is.

The knocks get more incessant and no matter how loud I make carol of the bells, I can still hear it. If I can hear it, so will others. If others can hear it, they’ll talk and, god forbid, call the cops. It’s not like this car doesn’t stand the fuck out like a sore thumb. “Fuck. FUCK!”

I climb out of the car and head for the trunk just as more knocks and noises pick up. If I open this trunk, I’m breaking this contract. If I don’t open this trunk, I run the risk of being caught. One more second of fiddling with the keys and I break, sliding them into the lock and pulling open the truck. My stomach falls into my designer shoes. There, tied up, gagged, and blindfolded, is a man far to tall to be shoved into this small space. He’s confused, breathing heavy, and primed to struggle the second someone touches him. “Goddammit.” I sigh, scrubbing a hand down my face. “You wernt supposed to be here.”

I can’t understand his muffled words and, frankly, I do t want to. The less I know the better but fuck! I’m stuck with a body in a trunk. I’d like to say this was the first time but…

Leaning over the man I give him a good look over. He’s blonde, I can tell that much by the hair falling over the blindfold. He’s dressed like he just woke up, white tabk top and pajama pants. He’s shivering, which is to be expected. It’s below freezing.

Looking up to the sky I groan, debating if I should knock him out or not. If I keep him back here, he’ll freeze to death and then I’m sure I really will be fucked.

“Fuck, fine” I huff and pull the tape on the man’s mouth free in one quick motion, causing him to yelp at the sensation and a cut on his lip to bloom fresh blood. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Who the fuck are you?!” He repeats in a panicked burst.

“I asked you first, dipshit. If you couldn’t tell, I sort of have the upper hand here.”

He contemplates my words and concedes with a shaky voice. “Alexi Morozov.”

I hang my head and groan at my fucking luck. Not only is he Russian, but he’s a morozov, the richest motherfucking kingpin in the city. Possibly the western hemisphere. “God fucking dammit.”

“Y-your turn. Who are you?”

“I ain’t telling you that, kid.”

“I’m 28 years old.”

“And I’m older. Shut the fuck up and let me think. Please tell me your father isn’t Vladimir Morozov.”

He’s quiet, which is enough of an answer for me. “FUCK!” I scream as I kick the bumper hard enough to leave a nice dent. “Why are you in the trunk, Alexi?”

He answers through chattering teeth. “I-if you take me home…I-i can pay you whatever your b-being paid. I’ll d-double it.”