I’m creating a novel about the mafia… take a look and tell me how it is.

Chapter 1 :

The Golden Tooth

The dim lights of the club buzzed faintly, casting long shadows across the sleek black leather booths and polished bar. The air smelled like stale cigar smoke mixed with expensive cologne, and the low hum of jazz music barely masked the tense atmosphere in the room. Carmine leaned back in a leather booth, a cigarette dangling from his lips, the glow flickering like a dying heartbeat. His golden tooth caught the light, flashing a wicked gleam that made every word he spoke seem more like a threat.

"So, Benny," Carmine said, tapping his fingers rhythmically on the table, his tone slow and deliberate. "You owe me fifty grand, and you’re here… with what? A fucking coupon for free pizza?"

Benny, who had been nervously eyeing the room’s other occupants, opened his mouth, his voice cracking. "Carmine, please… I just need more time—"

Carmine leaned forward, his eyes narrowing like a predator about to strike. "Time’s funny, Benny. You can’t fucking buy it. Once it’s gone, it’s gone. Just like your money. So stop wasting both."

Dominic snorted, sitting across the table and cracking a grin. "Shit, Benny. You walked in here looking like you just shit your pants."

Carmine chuckled darkly, taking a drag from his cigarette. "You should’ve seen his face when he saw the bill. Looked like I asked him to sell his fucking soul."

Benny’s hands shook, beads of sweat forming on his forehead as the club's low lights flickered above him. "I swear, Carmine, I’ll get the rest of it by next week, I just—"

Carmine raised a hand, silencing him with a flick of his wrist. "I’m tired of hearing that weak-ass excuse. You’re a grown man. You don’t need more time. You need a fucking miracle." He smirked, his eyes turning cold. "But me? I’m not in the miracle business. I’m in the business of making people disappear. So choose wisely, Benny."

He turned his head toward Frankie, leaning casually against the bar, his eyes scanning the crowd as if he couldn’t care less. "Frankie, what’s your take? You think Benny’s gonna come through with the rest of the money?"

Frankie yawned dramatically, not even bothering to look up from his magazine. "Nah, Carmine. If his money’s anything like his brains, I’m betting on a hard no."

Carmine’s eyes gleamed with amusement, lips curling into a sly grin. "See, Benny? Even Frankie’s got a better read on you than you do on yourself. And Frankie believes in astrology."

The room fell into an uneasy silence, with only the soft sound of clinking glasses and hushed conversations from the nearby tables. Then Dominic burst out laughing, nearly spilling his drink. Carmine, however, wasn’t done. He leaned forward, his gaze icy, almost predatory.

"Here’s how it’s gonna go, Benny," he said, voice cold and sharp as a knife. "You bring me the rest of the fifty grand by next week, and I’ll forget this little chat. We’ll be square. If not…" He grinned, exposing his golden tooth. "Well, let’s just say you won’t need a fucking barber anymore. We’ll make sure that head of yours looks like it’s been run over by a truck."

Benny, visibly shaking, nodded quickly, mumbling desperate promises as he fumbled to his feet. The sweat on his brow glistened under the harsh lights, and his eyes darted around the room, looking for an escape that wasn’t coming.

As soon as Benny was gone, Carmine leaned back, exhaling a lazy spiral of smoke, his golden tooth catching the light again. He turned to Dominic and Frankie, who were both still laughing, though it was tinged with an air of menace.

"You know what I love about this business?" Carmine asked, voice laced with sarcasm.

Dominic smirked. "The money?"

Frankie raised an eyebrow. "The power?"

Carmine flicked the ash from his cigarette and leaned in, eyes glinting with amusement. "Nah. The idiots. They make my fucking day."

The three of them erupted into laughter, the sound echoing off the empty walls of the club, mingling with the distant sound of clinking glasses and muffled conversations from the other patrons. Outside, the world continued to move, unaware. But inside the club, Carmine was a fucking legend in the making.

The laughter hadn’t even died down when the club doors creaked open. A stout figure stepped inside, his silhouette framed by the dim neon glow of the outside lights. Tony "Two-Times" Russo—one of Carmine’s most unpredictable associates—waddled in, his face red as a tomato and sweat clinging to his double chin. The man looked like he’d sprinted a marathon, but everyone knew the only thing Tony sprinted to was the buffet table.

"Christ, Tony," Dominic said, wrinkling his nose. "You look like someone stuffed a pig in a suit and forgot to sew it shut."

Tony shot him a glare, already reaching for a handkerchief to dab his sweaty forehead. "Fuck you, Dom. Least I don’t look like a goddamn reject from a Calvin Klein catalog."

Carmine chuckled, shaking his head. "Alright, what the fuck do you want, Tony? Don’t tell me you came here just to ruin my fucking mood."

Tony shuffled closer, his beady eyes darting around nervously. "I got a problem, Carmine. A big fucking problem."

Carmine leaned back in his seat, lighting another cigarette with a flick of his gold lighter. He blew the smoke out in a lazy swirl, his golden tooth catching the dim light. "Tony, you’re a walking fucking problem. What’s new?"

Tony hesitated, glancing at Frankie, who was still flipping through his magazine like he couldn’t care less. "It’s about the deal with the Montenegro shipment. It’s… uh… gone south."

The room went quiet. Dominic’s grin faded, and Frankie finally looked up, raising an eyebrow. Carmine didn’t say anything at first. He just stared at Tony, his expression unreadable.

"South?" Carmine repeated, his voice dangerously calm. "South as in… it’s late? Or south as in you fucked up and lost it?"

Tony swallowed hard, wiping his forehead again. "South as in… uh… we don’t know where the fuck it is."

Dominic let out a low whistle, leaning back in his chair. "Jesus fucking Christ, Tony. How do you lose a whole shipment? It’s not a pair of socks."

Frankie snorted. "He probably stopped for donuts and forgot where he parked."

"Fuck you, Frankie," Tony snapped, his face turning an even deeper shade of red. "This is not my fault! Those Montenegrin assholes double-crossed us!"

Carmine finally spoke, "Tony," Carmine began, his voice smooth but laced with something sharper. "You walk in here, interrupt my night, and for what? To tell me you lost a whole fucking shipment?" He exhaled a thin trail of smoke, the air between them growing heavier by the second.

Tony squirmed in his seat. "It wasn’t me, Carmine. I swear. Those Montenegrins—"

"Don’t." Carmine’s voice cut him off like a scalpel. "Don’t waste my fucking time with excuses." He tapped the ash off his cigarette, his eyes cold and calculating. "You think I got to where I am by letting idiots like you fuck me over and then hand me a bedtime story about it?"

Dominic, sitting nearby, chuckled. "Tony, you’re like one of those carnival clowns. Big, dumb, and painted up for the next sucker to laugh at."

Tony shot him a glare, his face redder than the marinara at Carmine’s restaurant. "Again Fuck you, Dom."

"Dom’s right," Carmine said, his tone almost amused. "You’re a walking punchline, Tony. And you know what happens to punchlines? They get delivered."

Tony’s mouth opened, but no words came out.

Carmine leaned forward now, his golden tooth catching the light like a predator’s gleam. "Here’s what’s gonna happen. You’re gonna sit your fat ass down, drink your fucking water, and pray I don’t decide you’re more useful in the river than at this table. Dominic—"

"Yeah, Carmine?"

"Go pay the Montenegrins a visit. Make it crystal fucking clear they don’t play games with me. And if they don’t get the message…" Carmine’s eyes narrowed. "Turn their house into a graveyard. I want bodies. Not stories."

Dominic smirked, standing up and adjusting his coat. "Consider it handled."

As Dominic left, Frankie, who’d been silently flipping through the latest issue of Sports Weekly, tossed the magazine aside with a sigh. "You know what I like about Dom? He doesn’t talk shit. He just gets it done."

"Unlike some people," Carmine said, his gaze flicking back to Tony.

Tony’s shoulders slumped, his defiance crumbling under Carmine’s stare. "Carmine, I’ll—"

"You’ll shut the fuck up is what you’ll do," Carmine said, his voice cold and unrelenting. "You’re lucky I’m letting Dom handle this instead of you. If it were up to me, I’d have your head on a plate just to make an example."

The tension in the room was thick enough to choke on. Carmine leaned back again, lighting another cigarette, his movements calm and deliberate—like a man who had nothing to fear because he held all the cards.

Frankie broke the silence, cracking a grin. "You want me to babysit Tony, Carmine? Make sure he doesn’t choke on his own fucking stupidity?"

Carmine chuckled, the sound low and menacing. "No need. If he screws up again, he won’t have a throat left to choke with."

The room fell silent again, the weight of Carmine’s words hanging in the air. Outside, the city buzzed with life, oblivious to the storm brewing within the walls of the club. Carmine took a slow drag from his cigarette, his golden tooth flashing one last time in the dim light.

"Funny thing about people like Tony," he muttered to Frankie, his voice more to himself than anyone else. "They think they’ve got all the time in the world… until someone like me reminds them they don’t."

Frankie nodded, smirking. "That’s why you’re the boss."