The evening is slowly falling over the vibrant metropolis. The traffic is dying as the sea of neon lights casts a faint glow over the darkening city streets. As the evening slowly settles in, the masses begin filling the city joints, looking for a break after the gruelling working day. Philly has awakened for another busy night.

It's depressingly quiet in the small hotel room. The only source of light comes from the flickering bedside lamp, as the glowing ad of the cinema across the street struggles to seep thru the heavy drapes.

A journalist is sitting in one of the sofas, fiddling with her worn, leather briefcase. She reaches in to grab a small notepad and a pencil, secured in its spine. I step closer to the window, peering in the settling darkness beyond, as the neon light splashes over my face, tracing and caressing the rough outlines of my features. I can tell by the glances she is giving me that she is wondering how someone can look so young yet so worn out at the same time. I haven been in the game for a while, and hell, have I gone thru enough...

"Are you ready? We should start, I dont have much time."

"I'm ready", she said.

Her name is Whitney Lee and she has worked the organized crime beat for "Philly Today" for the last few years. In a surprisingly short time she had managed to become very popular, and many of her devoted readers fanatically consider her a real hero in the struggle against the lawlessness in the streets. To her fans she may appear to be fearless and unstopable in her crusade for justice, but not to me. I know the streets well enough to know that the real news about the real kinpins never make it to the public eye. All her topics are very carefully selected and thought thru to avoid angering anyone of importance. It's either that, or one goes sleeping with the fishies. And that's exaclty what she is worried about. No one likes touring the lake with cement shoes around their ankles, a trend extremely popular among my mobster "friends".

My name is Victor Petrov, even though for the past many years no one ever uses it. It's been replaced with a nick that sounds anything but menacing - "Kpacu". It might not sound as much but I've heard enough people say it with genuine respect. And rightfully. For my 23 years I've done enough to establish myself as someone dangerous and
ruthless enough not to mess with. Until now...

"So you want do you want to know?", I asked her.

"Everything", she said. "I'd like to as much as I can about the man I'm about to use as my main informant for my next topic."

"I will do that for you... But you know the deal. I will tell you everyting I know and you, you will help me to take revenge on those who are now after me".

I stared her down. She tried to hold my eyes and failed. As expected.

"Yes... I will. If you give me enough facts, enough names and evidence I will do anything I can to bring those responsible to justice."

"I will give you more facts than you can handle." I gave her a sad smile. "You wont be lacking that, unlike, perhaps, courage?" She flinched. "Yes pretty one, I know your dirty secret. If I had a choice I'd never choose you. But I have no time to look for another. You will have to do."

A screeching of tires comes from outside the window. Two or three cars, stopping simulatenuously, slamming of doors, loud steps, voices... I look at her. She is trembling, her eyes searching mine, looking for support and reassuarance. Silly girl, you are not made for this.

"You think those guys outside are coming for me?", I asked her with a sardonic smile. "You've been dealing with street scum for far too long to know what the real danger is. Let me tell you something. If they know where I am hiding they are gonna act quietly, stalking like predators. A few of them will walk in separately in the lobby, taking key spots that are overlooking the stairs and the elevator. Others will block the side exits and someone probably will be watching my windows as well. Once all that is set they will creep in silently towards my room and only once they are convinced that they have me locked down completely, only then, they are gonna come in with a bang." I step towards the minibar. The whisky bottle is halfway done yet the evening is just beginning.

"You want some? No? Good, I will drink straight from the bottle then", I said, sitting in the sofa across her. "I know it's not polite but you cant always expect from a gangster to be a proper gentleman". Taking a deep drag from the bottle, the searing edge of the booze goes thru me like a bullet. Feels good. I swing the bottle once again... "I dont know what I'd do without whisky. I love this stuff, it's my fuel, keeps me going. And my story will flow better with it, too."

She gives me a shrug. The pencil starts scraping over the notepad. I reach into my inside my coat, retrieving a Smith & Wesson, my only friend for the last few weeks. As I place it next to me on the sofa I catch her look.

"Just in case. If they do find me I'm not going down without a fight." She gives me an unhappy smile. You wish to be done and out of here, dont you, Ms. Crime Reporter? "Where do you want me to start?"

"From the very beginning . From your childhood. I want to know what made you what you are."

"My childhood?", I give her an amused smile. "So be it, if you insist..."