"Shut up and count the money," Michael said with irritation, taking a sip of a hot coffee. *He turned around from facing the kitchen counter of a small, modest safe house. It looked as though it hadn't been redecorated since the mid-eighties. The brown carpet was rough and prickly. It looked as though it was pulled from the floor of a cheap seventies motel. Cheap wooden paneling met brown wallpaper with an egg shell flower print. Thin white curtains with dark green drapes to match the poorly painted cast-iron radiators gave the small one bedroom a a bad case of outdated decor syndrome. But it wasn't a Better Homes & Gardens store, it was a safe house used by John and his men. An old spot used back in the late seventies, early eighties before his father went to prison. Frankie Juliano was a heavy guy. Everyone knew him, and everyone loved him. Guys respect John's old man, which means they respected Johnny and his brother, treated them like blood.

Frankie was still in jail doing twenty-five for a hit he carried out in New York. Whacked some made guy in the Brooklyn outfit for Vincenzo Giacomina as a favor to Marcello Costiga, a powerful and respected New York boss. The beef caught up to him when two witnesses who were smoking a joint in the window of an apartment building across the street came forward. Frankie plead guilty and the judge hit him with twenty-five like he was handing out food stamps. No deals, no mercy. The justice system had destroyed his life, and the family glorified his father.

John wasn't long taking the path of his father after Jimmy Gambini became closely involved in his life. Jimmy would take care of his mother financially, do what he could to help out, and mentor the boys like an uncle. I mean, that's what they knew him as, uncle Jimmy. It was never Jim, or Mr. Gambini, it was uncle Jimmy for as long as they could remember. He was a second father to them, and it was through him they came to embrace the family business.

Michael approached a circular table in the middle of the kitchen area. It was piled to capacity with cash, and two men worked tirelessly, running the stacks through money counting machines, crunching numbers. Closest to Michael, on the right, was Calvin Johnson. He was a black male in his mid-thirties. He wore a leather jacket, shades with round lenses, and a white shirt. His hair was cropped close to his head, and he was well shaven.

The other man was Alfonzo, a chubby Italian in his sixties at least. He had balding white hair, and baggy eyes with puffy cheeks. He wore a grey suit and tie with a white shirt.*

"Sit the **** down and help then," Calvin said with a mild British accent as he bound a stack of bills with an elastic, a cigar tucked in his left cheek.

Michael chuckled, sitting down and placed his over-the-counter coffee on a free space he found on the table's surface.

"Can't we all get along?" Alfonzo asked humorously, making Mikey and Calvin smile.

John entered through the apartment door, smiling wide.

"Hey!" Alfonzo shouted cheerfully, filled with joy at the sight of John, "What do you know, what do you say!"

"Johnny boy, Johnny boy, you missed all the fun," Calvin said with a smile.

John laughed, making his way over to the table, eying the money, squeezing Michael's shoulders.

"Holy shit, gentlemen," he said softly with a smile.

"How's your father doin' anyway kid?" Alfonzo asked John.

"How the **** should I know, Fonzy, he's been in prison for 15 ****in' years," John replied, with a smile.*

Alfonzo laughed at the top of his lungs, his face turning red.*"Same old Johnny! This kid used to work the store front down at Papa Tony's Pizzeria. Used to keep all the old timers in splits," Alfonzo recalled with his old fashion brand of storytelling. He could make any story interesting by the way he told it. When he talked, you listened. Alfonzo was just that kind of guy. "Those were some good times, you know?"

John tapped Michael on the chest, walking over to the bathroom, and Michael joined him.

John wrapped an arm around Mikey's shoulders. "What are we lookin' at, buddy?" he asked I a low tone of voice, smiling from ear to ear.

"Almost two rocks," Michael replied with pride and excitement.

"Two million ****in' dollars?!" John yelled under his breath, placing both hands behind Mikey's ears, shaking him gently.

"Almost."

John hugged him, shaking him again. "My little brother, a ****in' bank robber!"

John kissed him on the forhead, overwhelmed with excitement.

"It's gonna be a green Christmas, boys!"