Merchant Venice Beach / Season 1, Episode 1
Boardwalk Bargains
Episode 1: Boardwalk Bargains
The ocean roars like a beast just beyond the Venice Beach boardwalk, its salty breath misting over the cracked concrete where Solomon "Sol" Marchetti hawks his wares. He’s perched on a folding stool behind a rickety table draped in a faded tapestry of crimson and gold, the kind of cloth that might’ve once hung in a gypsy caravan. The air smells of seaweed and stale beer, with a faint undercurrent of weed smoke drifting from the nearby skate park. Sol’s got a cigarette dangling from his lips, unlit, as he squints against the late afternoon sun glinting off the waves. His hands, gnarled and ink-stained, shuffle a deck of tarot cards with the ease of a cardsharp, though he’s selling something far more dangerous than a fortune.
“Step right up, folks,” he calls, voice gravelly, carrying over the chatter of tourists and the rhythmic clack of skateboard wheels. “Got dreams for sale. Got debts to settle. Name your price, I’ll name the terms.” His dark eyes, sharp as obsidian, scan the crowd—sunburned frat boys in board shorts, a gaggle of influencers snapping selfies with mural wings, an older woman clutching a reusable grocery bag like it’s a lifeline. He’s looking for the desperate ones. Always has been.
A young guy, early twenties, hesitates near the table. He’s got the look—hollow cheeks, a faded hoodie with frayed cuffs, eyes darting like he’s waiting for someone to jump him. Sol clocks him instantly, leaning forward, the cigarette bobbing as he speaks. “Hey, kid. You lost or lookin’ for somethin’?”
The guy—Travis, his name tag reads, pinned crooked on his chest—shifts his weight, hands shoved deep in his pockets. “I, uh, I heard you… help people. With stuff.”
Sol grins, a flash of gold in his canines. “Depends on the stuff. What’s eatin’ you, Travis?” He flicks his gaze to the name tag, then back to the kid’s face, reading the flinch. “C’mon, spit it out. I don’t bite. Much.”
Travis glances over his shoulder, like the ocean itself might be listening, then leans in. His voice drops to a whisper. “I owe some people. Bad people. I’m in deep, man. Like, five grand deep. I don’t got it, and they’re comin’ for me tomorrow.”
Sol exhales through his nose, a slow hiss, and sets the tarot deck down with a deliberate slap. The top card flips over—the Tower, jagged lightning splitting a stone spire. He doesn’t comment on it, just lets it sit there like a warning. “Five grand, huh? That’s a hefty tab. What’d you do, gamble? Drugs?”
“Both,” Travis mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “Stupid bets, stupid highs. I thought I could flip it, y’know? But I’m tapped out. My girl’s pregnant, man. I can’t let ‘em get to me. Or her.”
Sol leans back, folding his arms across his chest. His black button-down is unbuttoned halfway, revealing a tangle of silver chains and a faded tattoo of a serpent eating its tail. “Pregnant girlfriend. That’s a complication. You got collateral? Somethin’ to trade?”
Travis shakes his head, frantic. “Nothin’. I got nothin’. Just… me. Whatever you want, I’ll do it. Please.”
There’s a long pause, the kind that stretches tight like a wire about to snap. Sol’s gaze hardens, appraising. The boardwalk buzzes around them—gulls screeching, a busker strumming a out-of-tune guitar, the slap of flip-flops on pavement—but for Travis, it’s just him and this man, this merchant of last resorts. Finally, Sol speaks, low and deliberate. “Alright, kid. I’ll cover your debt. Five grand, cash, tonight. But you owe me. Not money—somethin’ else. Somethin’ personal. You understand?”
Travis swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Like… what?”
Sol’s smile is a blade. “We’ll figure that out. For now, you just say yes. Or walk away and see what tomorrow brings.”
The kid’s hands tremble as he nods, barely a jerk of his chin. “Yes. Okay. Yes.”
Sol reaches under the table, pulling out a small leather-bound notebook, its edges frayed and stained with what might be coffee or blood. He flips it open, scrawls something with a stubby pencil, then tears out the page and hands it to Travis. “Meet me at this address, midnight. Bring nothin’ but yourself. Don’t be late.”
Travis stares at the scrap of paper, the ink smudged but legible, then stuffs it into his pocket. He mumbles a thanks and stumbles off into the crowd, shoulders hunched like he’s already carrying the weight of whatever Sol’s got planned. Sol watches him go, then lights his cigarette with a flick of a dented Zippo. The first drag burns his throat, bitter and hot. He mutters to himself, smoke curling from his lips, “Another lamb to the slaughter.”
The sun dips lower, painting the boardwalk in shades of tangerine and bruised purple. Sol’s still at his post, but the crowd’s thinning out. Most of the tourists have retreated to overpriced bars or their Airbnb rentals, leaving behind crumpled beer cans and the occasional lost flip-flop. A breeze kicks up, carrying the sharp tang of salt and the distant wail of a police siren. Sol’s packing up—folding the cloth, tucking the tarot deck into a tin box—when a shadow falls over his table.
“Still peddling snake oil, Marchetti?” The voice is smooth, clipped, with just enough venom to sting. Sol doesn’t look up right away, but his hands pause, fingers tightening on the edge of the table. He knows that voice. Hates it.
“Antonia,” he drawls, finally lifting his gaze. She’s standing there, all sharp angles and cold beauty, dressed in a tailored blazer over a silk camisole, like she just stepped out of a downtown law office instead of onto this grimy strip of concrete. Her dark hair is pulled back tight, not a strand out of place, and her eyes—green, piercing—cut right through him. “To what do I owe the displeasure?”
Antonia Bassi crosses her arms, a silver bracelet glinting at her wrist. “Don’t play coy, Sol. I know you’re still running your little… loanshark racket. Thought you’d have learned after last time.”
He smirks, standing to his full height, which isn’t much but carries a certain menace. He’s shorter than her by a few inches, but there’s a coiled energy in him, like a street dog ready to snap. “Last time was a misunderstanding. I’m a businessman, Toni. Supply and demand. People come to me ‘cause they got nowhere else to go.”
“People come to you because you prey on them,” she shoots back, stepping closer. Her heels click on the concrete, a deliberate rhythm. “I’ve got clients who’ve lost everything to your ‘deals.’ Families broken. Lives ruined. I’m building a case, Sol. One of these days, I’m gonna nail you.”
Sol chuckles, low and rough, flicking ash from his cigarette. “You’ve been sayin’ that for years, counselor. Yet here I am, free as a bird. Maybe your clients should’ve read the fine print.”
Her jaw tightens, a flicker of anger breaking through her composed exterior. “This isn’t a game. You’re a parasite. And I’m not the only one watching you now. There’s talk, Sol. Talk of bigger players sniffing around your territory. You might wanna watch your back.”
He raises an eyebrow, but there’s a glint of unease in his eyes, quickly masked. “Appreciate the concern, Toni. But I’ve been dodgin’ bigger dogs than you since before you were in diapers. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I got places to be.”
He shoulders past her, grabbing his bag of wares, but she grabs his arm. Her grip is firm, nails digging just enough to make a point. “This isn’t over,” she says, voice low, almost a growl. “You slip up once, and I’ll be there.”
Sol yanks his arm free, but he doesn’t turn back. “Keep dreamin’, counselor,” he tosses over his shoulder, disappearing into the lengthening shadows of the boardwalk. Antonia watches him go, her expression unreadable, but her hands are clenched into fists at her sides.
The night settles over Venice like a heavy blanket, the boardwalk now a ghost of its daytime chaos. Streetlights buzz and flicker, casting pools of sickly yellow light on the pavement. Sol’s in a different part of town now, a narrow alley behind a dive bar called The Rusty Anchor, where the air reeks of spilled liquor and dumpster rot. He’s waiting, leaning against a graffiti-scrawled wall, a fresh cigarette glowing between his fingers. The leather notebook is tucked under his arm, a silent ledger of debts and promises.
Footsteps echo down the alley, hesitant at first, then quicker. Travis appears, his hoodie pulled up, hands stuffed in his pockets again. He looks worse than he did earlier—paler, if that’s possible, with dark circles under his eyes like he hasn’t slept in days. “I’m here,” he says, voice shaky. “Like you said.”
Sol nods, pushing off the wall. “Good. Punctual. I like that.” He flicks the cigarette butt into a puddle, where it hisses out. “Here’s the deal, kid. I got your money. Five grand, clean bills, in a bag right here.” He pats the duffel at his feet. “But before I hand it over, we gotta seal the terms. My terms.”
Travis licks his lips, nervous. “What… what do you want?”
Sol steps closer, his shadow looming in the dim light. The alley feels smaller, the walls pressing in, the distant hum of traffic fading to a dull murmur. “I want a piece of you, Travis. Not your money, not your time. Somethin’ deeper. A favor, down the line. Could be tomorrow, could be ten years from now. But when I call, you answer. No questions. No refusals. You got that?”
Travis hesitates, his breath hitching. “What kinda favor?”
Sol’s eyes narrow, a flicker of impatience. “Doesn’t matter. You say yes now, or you walk away empty-handed. Your choice. But I ain’t a charity. Clock’s tickin’.”
The kid looks down at the duffel, then back at Sol, his face a mask of fear and desperation. The weight of his unborn child, his girlfriend, the men coming for him tomorrow—it’s all there in his eyes, a silent plea for a way out. Finally, he nods, barely audible. “Okay. Yeah. I’m in.”
Sol’s grin is slow, predatory. He bends down, unzips the duffel just enough to show a stack of bills, then zips it back up and kicks it toward Travis. “Take it. Pay your debts. Keep your mouth shut. I’ll be in touch.”
Travis grabs the bag, clutching it to his chest like a lifeline, and stumbles backward. He mutters another thanks, then turns to bolt down the alley, his sneakers slapping against the wet pavement. Sol watches him disappear around the corner, then pulls out his notebook again. He flips to a new page, scrawls Travis’s name in jagged letters, and underlines it twice. Underneath, he writes one word: Bound.
He’s about to close the book when a new sound cuts through the night—a low, deliberate clap. Slow, mocking. Sol freezes, his hand hovering over the notebook, as a figure steps into the light at the mouth of the alley. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a black leather jacket that gleams under the streetlamp. The man’s face is half-shadowed, but his smirk is unmistakable, sharp as a switchblade.
“Nice hustle, Marchetti,” the man says, his voice a low rumble. “But you’re playin’ in my sandbox now. And I don’t share.”
Sol straightens, slipping the notebook into his jacket pocket, his posture shifting to something defensive, wary. “Didn’t see your name on it, friend. Who the hell are you?”
The man steps closer, the light catching his eyes—cold, gray, unblinking. “Name’s Darius. And I’m here to collect. Not on the kid—on you. Word is, you’ve been cuttin’ into territory that ain’t yours. My territory. So let’s talk terms, merchant. ‘Cause I got a debt of my own to settle.”
Sol’s jaw tightens, his hand brushing the inside of his jacket where a small blade is hidden. The alley feels tighter now, the air thick with unspoken threats. He forces a smirk, but there’s sweat beading at his temple. “Alright, Darius. Let’s talk. But I warn you—I drive a hard bargain.”
[To be continued in the second half of Episode 1]
Sol’s fingers hover near the hidden blade in his jacket, the weight of it a small comfort against the looming presence of Darius. The alley behind The Rusty Anchor is a trap now, the graffiti-smeared walls closing in with every breath. The distant thud of bass from the bar mixes with the drip of a leaking pipe somewhere in the shadows, a steady, maddening rhythm. The air is heavy with the stink of old beer and something sharper, metallic—fear, maybe, or the promise of blood.
Darius doesn’t move closer, not yet. He stands just inside the pool of streetlight, hands loose at his sides, but there’s a coiled readiness in him, like a panther deciding whether to pounce. His leather jacket creaks as he shifts his weight, the sound cutting through the quiet. “You’ve got a reputation, Marchetti,” he says, voice low, almost amused. “Folks say you’re the guy to go to when you’re out of options. But you’ve been sloppy. Steppin’ on toes. My toes.”
Sol keeps his smirk in place, though it’s starting to feel like a mask. Sweat prickles at the back of his neck, but he doesn’t let it show. “Didn’t know I needed a permission slip to do business in Venice. Last I checked, the boardwalk’s a free-for-all. You got a claim, lay it out. Otherwise, step off.”
Darius chuckles, a dry, humorless sound that bounces off the alley walls. He takes a step forward, boots scuffing against the damp concrete, and Sol’s hand twitches closer to the blade. “A free-for-all, huh? That’s cute. But this ain’t just about the boardwalk. You’ve been cuttin’ deals with people who owe me. People like that kid who just ran outta here with my money in your bag.”
Sol’s eyes narrow, the accusation landing like a punch. He hadn’t pegged Travis as being tangled up with anyone specific, just another desperate soul in over his head. But Darius’s words carry weight, and Sol’s mind races, recalculating. “That so? Didn’t see your brand on him. Kid came to me. Begged, even. I’m just providin’ a service.”
“A service,” Darius repeats, dragging the word out like it’s poison on his tongue. He takes another step, close enough now that Sol can smell the faint tang of tobacco and leather on him. “Your ‘services’ are gonna cost you. I run the south end of Venice, from the canals to the pier. Every debt, every score, every sad sack who can’t pay up—that’s mine to handle. You’re poachin’ on my turf, and I don’t take kindly to scavengers.”
Sol holds his ground, though every instinct screams at him to bolt or strike first. He’s been in tight spots before—hell, his whole life’s been one long tight spot—but there’s something about Darius that sets his nerves on edge. Maybe it’s the calm, the way the man’s gray eyes don’t flicker with rage or doubt, just cold certainty. “Alright, let’s say I stepped on your turf,” Sol says, keeping his tone even. “What’s your play? You here to rough me up, or you got somethin’ else in mind?”
Darius tilts his head, considering. The streetlight catches the hard lines of his jaw, the faint scar running from his left ear down to his collarbone, a jagged white line against tanned skin. “I’m a businessman, same as you. I don’t spill blood unless I have to. So here’s the deal: you cut me in. Fifty percent of every deal you make south of Rose Avenue. You keep your little boardwalk hustle, but I get my share. Or—” He pauses, letting the word hang heavy. “—I take it all. And I don’t mean just your money.”
Sol’s smirk falters for half a second, but he catches it, forcing it back into place. “Fifty percent? That’s a steep ask. I don’t even know you, man. How do I know you’re not just some punk tryin’ to shake me down?”
Darius doesn’t flinch. Instead, he reaches into his jacket pocket—slow, deliberate, giving Sol time to tense—and pulls out a small, folded piece of paper. He unfolds it, revealing a grainy photo, the kind taken from a cheap surveillance camera. It’s Sol, clear as day, standing at his boardwalk table, mid-conversation with a client. The timestamp in the corner is from two days ago. “I’ve been watchin’ you, Marchetti,” Darius says, voice flat. “I know your spots, your habits. I know you’ve got enemies breathin’ down your neck—cops, lawyers, folks you’ve burned. You don’t want me as another one. So, fifty percent. Or I start diggin’ deeper. And trust me, I dig real good.”
The photo feels like a noose tightening around Sol’s throat. He’s always known he’s being watched—Antonia’s threat earlier today wasn’t empty—but this is different. This is personal, precise. He forces a laugh, rough and unconvincing. “You’re thorough, I’ll give you that. But I don’t fold easy. You want a cut, you earn it. Prove you’ve got the muscle to back up the talk.”
Darius’s smirk widens, showing teeth. “Oh, I’ve got muscle. But I don’t need to prove nothin’ to you. You’ll see soon enough. For now, think on it. You’ve got till tomorrow night to decide. Meet me here, same time. Bring an answer—or don’t bother showin’ up at all.” He folds the photo and tucks it back into his pocket, then turns, his boots echoing as he walks back toward the mouth of the alley. He doesn’t look back, doesn’t need to. The threat lingers like smoke.
Sol waits until Darius is out of sight before letting out a shaky breath. His hand drops from his jacket, the blade untouched, and he leans back against the wall, the cold brick biting into his shoulder blades. “Damn it,” he mutters under his breath, running a hand through his graying hair. He’s played this game too long to underestimate a man like Darius. Fifty percent is a death sentence for his operation, but going against someone with that kind of reach could be worse. He needs a way out, a countermove. And he needs it fast.
The next morning, the boardwalk is alive again, a pulsing artery of noise and color under a sky so blue it hurts to look at. Sol’s at his usual spot, the crimson and gold cloth spread over his table, the tarot deck fanned out like a dare. The air smells of sunscreen and fried dough from a nearby churro stand, and the ocean’s roar is a constant undercurrent, relentless. He’s got a thermos of black coffee at his elbow, bitter and lukewarm, and a cigarette smoldering in an ashtray he stole from some dive bar years ago. But his eyes aren’t on the crowd today. They’re scanning, searching, waiting for trouble to walk up.
It doesn’t take long. Not Darius, though—someone else. A woman, mid-thirties, with a purposeful stride and a cheap blazer that screams overworked and underpaid. Her hair’s a messy bun, strands escaping like she gave up halfway, and she’s clutching a manila folder like it’s a weapon. Sol clocks her before she even reaches the table, his gut twisting. Another problem. Just what he needs.
“Solomon Marchetti?” she asks, stopping in front of him. Her voice is clipped, professional, but there’s an edge of exhaustion in it. She doesn’t wait for an answer. “I’m Elena Torres, social worker with the county. I’m here about a client of mine. Travis Monroe.”
Sol’s face stays blank, but his mind kicks into overdrive. Travis. The kid from last night, the one with the duffel full of cash and a debt deeper than money. He leans back on his stool, crossing his arms. “Don’t know the name. I see a lotta faces out here. What’s this about?”
Elena’s eyes narrow, unconvinced. She flips open the folder, revealing a photo of Travis—grainy, like a DMV shot—clipped to a stack of forms. “Don’t play dumb. I know he came to you. He told his girlfriend he got help from ‘the merchant on the boardwalk.’ That’s you, right? The guy who ‘solves problems’ for a price?”
Sol picks up his cigarette, takes a slow drag, letting the smoke curl out as he speaks. “People say a lotta things. Doesn’t make ‘em true. If your boy’s in trouble, that’s not on me. I sell trinkets, lady. Tarot readings. Souvenirs. Check the table.”
Elena doesn’t even glance at the table. She steps closer, lowering her voice, though the boardwalk’s too loud for anyone to overhear. “Listen, I’m not a cop. I’m not here to bust you. I just want to know what Travis got himself into. He’s got a record, yeah, but he’s trying to get clean. He’s got a baby on the way. Last night, he came home with a bag of cash—way more than he could’ve gotten legally. His girlfriend’s terrified. Said he wouldn’t tell her where it came from, just that he ‘made a deal.’ I’m asking you, man to man, what did you do to him?”
Sol feels a flicker of something—guilt, maybe, or irritation—but he buries it deep. He’s heard stories like this before, seen the fallout of his deals in tear-streaked faces and broken lives. But that’s the game. You don’t survive Venice by playing nice. “Sounds like a personal problem,” he says, voice flat. “I don’t know your client. Don’t know his girl. If he’s flashin’ cash, maybe he hit the lottery. Or maybe he’s lyin’. Either way, I ain’t his keeper.”
Elena’s jaw tightens, and for a moment, Sol thinks she might slap the folder down on the table, call him out louder. But she doesn’t. She just stares at him, her brown eyes searching his face for something—truth, regret, anything. Finding nothing, she snaps the folder shut. “You’re a piece of work, Marchetti. I’ve heard the rumors. People don’t just come to you for tarot cards. They come because they’re desperate, and you use that. If Travis ends up hurt—or worse—I’m holding you accountable. I’ll dig until I find proof. Believe that.”
She turns on her heel, storming off into the crowd, her blazer flapping behind her like a flag of war. Sol watches her go, the cigarette burning down to his fingers before he flicks it away with a curse. First Antonia, now this social worker. And Darius still hanging over him like a guillotine. The noose is tightening, and he’s running out of wiggle room.
By late afternoon, Sol’s shut down his table, the cloth folded and the tarot deck stashed in his bag. He’s walking the boardwalk, hands in his pockets, the ocean breeze tugging at his jacket. He needs to think, to plan, but his head’s a mess of competing threats. Darius’s ultimatum is the loudest—fifty percent or a fight he might not win. But Elena’s words gnaw at him too, a quiet itch he can’t scratch. And Antonia’s warning about bigger players… it’s starting to feel like prophecy.
He stops near a mural of a giant octopus, its tentacles sprawling across a brick wall, painted in fading blues and greens. The boardwalk’s quieter now, the midday rush giving way to stragglers and locals. A few feet away, a street artist is packing up his easel, charcoal sketches of tourists littering the ground. Sol’s about to move on when he hears it—soft, almost lost in the wind. A sob.
He turns, squinting, and spots her. A girl, maybe sixteen, sitting on a bench with her knees drawn up, face buried in her hands. Her hair’s a tangle of dark curls, and her clothes—jeans, a ripped hoodie—look like they’ve seen better days. She’s crying, quiet but raw, the kind of sound that comes from a place deeper than sadness. Sol hesitates. He’s not in the habit of playing Good Samaritan. But something about her—maybe the way her shoulders shake, or the empty space around her, like the world’s already written her off—pulls him closer.
“Hey,” he says, voice gruff but softer than usual. He stops a few feet from the bench, not wanting to spook her. “You okay, kid?”
She jerks her head up, startled, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her hoodie. Her face is blotchy, eyes red-rimmed, but there’s a hardness there too, a wariness that doesn’t match her age. “I’m fine,” she snaps, voice thick. “Leave me alone.”
Sol doesn’t move. He’s seen that look before—defiance masking fear. “Don’t look fine. You lost? Hungry? I ain’t gonna hurt you. Just askin’.”
She glares at him, but it’s brittle, crumbling at the edges. After a long pause, she mutters, “I’m not lost. I just… I don’t got nowhere to go. My mom kicked me out. Said I’m a problem. I been sleepin’ on the beach, but it’s cold, and…” Her voice cracks, and she looks away, out at the ocean, like it might have answers.
Sol feels that flicker again, the one he buried with Elena. He shouldn’t care. He’s got enough on his plate without adding a runaway to the mix. But he’s got a soft spot for strays, always has, even if he’d never admit it. “What’s your name?” he asks, keeping his tone neutral.
She hesitates, then mumbles, “Lila.”
“Lila,” he repeats, nodding. “Alright. You can’t stay out here. Cops’ll pick you up, or worse. I know a spot, a shelter not far. They’ll get you a bed, some food. No strings. You want me to walk you there?”
Lila looks at him, suspicion warring with desperation. “Why you helpin’ me? You don’t even know me.”
Sol shrugs, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “Maybe I’m just tired of seein’ people get chewed up by this place. Come on. I ain’t got all day.”
She studies him a moment longer, then nods, sliding off the bench. She’s shorter than he expected, barely reaching his shoulder, and she keeps her hands shoved in her hoodie pockets as they start walking. Sol doesn’t say much, just points the way, letting the sound of the waves fill the silence. For the first time all day, he feels a sliver of something like peace. It doesn’t last.
They’re halfway to the shelter, cutting through a quieter stretch near the canals, when Sol hears the footsteps. Heavy, deliberate, too close. He stops, hand instinctively brushing his jacket, and turns just as Darius steps out from a side street. He’s not alone this time—two men flank him, both built like brick walls, one with a shaved head and a neck tattoo, the other sporting a busted nose that’s healed crooked. They’re not subtle, and they’re not here to talk.
“Thought I gave you till tonight, Marchetti,” Darius says, his smirk back in place. “But I got impatient. See, I don’t like waitin’. And I don’t like seein’ you play hero with strays when you owe me answers.”
Lila freezes beside Sol, her breath catching. Sol steps in front of her, subtle but firm, his mind racing. “Didn’t peg you for the ambush type, Darius. Thought we had a deal to meet later. What’s this?”
“This,” Darius says, spreading his hands, “is a reminder. You don’t get to stall. You don’t get to walk around like you own this place. So, what’s it gonna be? Fifty percent, or do my boys here have to make the point clearer?”
Sol’s hand hovers near the blade, but he knows he’s outmatched. Three against one, and Lila to worry about. His eyes dart to the canal, the narrow bridge just ahead, calculating escape routes. “Alright,” he says, voice low, buying time. “Let’s talk. But not with the kid here. She’s got nothin’ to do with this.”
Darius glances at Lila, his gaze cold, appraising. “Cute. You got a heart after all. Fine. She walks. But you stay. We got business.”
Sol nods to Lila, keeping his eyes on Darius. “Go. Now. Don’t look back.” She hesitates, fear etched on her face, but then she bolts, her sneakers slapping against the pavement as she disappears around the corner. Sol turns back to Darius, his smirk gone, replaced by a hard, defiant stare. “Alright. Let’s do this. But I’m warnin’ you—I don’t break easy.”
Darius laughs, a sharp bark, and gestures to his men. “Good. I like a challenge.”
The first punch comes fast, a meaty fist from the guy with the neck tattoo, catching Sol in the jaw. He staggers, tasting blood, but doesn’t go down. He swings back, pulling the blade free in a flash of steel, but the second guy grabs his wrist, twisting hard. Pain shoots up his arm, the knife clattering to the ground. Darius watches, arms crossed, as the blows rain down—ribs, stomach, a knee to the gut that drops Sol to the pavement. The canal glitters beside them, indifferent, as the world tilts and blurs.
They don’t stop until Sol’s curled on the ground, blood trickling from his lip, one eye swelling shut. Darius crouches beside him, his voice a low growl. “This is just a taste, Marchetti. You’ve got till midnight to decide. Fifty percent, or next time, we don’t stop. And trust me—I know where to find the people you care about. Even the strays.”
He straightens, motioning to his men, and they walk off, leaving Sol sprawled on the cold concrete. Pain radiates through him, sharp and deep, but it’s not the worst of it. It’s the threat, the knowledge that Darius isn’t bluffing. Sol’s made enemies before, burned bridges, but this feels different. Bigger. He drags himself up, wincing, and spits a mouthful of blood into the canal. His notebook, still in his jacket, feels heavier now, a ledger of debts he might not live to collect.
Stumbling toward the bridge, he pulls out his phone with shaking hands, blood smearing the screen as he dials a number he hasn’t used in years. It rings once, twice, before a familiar voice answers, sharp and wary. “Sol? What the hell do you want?”
“Antonia,” he croaks, voice rough with pain. “I need your help. I’m in deep, deeper than I thought. Meet me. Please.”
There’s a long silence on the other end, the kind that stretches like a tightrope. Finally, she speaks, her tone cold but curious. “Where?”
“Boardwalk. My spot. One hour.” He hangs up before she can argue, leaning against the bridge railing, the ocean breeze stinging his cuts. He’s out of moves, out of time. Antonia’s his last card to play, but as he stares into the darkening water, a new sound cuts through the night—tires screeching, close, too close. Headlights flash across the canal, pinning him in their glare, and a car door slams.
Sol turns, heart pounding, as a figure steps into the light, face shadowed but holding something that glints like a gun. “Marchetti,” a voice calls, unfamiliar, dripping with malice. “You’ve got more than Darius to worry about now.”
[To be continued in Episode 2]