Payphone

Here, finally, months later is my first fulfilled request from my 200 followers event. 2020 was a shitshow, and my writing fell off the radar, but one of my goals for this year is to get back on track. @the-blind-assassin-12 requested season 1 Billy Russo and image 3 and I hope you all like what I did with it!

Rating:R

Trigger warnings: mentions of weapons and violence

Word count: 972

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Thanks for reading!

The phone rings, and it’s the last person you expect… the last person you expect, but a voice you’ll never forget. 

“Get out now.”

His voice is hushed but firm, and you can tell he’s speaking through gritted teeth, his jaw flexing. Your heartbeat becomes erratic, and you aren’t sure if it’s a response to hearing his voice or the message he was delivering. 

“Billy?” 

His voice becomes lower and his New York accent grows stronger in his irritation. his urgency. He speaks your name. “I’m not fuckin’ around here. Get out now. Don’t bring anything with you. There’s a car waitin’.”

With one click, the phone line goes dead.

******

Billy Russo knew the ins and outs of New York City. He knew his way around every borough, the glitz of midtown and the gritty, hidden back alleys of Hell’s Kitchen and Dumbo. He knew where to find a lone pay phone still in working order, desolate and abandoned in areas tucked into shadows, waiting like the bums with hallowed eyes and blood-stained blades. Waiting for the next high, for the bitter, copper taste of blood, conditioned to the unmistakable stench of death. For the adrenaline rush and the power that came with a knife sinking into flesh. 

Dressed in all black, he was on Ninth Avenue in Hell’s Kitchen. Many people knew of William Russo, founder and CEO—successful, filthy rich, surrounded by women— one of New York’s elite. What they didn’t know was what was stealthily obscured behind that facade. Billy was a dangerous man, one to be feared. His hands were stained with blood, no matter how scrubbed clean they may be, no matter how perfectly manicured. He was an ex-Marine who was still just as lethal on homeland soil. He was impossible to spot, silent, cat-like, always looking, attacking silently, like a feral animal in the night. 

Hyper aware of his surroundings, he strode with an air of confidence and sense of purpose, only stepping onto the filthy sidewalk when he spotted the payphone he was aiming for. Would it be easier to use his personal smartphone? Absolutely. But Billy Russo knew the kind of man William Rawlins was, and the man would have his line tapped. His orders were not to be ignored. 

Billy was in hot shit, and so were you. You were the reason He was where he was at this point, standing in front of a payphone in a shitty part of the city—but only halfway. The other half is the reason that Rawlins wanted your head, and Billy refused to kill you. 

You knew too much. Soldiers you’d worked with had ties to Anvil. It was through his company that you’d met Billy Russo. You learned too much about what went on behind the scenes, from those who were hand-picked by Billy for reasons quite different than simply contracting private military affairs. You knew things others didn’t, and the bottom line was that you and Billy had formed an alliance. You carefully chose the men he’d need for unofficial business. Billy paid you generously, with money and no-strings-attached sex. And someone had found out and snitched. 

By the time he made it to the pay phone, Billy was wide eyed with adrenaline, his chilled jaw clenched with determination.  His demeanor was cool and calm; he’d perfected the art of never showing outwardly that he felt unsure, if something may be in jeopardy. One hand reaching for his pocket, he palmed two coins, sliding one after the other into the slot above the receiver. The dial tone blared into his ear. He made the call. And just after his message was delivered and the call was done, a shot rang out.

The deafening sound was followed by a quick flick of Billy’s wrist, the soft clicking of a blade almost discernible in the wake of a bullet’s explosion. He could smell gunpowder. It reminded him of war, both back in Kandahar and here at home, in the streets of New York. 

Billy tuned from the payphone, eyes darting around his surroundings. He knew he wasn’t alone, but he also knew he had multiple weapons on his person. He knew he had the advantage of military experience. He knew how to duck into shadows, flatten himself against a building, move quickly and silently.  

No, Billy wasn’t alone, but you were. He walked the block and turned right, long legs carrying him swiftly as he walked east, heading for the location he’d chosen for safety. 

When he walked inside, you couldn’t believe Billy’s cool demeanor. He exuded confidence and calm, total control and authority, but there was an air of exhilaration about him. His dark eyes met yours for a brief moment. Reaching into the back of his jeans, he pulled out a handgun, setting it down on the one small table in the room. Rolling his neck, tilted his head side-to-side and shrugged his right shoulder. It ached. 

He said your name, sank down onto the hard, straight-backed chair across from yours. A trace of a smirk tugged at the corners of his lips. “Which one of your men is the snitch?” His eyes were burning into yours. “I’ve got an arsenal of weaponry, the choice is yours.”

Your smirk matched his as you leaned back in your chair. “A snitch should be silenced, Russo.” 

He chuckled in response. The irony was rich. Not only had Rawlins instructed Billy to kill you, but suggested he slit your throat. Flicking his wrist again, he examined the gleaming blade front and back. He had a job to take care of, and on his own terms. Tonight, however, had been taken care of, successfully so, and with one more movement of his wrist, the blade was gone.