you how I ended up here, tangled up in all of this mess.
It started, what—last week? Yeah, last week. See, I used to work for a guy named Itarian, but I called him Sell-Me-On. This dude wasn't just some regular car salesman; he made his real money shark-loaning cars to folks who couldn't pay. He'd sell them overpriced cars, then when they couldn't meet the payments, he'd send me and my boy Noon to repo them.
And let's be honest, with my record, what other choice did I have? Jobs for guys like me? Slim pickings. So, yeah, I played along. It wasn't glamorous, but it was something.
People call me FL—no, not the state, Florida. Florida's not even a state. It's like a side quest that got out of control. Where else you gonna wrestle an alligator at 3 AM, get offered meth at a gas station, or drive by a dude in a pirate ship car—all before breakfast? That's where I'm from.
I was wild growing up—no parents, no rules. I did whatever it took to get noticed, to get respect. But jail? Jail taught me real quick that street fame doesn't mean jack. When I got locked up, nobody came to visit me—not even Noon. He swore he was broke, but I never bought it. Guy's name's Noon 'cause he's always shady, always scheming. That's probably why him and Itarian got along so well.
So when I got out, I ended up stuck working for Itarian. Repo jobs. Dirty work. But hey, what else was I gonna do? I didn't have many options.
One day, I'm sent to this fancy house—gated up nice and tight. I sneak in, try to get in the car with the spare key Itarian keeps for every car he sells. But before I even touch the handle, I hear it—click. Cold steel to the back of my head.
"Get in the car," the voice says.
I try to talk my way out of it. "You were supposed to make your payment—"
"I said get in the f*cking car," he snaps.
I look back. Dude's got slick hair, dark shades. He means business. Right there, I know—this isn't a fight I can win. So I get in.
As we drive, he asks, "How much does he pay you?"
"Two fifty a week."
He laughs. "Man, you really that dumb?"
I shrug. "Just got out six months ago. This is the best I could do."
He shakes his head. "At least you're doing better than that Svogliato—lazy piece of sh*t."
He looks at me. "What's your deal? How'd you get locked up?"
I side-eye the gun still pressed to my head. "Which time?"
He laughs. "Multiple offenses?"
I nod. "Stealing, shooting, carjacking. Whatever got me respect… or money. It was just me and my aunt growing up. I did whatever I had to. Poaching animals, selling them illegally—anything to get by."
He raises an eyebrow. "What kind of animals?"
"Man, I got caught selling an alligator to some rich kid. His daddy's probably a millionaire. The kid just wanted something wild, and me? I needed the cash."
He chuckles, shaking his head. "Rich kids spend money on the dumbest sh*t. Hell, I don't even know if my own kid's mine…"
We pull up to Itarian's auto shop. Then—bam—gun to my head again.
"Drive through the window. Now."
And just like that—another day in the life of FL. No second thoughts. I floored it, straight through the damn window.
CRASH.
Glass everywhere, the front of the car wrecked beyond repair. Itarian and Noon come running out, eyes wide.
"The hell, FL?! What did you—"
Before Itarian could finish, the man pressed a gun to his face. Itarian threw his hands up, visibly annoyed.
"Forty percent on the car payment?" the man spits. "Forty." He says it slower this time, like the words taste sour.
Itarian's silent. Even Noon, who never keeps his cool, is holding back laughter like it's gonna kill him.
The man eyes him coldly. "What happened, Employee of the Month?"
After all that, the man turns to me. "Look… you want a real job? Come work for me."
Itarian's frozen, mouth hanging open like he's watching a car wreck in slow motion. The man smirks, pulls out a card, and hands it to me.
"Name's Luca Moretti. Call me."
Itarian points at us like he's about to lose it.
"Both of you are fired."
Noon's jaw drops. "What?! What did I do?"
Itarian doesn't hesitate. "You? Worst Employee of the Month ever. Get out."
And just like that, Noon and I were unemployed.
Now, fast forward—we're sitting outside some random house, staring at our phones, about to make the call.
"…Yo, we outside."
The voice on the other end is flat. "Who's 'we'?"
I clear my throat. "FL and Noon. Luca told me to call when we got here."
There's a long pause. Then the voice comes back, still flat.
"Luca? Never heard of him."
I blink at the phone, confused. Before I can respond, the front door creaks open—a man stands there, wordlessly waving us in.
We step into a room stacked with computers—screens glowing, wires everywhere.
Another man sits at a desk, eyeing us as we walk in.
"Is that the kid Luca was talking about?" he asks, not even looking up.
"Yep," the other man replies. "That's him."