Prologue
I can’t believe the moment has arrived. The calm before the storm and what a storm will pass. I feel it. It consumes every part of me. The swirl of retribution and danger mix in a lethal co*cktail. Years of pain, humiliation and fear are consuming every part of me right now and I can taste freedom. Reach out and curl my fist around it. Caress it, treasure it and hold it close because if I fail, it will all have been for nothing.
Pushing the thought away as quickly as it comes, I have no time for failure. My life depends on my success and, more importantly, my sister’s.
I push her away too because I can’t allow her soft features to crowd my mind. Not when he’s there. Standing center stage in all my sick and twisted fantasies.
My father.
Oscar Sontauro. Mafia Don. Father. Widower. Murderer. Bastard.
“Angelo, come over here.”
His voice, like a bloodied knife, drives deeper into my heart. Just his voice alone can cause irreparable damage.
Terrified eyes watch me as I push off the wall, coated in mold, dirt, and blood, not to mention the inside of a man’s soul.
The dirt beneath my feet isn’t the only dirt in the room and his hoarse voice is like a swarm of bees stinging me on repeat.
“Your turn to play.”
His sinister laugh echoes around the large warehouse as if Satan has a front-row seat. Maybe he has. It certainly feels that way and only the small whimper from the man chained up naked and thrashing before us disturbs the otherwise surreal silence.
“Please…”
His pleas will go unanswered. We both know that because if I don’t finish the job, my father will, and I’ll be next. Survival of the fittest. It’s always been this way and as it turned out, my father was the fittest of them all. One by one, he slaughtered his enemies, along with anyone standing in his way and rose to take the crown.
Mafia Don.
Feared, revered, and worshipped. Not by me. Never by me.
Thinking back many years ago, when I listened to my mother take her last ragged breath at his hand, I held my sister and we waited for one life to end and two more to wait their turn. Anger the Don and he rewards you with death. We learned from a very young age to play the game. I wonder if he had her chained up like the informant before me now. Naked and begging for forgiveness. Brutally beaten and struggling to breathe.
Did he dismember parts of her to prolong the agony? Broken bones and severed fingers, eyes that fall to the floor—literally, or a pool of blood courtesy of a knife to the tongue. I’m guessing he offered her no privileges, especially when he caught her screwing the good Senator who went down on her and then with her as their flailing bodies were engaged in a horrifying act of survival as punishment for their crimes. No, I have one shot at this, and I must keep a cool head because all our futures depend on it.
“Hurry up. What’s taking you so long? Anyone would think you were afraid.”
His voice reaches me like the lash of a whip and causes the nerves to scratch against my skin like a rusty nail on a metal bucket.
I reach him showing no emotion because he deserves nothing from me, even that. His evil grin reveals a perfect row of white teeth that he bought like everything else in his miserable life.
He hands me the bloodied knife and his eyes sparkle in the dim, dusky light. The glint of his gold watch catching the light of a cigarette end from his enforcer standing nearby.
My heart beats with adrenalin as I sense the final show is about to start.
“Have mercy, son, please.”
I detest the pitiful wailing of the man who has kept his tongue for now, they always do until the end because my father loves to hear them beg for their lives. He likes to feel powerful, like a god among men. The man who has the power if you live or die.
The enforcer standing by must think he has the best job in the world because my father likes to kill. He always has and prefers to cut up his victims himself. He’s a psychopath and the world will be a much better place without him in it.
I approach the man and detect the metallic scent of blood that almost makes me gag. The purple bruises from his body are like the most horrific work of art. His body has been hacked to pieces and only his organs are keeping him alive. He has many crimes under his belt, but the unforgivable act of betrayal when he sold out our family to a rival, sealed his fate. He disgusts me, but not as much as the man whose blood I share.
Stepping toward him, he is lucky I’m keen to move this on because this isn’t my first rodeo and I’m meticulous in my work. What can I say? I inherited the madness and so with a disdainful stare and a flick of the wrist, I slash his throat and sever an artery, the blood spurting across my face acting as the most twisted war paint.
“For f*ck’s sake…” My father is angry. He wasn’t finished with him yet and I know he wanted to prolong my agony as well as the informant. But I don’t have time for this and as I turn, I reach inside my jacket and before he can register what’s happening, I pull the trigger.
The sound of gunshot bounces off the walls and my victim falls forward before he even knew his time was up. For one sick moment there is silence as my ruthless action is registered and then I stare into disbelieving eyes and rasp, “He had his gun trained on the back of your head. You’re welcome.”
My father blinks in disbelief as he looks behind and sees his enforcer face down in a pool of his own blood and he says in disbelief, “Why?”
“We don’t have time for this. We need to leave–now. We’ll talk at the house. It’s not safe for you here.”
Taking charge of the situation that isn’t really anything other than a figment of my imagination, I push my father toward the door with a growl, “Move, we don’t have long.”
He doesn’t even question me and just draws his own weapon, sensing an ambush, and as he darts for the door, I almost think this could work.
Wrenching it open, I take the steps outside two at a time and as the gunshots ring out, my father starts firing into the bushes. Blindly, chaotically, and fearfully.
Two more seconds. That’s all I have before the soldiers come running, alerted by the gunshots, and as I turn, it almost feels in slow motion as I raise my arm and steady my grip on the one thing that will set me free. He is so busy firing at imaginary targets he doesn’t even see it coming and as I take aim, I relish a moment that’s been a long time in the making. One more second is all it takes for the bullet to leave the gun and travel like a heat-seeking missile to its target.
Right between my father’s eyes.
He falls in slow motion. At least it feels that way and as the sound of screeching tires heads toward us, I drop to the ground.
Doors slam and loud urgent voices surround me as the sound of machine gun fire echoes around the clearing. The cavalry has arrived and as I’m scooped up and pushed roughly into the open door, my thumping heart is fearful that he made it.
The car heads off at speed and Roberto, my father’s Consigliere, says gruffly, “Angelo, talk to me.”
I appear dazed, confused, as if I’ve been struck and whisper roughly, “My father.”
“I’m sorry, Angelo.”
The fear in Roberto’s voice tells me what I need to know. He’s dead. It’s obvious because if my father was alive, Roberto would be traveling with him. His voice confirms that everything went according to plan when he says with respect, “You have my condolences, Don Sontauro.”
