Omertà Anthology - A Very Merry Mafioso Christmas

by V. Domino

  Eggnog, Mistletoe and Severed Heads

  Bree Porter

  All Too Well

  Anna Widzisz

  A Holiday Alliance

  Natalia Lourose

  Rule With Me

  V. Domino

  Sweet Sin

  Sav R. Miller

  We Belong

  Shanjida Nusrath Ali

  The Italian Christmas

  N.J. Adel

  Bloody Christmas

  Alexi Ferreira

  All That Was Lost

  Zavi James

  Vengeance

  Jessica Avary

  Mozzafiato

  Eleanor Aldrick

  Sweetest Taboo

  Kay Blake

  Omerta Christmas

  Krissy V

  Capo Baby, All Of Your Heart Will Do

  P.T. Macias

  Chasity

  AJ Wolf

  OMERTÀ - A VERY MAFIOSO CHRISTMAS COPYRIGHT © 2020 BREE PORTER, ANNA WIDZISZ, NATALIA LOUROSE, V. DOMINO, SAV R. MILLER, SHANJIDA NUSRATH ALI, N.J. ADEL, ALEXI FERREIRA, ZAVI JAMES, JESSICA AVARY, ELEANOR ALDRICK, KAY BLAKE, KRISSY V, P.T. MACIAS, AJ WOLF

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying or other electronic or mechanical methods, without prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations used in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, plots, and incidents are a product of the author's imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is coincidental. The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of all word marks, products, and brands mentioned in this work of fiction.

  Cover Design: Eleanor Aldrick

  Book Formatting: AJ Wolf Graphics

  Snow hit the ground as I shook off my coat, wetting the luxurious welcoming mat.

  Past the foyer I could hear the loud demanding voices of my family, their tones growing louder and louder as dominance was shouted for. I rolled my eyes. Their efforts were in vain–Don Piero could silence the table with a single wave of his hand.

  As could I.

  A young maid came to greet me. She kept her eyes trained on the floor, her fingers shaking as they grasped the coat. Around her neck, a small golden cross rested.

  I doubted her instincts appreciated her being so close to The Godless.

  My lips curled into a smile.

  A soft yap made me look down, rewarding me with the sight of Florence, my grandfather’s Maremma Shephard dog. Her white fur gleamed the same color as the snow outside, and a red ribbon had been tied around her neck as an ode to the season.

  I rubbed her head and gave her a pat, earning a lick and tail wag.

  “Boy!” My grandfather’s voice erupted down the hallway, a patronizing summons to join him.

  I understood his urgency and demand. There were important matters to discuss.

  My family filled the dining room, rows of dark hair and eyes all crowded together. Forks and knives scraped over the fine dishes; each jarring noise meant to disrupt the people sitting around them. Above the sounds of eating, the discussion was rampant and focused on one subject alone.

  The traitor.

  We had called our mysterious traitor lots of other names. Leak, betrayer, bastard. It was our brazen attempt to try and ignore the fact we had no fucking idea who it was.

  Uncle Enrico lifted his head up at my arrival, eyes gleaming like he had caught something worth having. “Where have you been, Alessandro? Too good for family?”

  I sent him a rough grin. “I was with Saison.”

  His nostrils flared as he scowled; my father’s laughter resonated down the table.

  Eyes upturned towards me as I made my way over to my seat. There was an unspoken hierarchy to the dinner table, not dictated by age or status, but rather fear and power. The lesser members of the family sat the furthest away from the Don–whereas the Rocchettis who actually fucking worked got to sit close to my grandfather.

  Sitting so close to the Don wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. You had to play subtle games of cunning while you tried to enjoy your turkey.

  The best seats were either the furthest away from the Don…or in his seat.

  But not yet, I told myself. Your time will come.

  I ran my eyes up the Rocchettis who stood in my way. My brother, my uncle, my father. Uncle Carlos’s line was too weak and they wouldn’t last a day as Don of the Chicago Outfit. Much less bring glory and power to the Rocchettis.

  No, it was between the four of us.

  Uncle Enrico. Charming, respected but frivolous and lacking focus.

  My father, Toto the Terrible. Cruel and vicious, but a fucking asshole.

  And my brother, Salvatore Jr. Cold and apathetic, but intelligent and feared.

  Out of all three of them, it would come down to my brother and me. I had known this since I was a boy and we had spent our days racing and hunting each other, always neck-and-neck, always competing for the prize.

  But, I thought as I casted my eyes to my grandfather and the Don the Chicago Outfit, it would be a few more years before I get to kill my brother.

  Pity.

  Don Piero leaned back in his chair, instantly holding the attention of the dining room. He drawled slowly on his cigar, each smoky breath commanding silence.

  Chatter fell, movements stopped.

  The king wanted to say something.

  Just to piss him off, I continued eating, the movements loud and vulgar in the new silence.

  Good, I thought as my family members flinched at the sound of my knife scraping my plate. Let them flinch whenever I make a noise, let them see that I don’t stop for Don Piero.

  “Alessandro,” my grandfather murmured. He wouldn’t bring up my restlessness–twenty-six years with me told him there was no use. I didn’t stop moving for anyone.

  So different from your brother, Don Piero had told me a few times. He is calm and still, frozen like ice. Whereas you are rough and angry, built from fire and brimstone.

  He used to tell it to me like a warning, a piece of advice to calm me down. But pointing out the differences between my brother and I only made me want to keep being undomesticated, a pillar of burning flames. Godless.

  “Yes?” I recalled he had said my name.

  “Any news on the traitor?”

  The question was not a surprise, but it pissed me off. My grandfather knew there was no news–fuck, nobody had any news. Our traitor was sly, sneaky. Someone who kept slipping right through our fingers.

  “No.” I clenched my jaw, feeling my muscles twitch in irritation. “I have gone through every home, interrogated every Made Man. No one has broken their Omertà vow.”

  “Someone has, boy,” my father snapped. “How else would that information be out there?” He curled his lip back, eyes sparking like ignited flint. “Unless one of your little merry men is the traitor.”

  Anger swarmed through my blood. The fork bent in my grip.

  “My men are no traitors,” I growled. “Watch your mouth.”

  “Or what?” He taunted. “There is a traitor. Leaks don’t happen randomly, unless someone instigates them. So, fess up, boy. Which one of your little bitches are most likely to gab to the Feds?”

  Ah, yes, the
Feds.

  The FBI was our natural enemy. Order to our chaos, light to our darkness. They were also the stick up our ass, constantly looking over our shoulders and getting their filthy corrupt fingers into our business.

  The mafia was no band of angels. We had chosen to step away from the norm, form our own societies, dictated by our own rules and power structures. But at least we were aware of this, at least we were aware that blood soaked our hands and the Devil owned our souls.

  The Feds liked to pretend they were superior, pure and clean. Just because they were legitimate in the eyes of the public.

  But the money that funded them, from their precious government and bureaucrats…well, that money was just as dirty as the bills that lined my pockets.

  Perhaps the most important lesson I had ever been taught was there are no good guys. It was a lesson not many people ever learnt, but one that was essential to becoming powerful in this world.

  And fucking powerful I would become.

  “None of them,” I growled. “If anyone in this family has a loose tongue, it’ll one of your lot.”

  My father didn’t deny it. Just grinned manically.

  “The fact remains,” Don Piero interrupted, “that we are no closer to knowing who our traitor is.”

  “We must find out soon,” someone said–cousin Santino. “Before someone gets hurt.”

  “Or we lose more money.” Carlos Sr muttered.

  The leaks had financially fucked us in the ass. Secret warehouses and shipments had been uncovered; plots had been unravelled. We had lost merchandise, investors and our sense of privacy. Fuck, we had even lost our anti-mafia certificate for the racetrack, which had spooked our rich patrons back into hiding.

  The sound of the dining door slamming echoed suddenly through the room.

  Hands went to guns, chairs scraped back. The dogs erupted in warning growls.

  I didn’t move.

  A tall dark figure formed in the shadows, not alerting us to his presence until he wanted to. Anger and coldness passed over the planes of his face, warping and smoothing his features. The only discerning thing about the assassino was the aroma of blood wafting from him.

  Nero tossed something round towards us.

  It hit the table with a thump, shaking the silverware, and then rolled towards the head of the table. Straight through the eggnog and over the pudding.

  When it stopped, cusses were let out under breaths.

  Brian Gallagher’s, brother to Angus Gallagher, head was resting in front of me. His eyes were wide, face slack with death. Blood and eggnog coated his hair and skin, making him almost look like a prop for a movie.

  But this was no prop.

  I recalled the first time I had met Brian. I been a boy, barely seven, and accompanied my father on a work trip. I hadn’t questioned my father when he had woken me up at midnight and taken me out to the car, nor had I said anything when we rolled to a stop beneath a bridge.

  “Be quiet, Alesso,” Father had said as he had tucked me in my coat and gotten me out of the car. “Listen to the grown men speak.”

  Nobody has said anything at Toto the Terrible’s son standing by his hip as we approached the Gallagher’s car. When the door had opened, I had had the impression of a fat angry man who had paranoia permanently found in his eyes. His red hair had interested me–I had never seen anyone with red hair before.

  My father and Brian had spoken at length about deliveries and routes, each word painted to be a threat. As I had grown older, I understood more of what was discussed. But at the tender age of seven, the true meanings behind their words had gone over my head.

  As the meeting had ended, Brian had grabbed my wrist. Before I could snatch it away, he said, “Don Piero’s heir. You have the Rocchetti eyes.”

  The most significant thing about that meeting was the fact that my father hadn’t corrected Brian when he had said I was Don Piero’s heir. As his first son, my father was next in line for the throne, and when he died, it would be my elder brother. Second sons didn’t gain much power in the Rocchetti family.

  Until me, of course.

  I was the second son they should’ve drowned in infancy.

  “Nero.” I snapped my head to his, eyes blaring down in fury.

  Uncle Enrico beat me to the punch. “Do you want to tell me why you’ve thrown Brian’s head onto our dinner?”

  “Don’t speak to my men like that,” I warned, but kept my eyes trained on Nero, demanding the same question.

  Nero smiled faintly. It was chilling to look at. The amusement of a man who spent his days hunting and killing, waiting and watching. A man who spent so much time in the shadows that some days I doubted there was much man left in him. He was more creature than human these days.

  Spit it out, asshole, I implored.

  Something in my expression must’ve told him I was fucking joking because he said, “I found him in Gallagher’s old residence. I missed Angus and his mistress by a few hours.” A dark look slithered over his face. “We had a nice chat. Apparently, his brother is planning on moving into our territory while the Feds have us under scrutiny.”

  Don Piero leaned back in his chair. “I see.”

  “Opportunistic bastards,” someone muttered.

  Noises of agreement rose.

  “They won’t manage anything,” my father said. “The Gallaghers are soft and weak. They have nothing to offer.” He gestured to Brian’s head. “We couldn’t even use that for a doorstop. It’d roll.”

  “You could’ve phrased that differently,” Enrico muttered.

  My father looked affronted. Before he could say anything, my brother’s cool voice floated over the table.

  “Our dinner is ruined,” he noted. “And we are no closer to figuring out who the leak is.”

  Of course, Salvi would be more worried about the ruined dinner than the severed head–which was still dripping blood.

  “Yes,” Don Piero agreed. “Dinner is ruined.” He rose to his feet, ending the meal. “We will join the Christmas party. Who is hosting it this year? The Genoveses or Padovinos?”

  “The Padovinos,” Carlos Jr said. “Rumour has it Cesare is looking for a new wife.”

  Deep rumbles of laughter echoed throughout the room. Cesare Padovino had been married more times that I could recall. Every time we spoke, he was either engaged or divorced–or widowed.

  My father grabbed Brian’s head and waved it over the dogs. Florence tried to take a bite, but he moved quickly, laughing.

  “Salvatore,” my grandfather warned.

  If there was one thing he loved more than his territory, it was his dogs.

  His family didn’t make the cut most days.

  Though it was safe to assume, my grandmother had always held a special place in his heart. Even he had hidden her to save his reputation–and her own.

  Secrets were the Rocchetti way. For as long as I had remembered, we had been punished for dibber-dobbing and ratting out. When a bloody fight occurred (which was frequent between my brother and I), we both got in trouble. The accuser got in trouble for being violent and the victim got in trouble for being a rat.

  And we were good secret keepers.

  I held my secrets like troves of jewels, sorting and admiring them like a dragon would his hoard. This one could end the dynasty; this one would break my grandmother’s heart. This one could lead to my brother putting a bullet in my heart.

  No one was privy to my innermost secrets, my thoughts and desires. Even my men, whom I trusted with my life and had chosen to be a part of my inner circle, did not know all that lurked in my heart.

  Good, I thought. Sharing is fucking stupid.

  The Padovino residence was a street away, dipped in luxury and care. They had one of the most cared for gardens on the street–not because Cesare had a green-thumb but because of the tireless efforts of his youngest daughter.

  I doubted any wiseguy knew how to landscape.

  Christmas decorations brightened the exterior,
complex patterns of reds and greens. I could see perfectly timed lights, each bulb fulfilling their duty immaculately.

  The collection of Holiday joy always made me laugh. Like the Santas and tinsel and stars could hide the darkness that lurked underneath.

  There weren’t enough baubles in the world to distract anyone away from the rivers of blood and monstrosities that filled our homes.

  But Cesare’s daughter had made a genuine effort.

  The party was in full swing by the time we arrived. But the music and chatter stopped completely as we stepped into the house. The only thing that could be heard was the whisper the Rocchettis are here being passed from mouth to mouth.

  I let myself grin. Why not show some happiness in this joyous season?

  Though I doubted my grin could ever be described as happy.

  Viscous, maybe. Terrifying, definitely.

  The men congregated near the backdoors, which would be used as an escape from the shrilling female chatter if need be. Smoke thickened the air, paired with the sound of tumblers clinking together and throaty voices dripping with Italian American accents.

  They greeted me into their fold, Davide Genovese waving me over to his side.

  “Any news on the traitor?” He murmured.

  “Nothing.” I didn’t keep the irritation out of tone. It was best he and the others knew I was pissed. “The little fucker is alluding us.”

  “We’ll catch him.” Davide said. “The Outfit has caught every single rat we’ve ever come across. And I doubt this time will be any different.”

  A soft presence neared the circle suddenly. I turned my head to see Nina slither up silently to her husband, keeping her head down.

  Davide didn’t turn to look, only bent his head down, giving her his eyes.

  Their unspoken communications were interesting to watch. It was a symptom of being married to someone for over three decades, I’d imagine.

  You couldn’t hide in your marriage for that long. It was inevitable that would grow and understand each other so much that no part was hidden from the other–including their movements and whereabouts at all times.

  Softly, voice lost in the room, Nina said, “Patrizia said that Pietro is thinking of asking Beatrice Padovino for her hand in marriage.”