by V. Domino
A piece of gossip, but an interesting piece. Pietro was not allowed to marry so soon after his fiancée’s death. It wasn’t against the rules, but it wouldn’t make him win any fucking popularity contests.
Davide nodded. “Thank you, my darling.”
Nina blended back into the crowds of people, her voice once again re-joining the high timbres of the women.
Davide drew himself back to his full height and asked Pietro outright, “Miss Padovino, yes?”
Pietro paused but didn’t look ruffled. “The Padovinos have many unmarried women in their ranks, Davide. You’ll have to be more specific about which Miss Padovino you are referring to.”
“The lovely one. Beatrice.”
I caught the spark of annoyance in Pietro’s eyes. That reaction interested me more than anything.
“What about her?”
More men had begun to listen in now, never to turn away from a piece of gossip. The women were bad, but the men were worse.
“You’re going to ask for her hand in marriage.” Davide said. “So soon as the death of your lovely fiancée.”
Cesare didn’t look surprised. None of the Padovinos or Tarantinos did.
“It is only talk,” Pietro said. “Nothing that would disrespect my late fiancée’s memory.”
Murmurs of grief and condolences rumbled through the group.
The conversation was settled, though from the expressions of the Padovinos and Tarantinos I expected there to be wedding bells in the future.
Another fucking wedding, I bitched to myself. The entire ordeal of dressing in an uncomfortable tux, sitting still for hours in a church and then having to deal with drunken uncles until dawn was a fucking night.
It was a good match, I supposed. The Padovinos and Tarantinos were small but important families in the Outfit. Merging them together would only bring them more stability and partnership.
If only the Di Traglias thought the same thing.
The Di Traglias made up the majority of the Chicago Outfit. And while they were fiercely loyal to my family, there was always the seed of doubt that they would soon break off and create their own mafia. It wouldn’t last–but it could do some real damage to my own syndicate.
Engagements and marriages had been discussed between the Di Traglias and Rocchettis for years, but none had ever made it to the church.
I looked back the way Nina had come.
That interaction had…surprised me. Nina had found information that could ruffle feathers and delivered to her husband on a silver platter, who had then used it the way she had intended. Though it hadn’t been the most interesting of gossip, it had been enough to spread rumors.
I had never seen my mother act in such a way–though, my memories of my mother had faded over time. I had been a boy when she had disappeared, leaving only the faint echoes of her presence in our lives. I could feel her hands soothing me to sleep and her voice comforting me, but any image of the woman had been erased from my mind.
Which was probably for the best. My father fucking hated my mother.
“I thought I would bring another bottle,” came a bright tinkling voice. “And I can see I had the right idea.”
“You’re right on time, bambolina. We’re dry.” Cesare said.
The men shifted to reveal a woman of average height, dressed in a shimmering green dress. Though the dress was enough to cause dark thoughts, the fabric shaping and moving in such a way that the treasure that the imagination had no choice to be evoked, it was the woman’s face that caught my interest.
She was a beautiful creature, there was no doubt. She looked as if she had been painted in gold, with whiskey-brown eyes and hair the colour of pennies. Even her skin was a warm tawny-brown, finishing her caramelised exterior. She had picture perfect features–along with a mouth that did nothing to calm my raging blood.
And though her beauty could’ve been enough to hold my entire attention, it was the gleam in her eyes that rooted me to the spot.
In those golden depths, behind the charming smile and bright voice, I saw the hint of something dark and sharp. It came and went so quickly that I would’ve missed it if it wasn’t something I also found in myself.
Not so much yearning as it was cunning. Knowing.
Ambition.
“Poor our glasses, bambolina,” her father instructed.
Ever the dutiful daughter, Sophia Padovino followed the command and filled the empty tumblers. Each movement was graceful and light, each smile easy and loving. When she batted her eyelids or laughed, the men’s gruff voices heightened to try and gain her attention.
I held out my glass.
She glanced briefly my way, unsure whether to play her charismatic self with a Rocchetti. Decisions and calculations danced behind her eyes as she made her decision.
She decided against it and quietly filled my glass before moving on.
When the glasses were filled, she stepped away. “Is there anything else I can get you, gentlemen?” Her voice could’ve been used to bake a cake it was so sugary and sweet.
“That’s all, thank you, bambolina.”
She smiled and left.
Behind her, a near-identical woman stood. There was a fierce protectiveness gripping her expression as she watched her younger sister. The older one–Catherine, I recalled–was quieter and more serious in her demeanor.
And though they looked almost like twins, it was clear they couldn’t be anymore opposites.
Even if the same calculating look passed over her face as well.
Salvatore Sr ‘Toto the Terrible’ Rocchetti
The room shook with fury. Demands and solutions thundered around, turning the inside of the house into a storm.
“We should kill her.” A solution I agreed with.
“We should watch her.” I wasn’t too crazy about this solution.
“Let’s find out what she knows.” Not as fun as the first one, but something I wouldn’t write off.
My father slammed his hand down on his desk. It was in times of war he dropped his charismatic mask and showed the beast beneath–the beast that had raised me.
I loved that beast more than I loved Don Piero. Funny how these things work.
“We will not kill her,” he growled.
I rose an eyebrow, unable to stop myself from grinning. “When has killing women not been allowed? I never got that message.”
He shot me a warning look, not enjoying my jubilant tone.
I couldn’t help it. I found this situation more than amusing.
A young girl–a female–had almost brought down the Chicago Outfit. In fact, if she hadn’t been working with the Feds, she might have. But the FBI were a bunch of useless fucking bastards and were too corrupt with democracy to be able to do anything.
A shame. I would’ve liked to spill some government employee blood.
I could almost picture it. Pinning an FBI agent to the ground–it didn’t matter who, I wasn’t picky–and slowly torturing them to death. Each cut and blow would mean something.
A stab to the abdomen. This is for spending tax-payer money on biscuits for a meeting.
A punch to the groin. This is for having a stupid fucking nickname.
A kick to the knee. This is for Nixon.
And a bullet to the heart. This is for my family.
I felt excited imagining it, so be able to fulfil in real life would be damn near euphoric. It was a shame our little traitor had gotten away–straight into the arms of the FBI. I would’ve enjoyed playing with her.
“What does the sister know?”
My ears pricked up. Oh, yes, our little traitor had a sister.
“We’re not sure yet,” someone said. “But they were extremely close. If anyone has any clue, it’ll be her.”
I looked over to my boys. Extremely close didn’t describe their relationship in the slightest. Those two had been trying to kill each other since they could move their arms and legs.
Salvi, my oldest, sat down, one leg
thrown over the other. His expression was empty, eyes cold. He was absorbing the information, cataloguing and preparing it for later use. He sat so still that you could’ve mistaken him for a corpse.
God knows how many times I had checked on him in his sleep and had to double-check his pulse because I wasn’t convinced, he was moving.
Off to the left was my youngest, Alessandro, my wild boy. Younger children were always more hyper than the older ones–a fact I’m sure my little brother, Enrico, would disagree with.
Alessandro stood, pacing and fidgeting. He had already discarded his tie and ruffled his hair up. Rage and fury twisted over his face, making him look more like me by the second.
Like all the other times I looked at my boys, I felt the cruel fingers of guilt wrap around my chest and squeeze.
Did I feel guilty I had fucked them up with a special brand of Rocchetti mania? Yes.
Would I do it again? Yes.
Fathers in the mafia had two choices: love their sons or prepare their sons.
I had chosen to prepare mine. Neither of them had ever had a chance to have a quiet life. The blood of Rocchettis roared through their veins and it demanded to be fed. The only thing I could do for them was make them strong and vicious, cunning and cruel.
Yet still the guilt lurked.
I looked to my father. Did he, too, share this guilt?
I highly fucking doubted it. The man had locked my mother away and faked her death just to save some face. Enrico and I were probably publicity stunts to him as well.
I need to fuck my boys up so they’ll be picture-perfect Rocchettis, I could imagine him saying. We can’t have the family falling. Or worse…being seen as weak.
Sometimes I think Enrico had the right idea by having kids by his mistresses. That way he has heirs, but if they were complete fuckups, he could write them off and refuse to grant them legitimacy.
I looked back to my two. I had never had that choice.
Stupid legitimate bastards.
“We need to keep an eye on her,” Don Piero said. “But discreetly…intimately but discreetly.”
I smiled. If I couldn’t have the traitor than her sister was the next best thing. “I’ll have her. I’ve always wanted to see what gold tastes like.”
“Gold would break your teeth, Toto,” Enrico told me.
I snapped him a grin. “I don’t have teeth. I have fangs.”
He pursed his lips but was too much of a little bitch to reply.
“The Padovinos are a good family,” Don Piero told me. “They won’t be disrespected by having one of their daughters taken as a mistress.”
I shrugged. “I’ll marry her. It’ll be a nice change from the old pussy I used to have to fuck.” I looked to my boys. “Would you two like a new mommy? Might help you out a little bit–deal with some of those mommy issues.”
Alessandro snorted. “Yeah, we’re the ones with the mommy issues.”
Salvi smiled ever so slightly.
“Watch it, boy. That’s your grandmother you’re speaking about.”
Alessandro didn’t respond. Instead, he said, “I’ll marry her.”
Surprise danced through the room. It was expected both Salvi and Alesso would get married–but Alesso getting married before his big brother?
When I saw annoyance flash over Salvi’s face, I felt my cheeks stretch even more.
“Sophia?” My father prompted. “You’ll marry Sophia?”
“I’ll keep an eye on her.” He said.
I laughed. “Good idea, boy. Make sure you get a few heirs out of her before you get rid of her. Marriage is such a hassle. Do it once and then never do it again.”
Alessandro snorted in agreement.
Conversation resumed but I kept my attention on my youngest son. He settled back, content to listen. I could see the cogs turning in his mind, the little plans beginning to form.
I wasn’t stupid. I knew he had his sights on the top job. But as second son, his chances were minimal.
My eyes went to Salvi.
Well, not minimal. But he would have to kill his brother. And me–but I’m sure the little bastard would relish at the chance of plunging a knife into my heart.
It didn’t piss me off. How much my boys wanted to kill me made me feel nothing but pride.
I wanted to kill my father, my sons wanted to kill me, and one day my grandsons would dream about killing my sons. It was the circle of life–or the circle of Rocchettis.
It was sweet enough to make a grown-man cry.
“That’ll be a good match,” my father said to Alessandro eventually. “But you must watch her–and keep her away from sensitive information. She is a direct link to the FBI. To her sister.”
“She believes her sister is dead,” Alessandro said. “I’m curious to see how long the FBI plays the charade.”
As was I. Rocchetti men excelled at faking deaths–you had to be good at it or they didn’t let you in, those rules were the rules–so we knew all the little details that were often overlooked when ‘killing’ someone.
Her face came to me suddenly. That sweet expression that had once stuck me dumb, but now only enraged me.
I stood up suddenly, throwing my leftover drink into the fire. The booze caught the flame, igniting it dangerously. Cusses went up but no one stopped me.
“I’m sick of these secret games. Let’s just fucking go to Washington D.C. and kill them.”
“We would be in jail within seconds.”
I spread my arms out, grinning. “Maybe so. But I have a feeling it’d save us a lot of fucking trouble.”
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This piece of anthology is my imagination running free of what would happen if the ending of Crossfire was different. It has NOTHING to do with the main plot of the story. I want to give the reader a little perspective on Elio and Savannah and their affection for each other in light of the mafia world. Also, I wanted to give you a first person POV since most of you prefer it. However, it doesn’t mean I’m changing the POV for the second book. If you haven’t read Crossfire, please consider doing so before reading this part as this is not completely spoiler-free.
I put the cigarette between my lips and take a deep inhale, feeling the smoke spreading in my lungs. A glorious calmness surrounds me. It’s one of the best things after days like today when I can barely catch a breath, let alone rest. Sometimes being an Enforcer is tiring.
Ha! Actually, it’s always tiring.
But oh so fucking satisfying.
Cars’ engines start to roar as many people are leaving the graveyard. Today has been yet another funeral of a fellow Las Vegas Famiglia’s soldier. After the Bratva attack, I’ve been going to one every week for the last three months, acting as if I really feel sorry to see them gone. To be completely honest I didn’t even know most of them enough to feel anything. Let alone grieve. It is just common courtesy to show up. Sometimes I still care about that.
Rarely, but it happens.
Since the whole situation has been covered up by the Capo dei Capi, we are bound to pretend as if the deaths of those people have nothing to do with the bomb. I don’t know who in their right state of mind believes this bullshit, but as long as no one admits this charade we are in the clear. We still control the police in the city to a certain extent, but with the FBI taking too much interest in other Cosa Nostra families, we ought to be careful.
I exhale the smoke, leaning against my car, and look at the group of Made Men all dressed in their best suits, talking in hushed voices. I don’t have to be a genius to know what they’re all thinking and feeling. They’re fucking scared of what is to come. It’s been a while since Bratva got on our radar, closing down many of their businesses in Las Vegas but there’s always the possibility that they’d surprise us with an even bigger shitshow.
We try. Every single day we do whatever we can to find the Visiliev brothers and make them pay. I wish to get tho
se motherfuckers in a dark, creepy basement and rip them apart one limb at a time more than anything. To see their blood dripping from every inch of their bodies as my knife slashes through their skin. To hear them scream in agony just as the families of the fallen soldiers have when the ashes were lowered into the ground. I want to see them suffer for hours before I end their lives.
For everyone’s sake.
But mostly for Savannah’s. After all this time she still has sleeping problems, waking up every night from the nightmares. Seeing those bodies completely ripped apart from the explosion. All those injured by pieces of glass, wood and other things with cut off fingers, arms and legs.
Blood everywhere.
Suffering.
I can even see her pain every time she looks at my scar on the arm, making her remember. And it won’t go away just like my wound won’t. It’ll always be there as a reminder of that unfortunate night. One that marked its way in Savannah’s mind. More than anything else. But I still want to make it right. Whether the thought of the Russian fuckers being gone is going to help her or not. She will be safe.
Noah Falcone turns his head, silencing his Capodecina with one move of his hand and sends him away. His eyes meet mine and scrutinize me just like every time we see each other. After the Midnight Mayhem, when I told him about my relationship with Savannah, he kept on analyzing me carefully. As if I were to announce to him our marriage.
No, it wouldn’t happen.
Neither am I ready for such a commitment; thinking of it as a stupid paper signed by both people, vowing to always be there for each other. Who the fuck needs that anyway? I can just as well promise it every day without having to put a permanent sign in the form of a ring. Nor would I be allowed to do something so radical.
My phone vibrates in my pocket and I reach for it. There’s a message from Savannah, saying that she’s now home. The anger lights in me since I was supposed to pick her up, however, the funeral really had run too long. As if dead people would actually have a say in whether they were just put in the ground or had a whole fucking ceremony.
Not worth the effort. I certainly wouldn’t care what happened to me after I’m dead.
