by Nicci Harris
Cosa Nostra
Nicci Harris
Contents
Also by Nicci Harris
Trigger warning
1. ONE: Max
2. TWO: Max
3. THREE: Cassidy
4. FOUR: Max
5. FIVE: Cassidy
6. SIX: Cassidy
7. SEVEN: Cassidy
8. EIGHT: Max
9. NINE: Cassidy
10. TEN: Cassidy
11. ELEVEN - Max
12. TWELVE: Cassidy
13. THIRTEEN: Cassidy
14. FOURTEEN: Cassidy
15. FIFTEEN: Max
16. SIXTEEN: Cassidy
17. SEVENTEEN: Cassidy
18. EIGHTEEN: Max
19. NINETEEN: Cassidy
20. TWENTY: Cassidy
21. TWENTY-ONE: Max
22. TWENTY-TWO - Max
23. TWENTY- THREE: Cassidy
24. TWENTY-FOUR: Cassidy
25. TWENTY-FIVE: Cassidy
26. TWENTY-SIX- Cassidy
27. TWENTY-SEVEN: Cassidy
28. TWENTY-EIGHT: Cassidy
29. TWENTY-NINE: Max
30. THIRTY: Cassidy
31. THIRTY-ONE: Cassidy
32. THIRTY-TWO: Max's letter
33. THIRTY-THREE: Max
34. THIRTY-FOUR: Cassidy
35. Epilogue: Cassidy
Goodbye. . .
Her Way - Book Four
Review time. . .
Goodbye. . .
Facing Us - Book One
Our Thing - Book Two
Nicci Who?
The District - Origin Story
Also by Nicci Harris
The Kids of The District
Facing Us
Our Thing
Cosa Nostra
Copyright © 2020 by Nicci Harris
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
ISBN ebook: 978-1-922492-04-3
ISBN print: 978-1-922492-03-6
Edited by Writing Evolution. @writingevolution. www.writingevolution.co.uk
Internal graphics by Nicci Harris
Cover design by Nicci Harris
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
For guitars.
For playing them.
Making them.
Buying too many of them.
Without you, my husband would have noticed my absence.
And Cosa Nostra may have never been written.
Cosa Nostra
If you are triggered by:
* * *
Violence.
Gore.
Trauma.
Graphic sex!
Too many emotions!
Then do not read this book!
Max
* * *
Most of our dirtier jobs go down outside of the city, at Capel Grove - Jimmy's abattoir. But Mickie happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time and we needed to get the deed done before he left the District. Or worse.
Which is why I'm in downtown Connolly, freezing my balls off in the walk-in freezer at Sergio's Meat Market. I cross my arms over my chest. My breath marks the air around me with grey clouds of vapour. The freezer fan above me creates a drone - a kind of white noise.
Our cleaner, Armad, moves to the metal table in the corner, a bounce to his every step. He is a slender man who walks with a peculiar gracefulness. Outside, in the real world, he could easily be mistaken as an easy target – gullible. A fool's mistake.
I watch him as he hums a soft tune and rolls his tool sheath open, displaying its sharp, shiny contents. Carefully, he selects the implements needed to complete tonight's job and then places them gently on display. He take a moment to caress the polished blades one by one. A ritual I've seen many times. He told me once that it's like greeting a colleague.
He's fucked in the head.
Glancing to my side, I notice Bronson is watching Armad, his blue eyes sparkling, his fingers stroking his palms. But it's not our job to cut. As much as he may enjoy getting his hands bloodied, I frown at him, reminding him he's not a soldier.
Armad and his two boys sling Michael's bound feet to the hook hanging from the ceiling. There is a big, viscera-encrusted grate directly below him on the cold cement floor, so when he finally wakes it'll be a chilling sight to behold. A hint at what's to come.
Bronson moves in beside me, chomping at the bit to get his hands dirty. He'll watch every moment of this, reaping satisfaction from Michael's pain. I look down at his feet as they shuffle with a kind of anxiety. A kind of anticipation. All I feel is bored.
Michael now hangs from his feet like a carcass ready to be divided into muscle groups. Armad steps back as one of his boys throws a cold bucket of water onto Michael's head. The water drips from his face and hair and then slides down the drain.
As Michael comes to, the rhythmic hum of the freezer fan is interrupted by his panicked whimpers. Fast gasps follow snivels follow stutters of words that make no sense. Then his body gyrates as his adrenaline spikes. As his body tells him something is wrong. He grunts with exertion while he attempts to dislodge himself from the hook. His own weight and small muscles prevent much success. And with his shirt hanging partially over his chin, he can't see our faces. Not that it matters. He knows who we are.
As he continues to flip around on the hook like an overfed goldfish, I sneer. What a sack of shit. What a weak useless waste of space. I've known a lot of dirty bastards in my twenty-four years of life - that's part of being a Butcher - but a man can be nasty and crooked and still have honourable qualities. Their integrity. Their pride. Often, they even have traits to admire. Strength. Loyalty.
This piece of shit is as empty as his pockets.
He lets out a guttural, incoherent groan. "Oh God, please. Please don't do this."
When he's met with further silence, he shudders. My heart beats steady and rhythmic, but when he starts to cry, I cringe. There is no place for tears in my world. Fight us for fucksake. Threaten us. But don't whimper like a little bitch.
"What is this?" he cries. "Where am I?"
"We ran out of pigs," Bronson states simply. "I promised my family a spit roast. You like spit roasts, don't you?"
Michael whines. I roll my eyes at my brother's wide, soft smile. Taking a step closer to our hanging friend, I only stop when his eyes lock on to my shoes. "Where's Jimmy's truck" –I tap my foot– "and where are our diamonds?"
He tries to jolt his body around, attempting to catch our eyes or a glimpse of our expressions. "I don't know. I told you. I was-"
"See, we know you're lying," I drawl, rubbing my forehead and temple with my index finger and thumb. Dropping my hand to my side, I sigh roughly. "Would you like to know how?"
"I swear it. Max. Bronson. I swear-"
Bronson's boot nails Michael in the face. His head snaps backwards. Eyes closed. Mouth agape. And now he's unconscious and swaying on the hook as if he's already dead.
"Fucksake, Bronson," I mutter.
"I don’t like it when they say our names," he states plainly, grabbing another bucket of icy water and splashing its contents over Michael.
I completely agree
. Hearing anyone say my brother's names or Butch's or - especially - Cassidy's, pisses me right off.
As Michael stirs again, I signal Armad. He moves in, slicing him with quick trained precision, parting his flesh from bicep to wrist. It's a relatively shallow incision. Blood trickles down, painting the grate, but it’s not enough to bleed him dry. Michael's eyes snap open. As blood and pressure builds within his cranium, he spits and drools and reddens.
He lets out a long, half-incoherent moan. "Fuck."
"Do you know how the butcherbird got its name?" Bronson asks with a smooth and steady voice.
Fucksake, not this butcherbird crap again.
"Once they spear their prey with their massive knife-like beaks, they then impale them on thorns, fences, any place they will hang, leaving them with their guts exposed to rot in the sun."
A rumbled sigh draws everyone's attention to me. Bored of this shit already, I jump straight to the point. "Yesterday, while I was balls deep inside your wife's arse, I saw the prettiest pink diamonds hanging from her ears. And I'd know our product anywhere."
"Stay away from Jess!" He chokes out the words.
She may be a loyal lady, I wouldn't know. I've never spoken to her. One of my men followed her and noticed the earrings. It just makes me chuckle to think he may believe that I was rearranging her guts while he was stealing from us.
"Where are our diamonds?" I snap.
Bronson kneels in Michael's blood and knots his hair between his fingers. Michael can finally see a face, but by the growing whites of his eyes, perhaps he wishes he couldn't. Bron strokes his slick hair and it makes me sick. "We're not threatening you today, mate. I want to make that crystal clear. You will be leaving this freezer in bags," Bron states. "But my brother has a massive cock, and your wife won't like the way he uses it on her tonight if you don't tell us where our diamonds are."
Even though it's bullshit - I'd never hurt an innocent woman - Michael seems to believe I would. He begins to vibrate with panic. For his life. For hers.
Clearing my throat, I say, "We want the location and the names of the people involved." I look over at a metal rack coated in icicles in a corner of the freezer. Ice used to remind me of my childhood. Of soaking in a half-frozen bathtub with Bronson to lessen the bruises our mother had kindly left. But now it reminds me of my little ballerina - Cassidy. And that's a name I can't let infiltrate my conscious at this moment. Forcing her aside and growing quickly impatient, I scowl at Michael. "Ready to share?"
As Michael begins to talk - really share - I stare at the ice forming around me.
"But people like you have people like me that love them."
For a second those words slip into my consciousness - Cassidy's sweet naive words. And there is truth in what she said that night, but she doesn't understand the depravities in this world. And he is not a good person. And fuck, I'm letting her in again. Well, too bad, it's done. This is nothing personal. This is business. Still, for reasons I can’t explain, I turn towards the door and push the latch open, moving out into the process area.
Loosening my tie and collar, I exhale loudly. Plastic curtains sway in front of me, leading into the shop front. I frown at them as I roll up my sleeves. This room smells like formaldehyde and I fucking hate that smell. It lingers.
Rubbing the coarse stubble on my jaw with my palm, I think about how I left Cassidy alone in my bed again. I growl at my wandering thoughts.
Carter is just outside our room - my room. Even though I trust that man - I do fucking trust that man - I still want to get back there. Back to her world. Whenever I'm with her, I end up in her world.
I'm in foreign territory with her. All I know is that I'd kill for her. That I want her sweet little body sprawled out above my sheets when I come home. And - of course - that being with her is enough to make me hate myself. For all the parts of me she hasn't seen. Doesn't want to. If she had, she wouldn't be in my bed right now and she wouldn’t have that bruise under her eye because she would have high tailed it at the first sign of danger.
Xander is suddenly in the processing room with me, having come in from the store front, a look of worry on his young face. And I realise now just how dangerous my affections for her are. How easily the thought of her in the wrong moment could get me killed - or worse - get one of my brothers killed.
"What is it?" I ask, meeting him halfway.
"We have company, Max," he says, a slight shake to his voice.
Quickly moving past him, I pull back the plastic curtains and stare across the shop, through the glass windows, at an unmarked car with two men inside.
Fucking Jacks.
"What do we do?" Xan asks.
Fucking Xander.
Clearing my throat, I wander past him and into the shop front. I press my back to the counter and cross my ankles in front on me, staring directly at the Jacks as they pretend to mind their own business. I watch them for several seconds. Recognising the driver, I know what to do to subtly remind them who they are dealing with.
Wandering behind the counter, I grab a roll of butcher paper. Xander follows me into the room but doesn't ask what I'm doing. Normally, he's a cocky little shit, but he knows I'm still pissed at him. Knows better than to fuel the fire.
I grab a handful of pork chops and throw them into a bowl before pouring barbeque marinade on them. I toss the meat as Bronson appears in the shop front with an unnecessary amount of blood on his white collared shirt.
He's an emotional man, my big brother. Far more emotional than me. There are two sides to him - one that charms the world and one that most people never see twice. He can sever his morals to protect the people he loves. To seek revenge. To claim what's his.
I can't quite compartmentalise like that. I would kill Michael. Quick like. But Bronson enjoys the act in a way I do not.
"Couldn't you have just cut him clean?" I say with a frown.
"It's the dirt that makes the man appreciate the sparkle." Hearing Jimmy's words spouted from my big brother's mouth only tightens my brows further.
"And what sparkle do you have to show for all your dirt, Bron?" I bite out angrily.
Amused and unaffected by my tone, he smiles at me and then at Xander, who is now sitting at one of the small circular tables. "My beautiful brothers."
"Does he know where they are?" Xander asks and I snap him a look of disapproval. Fucksake. Why is he asking questions when he should be seen and not heard?
"Jimmy's not gonna like this, but he said Marco and his mob orchestrated the whole thing. Our stock is already on its way to India," Bronson says, looking at me despite the question having come from Xander. He glances at the bowl in my hand. He doesn't appear the slightest bit concerned with why I'm all of a sudden interested in the culinary arts. He leans on the display fridge between us and watches me. "I'll tell Jimmy tomorrow. . . He's gonna want us to hunt them down. You know that, right?" Bronson states; a grin that is anything but nice works his lips.
"Yeah." At that, I'm pissed. Michael has cost us more than money and time. Jimmy is going to expect me to go with Bronson, find our stock, and leave a trail of messages in the form of bodies. And I can't do that. I won't leave Cassidy.
Grumbling to myself, I crack some salt and pepper over the chops, then further coat the flesh with a flip of the bowl.
"Armad is finishing off." Bronson stares at the meat that I am now wrapping up in butcher paper. "I'm hungry. I'm glad you salted those fuckers. You always under season my meat."
Shaking my head at him, I tape the paper shut. It takes Xander until I'm on the shop porch to realise what I'm doing.
"Max, no," I hear him say as I stroll outside and onto the sidewalk. The shop door swings shut behind me. I make my way over to the Jacks. The streetlamps light my path while the sound of my footsteps interrupt the quiet of the night. Their eyes shift to me. They slouch down in their seats.
Stopping beside the driver's door, I tap the glass with my knuckles. They look at each other sideways. After a few
seconds, the driver finally winds the window down.
I squat to meet their line of sight. "Evening, officers. Would you like to come in? We are just gutting a pig."
They share glances full of meaning. "No, Max. We are fine here."
"Alright then. Well, take this home to your pretty wife and son." With a smirk, I offer Constable Hall the pork chops. "These are the best fucking chops you'll ever eat."
They don't just take the paper package; they also thank me for it.
Tucking my hands into my pockets, I step back and watch as they pull away from the sidewalk, then cruise off down the street.
Wandering back into the shop, I notice Armad and his men have joined my brothers out front. Bronson is now seated opposite Xander while the others stand by or lean on the counter. Armad quite rightly minds his own business as I approach, keeping his head downcast. I don't dislike this man - they are all our men. Nevertheless, I find most people struggle to hold my gaze.
Bron chuckles. "Should have given them some sausages as well, mate."
Xander groans a little. "Why provoke them?"
I sneer at him. "But you're going to be a big shot lawyer soon, so I shouldn't have a problem, right?"
"You are your own worst enemy sometimes, Max," he mutters as Armad and the others sneak slowly outside.
"You need to toughen up!" I snap at him, and he winces. "We need a fucking man. Someone we can count on." My voice gets louder as I feel heat hitting my temples. "Trust with what's important to us!"
