Table of Contents
CODE OF SILENCE
COPYRIGHT
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
EPILOGUE
TITAN
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
OTHER BOOKS BY SHANTEL TESSIER
copyright © 2020 by Shantel Tessier
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Editor: Jenny Sims
Formatter: CP Smith
PROLOGUE
LUCA
Ten years old
“WHO DID YOU fucking talk to?” my father demands.
“No one, John,” Uncle Marco snaps. “You know that—”
“I know what I’ve been told and what you are saying doesn’t add up!” He pokes his brother in the chest. “And you.” He points at my aunt who stands in the corner of the living room with her back against the window that overlooks their backyard. “You’ve been running your fucking mouth too much.”
Tears fill her brown eyes as she stares at my father. Her shoulders shake, and she bites her bottom lip, trying to swallow a sob.
John Bianchi puts the fear of God in you. Because he is god. As the Don—the ringleader of the Italian-American Mafia—he decides when your time is up and how you pay for your sins. He was born in New York, but he and my uncle moved to Las Vegas when my father was fourteen. Uncle Marco was twelve. The laws in Sin City were more fluid back then, so my father was able to get his hands dirtier. He likes life messy.
“Don’t talk to her like that!” Marco shoves my father.
“I’ll talk to the bitch however I fucking please!” He punches my uncle, knocking him to his knees.
Aunt Ava cries out as blood runs down his chin, but she doesn’t dare go to her husband. No, she stays in her corner, knowing damn well there’s nothing she can do. At this point, all she can hope is that my father spares her life.
“You son of a bitch,” Marco growls, wiping the blood off.
My father pulls the gun from the waistband of his dress slacks and points it down at his brother.
“John!” He throws up his hands, eyes so dark, they’re almost black, pleading with my father to spare his life. “Come on. We’ll figure this out. I swear it wasn’t me …”
My father pulls the trigger.
I jump, momentarily deafened by the sound except for the ringing in my ears. Ava cries out, falling to the floor. Bringing her knees to her chest, she openly sobs.
I look back at my uncle. He never did live up to the expectations of the Bianchi family. My father was born in the mafia, and he will die in it, but his younger brother always played a role. Marco has wanted out for years, and this was the only way he was going to get it. Putting a bullet in his head was John Bianchi’s way of sparing him. He could have made my uncle suffer.
He turns to face my aunt. “No!” she screams. “Please …” She shakes violently as tears run down her face, smearing the makeup she put on earlier. It’s their anniversary. We caught them on their way out to dinner to celebrate fifteen years of marriage.
“Strip,” my father orders.
“Please …!” She sobs, shaking her head.
“Remove your dress. Now!” he shouts.
Using the window for support, she slowly gets to her feet. With shaky hands, she undoes the hook that holds her dress around her neck. It falls down her chest, stomach, and hips before pooling around her black heels. Her frail body shakes as she covers her bare breasts with her arms.
My father smiles at her, obviously happy with what he sees. Or what he doesn’t see. A wire. Someone has been feeding information to the feds, and he suspects it’s her. But the things that have gotten back to my father were spot-on, so if she wasn’t the snitch, then her husband was.
He walks over to her, grips her auburn hair, and jerks her head back. Placing the gun under her chin, he shows no emotion as she closes her eyes and sobs uncontrollably. “You keep your goddamn mouth shut; do you understand me?”
She begins to nod, but he shoves her head back farther with the barrel of the gun.
“Fucking say it, Ava!” he growls in her face.
“Keep … my ... mouth … shut,” she chokes out.
He releases her, and she cries out when he shoves her to the floor once again. Turning to face me, he places his gun back in his waistband. Coming over to me, he says, “Never let anyone stand in your way, son. Not even fucking blood. They’ll be the first to undercut you, and they should be the first to die for it.”
_______________
Twenty-two years old
The morning air is cool on my skin. The harsh wind whistling as it blows through the tall trees on this mountainside. The sun is just starting to rise on this glorious Friday. My heart pounds with adrenaline.
Anticipation.
The sound of screaming is like music to my ears. A beacon of hope calling to me, letting me know I’m close to my destination. But as much as I like the sound, I don’t need it. I know where he is because I set the traps.
A week ago, my father called me to his home office in New York and ordered me to go hunting. But this isn’t the kind of hunt where you hang your kill on the wall as a trophy to impress others. No, this is the kind you let the wild animals feast on and then leave to rot once you’ve trapped your prey.
I come to the clearing and see a man by the name of Bernard lying on the ground. He looks up as I approach with my two men. His lips pull back in a snarl, and drool runs down his chin like a rabid dog. Seems fitting since he’s on a leash.
“You!” Spit flies out of his mouth. His eyes go to Nite, who stops beside me. “You will pay for this!”
He’s not lying. The life of the Cosa Nostra is an endless circle of revenge. It’s something we all came to terms with long ago. Every one of us understands that you live one day just to possibly be killed the next. But in this day and age, it’s not just limited to the mafioso. There are too many angry people in the world who feel they have the right to take your life.
I take a step toward him. He tries to crawl away, but the teeth from the bear trap bite into his leg, preventing it. Gritting his teeth, he throws his head back in pain. His veins protrude from his neck, and the spit flies as he pants.
“Would you like me to set you free?” I ask, watc
hing the puddle of blood grow underneath him. I was taught to play with my food. Sometimes the mind game fucks them up more than the actual violence.
“Fuck you, Luca!” he growls.
“What do you think, Nite?” I look over at the man who stands next to me. His hands are tightly fisted and his shoulders shake with fury, but he says nothing. He turns to me, his green eyes almost glowing with rage.
“I agree.” I nod as if I can read his mind. “I think we should give him a fighting chance.”
It’s all about the hunt. That’s what makes this so exciting and gets my blood pumping. I was raised on violence.
Plus, my father sent me to do a job, and I won’t fail him. If I do, I’ll be the one in a trap. And I refuse to give him any reason not to need me. Useless men end up dead and buried in the desert. My father doesn’t show favoritism, not even to his own sons. You either kill or be killed. It’s the Bianchi way.
The man yanks on the chain that secures the bear trap into the dirt. He won’t be able to get it up. I set all twenty traps out here myself. We raided their log cabin an hour ago, entering from the front to push the fuckers out through the back, knowing they would try to escape through these woods.
And we were ready. We spent all of last night getting things in order.
Reaching down, I grab the knife out of my black boot and lift it in the air. Bernard raises his hands to shield himself, thinking I’m going to throw it at his face. As if I would give him that kind of mercy. Instead, it lands blade down in the dirt next to his bloody leg. “Start cutting,” I order.
“Wh … what …?” he cries and yanks it from the ground. “This won’t cut through the chain.” He seethes, shaking it at me.
“It won’t.” I agree with him.
His eyes widen once he understands what I’m saying. “I’m not going to cut my leg off!” he shouts.
I look back over at Oliver Nite. The man has been a member of the Bianchi family for fifteen years now. My father found him fighting off a group of thugs trying to steal what little he had. He took Nite in because he saw an opportunity. One—he could fight. And two—he was a child who had no one. My father could use the boy to his advantage. “What do you think?” I ask him.
He takes a step toward the man.
“Stay back!” Bernard orders, lifting the knife that I gave him to cut through his leg. His only chance to free himself from the trap. His only chance at freedom.
I throw my head back, laughing.
“I mean it!” he screams. “I already cut you once. I’ll do it again.” He swings the knife around aimlessly in the air.
Nite goes to him, gripping Bernard’s wrist and squeezing so hard that he releases the knife with a cry.
“Pathetic,” I spit.
As a member of the Mafia, you are trained for situations like this. And this guy has apparently forgot all his beatings. I never will.
“Luca?”
I turn to face my father’s right-hand man, Diaz. He made it sound as though I needed the protection, but we all knew Diaz was sent to spy. To report back to my father how I did and whether I passed the test.
He holds his finger to his earpiece. “We have another one. Snake pit, sir.”
I smile. The snake pit is another trap I set for these sorry bastards. A ten feet deep hole that I had my men dig last night, then place five snakes in. None of them venomous. I wanted them captured and scared, not dead. “Tell them to take him back to the cabin.” Then I turn back to the man. “We’re going to wrap this up.”
Diaz hands me a pair of Lineman’s pliers and a razor blade. “Nite, you may do the honors.” I pass him the razor blade. He stares down at it, his eyes glazing over with excitement. I watch the vein in his neck throb with anticipation.
Payback is sweet. And bloody.
Walking over to Bernard, I grab his arms and pull him toward me. He screams out as the chain on the bear trap pulls taut, stretching his body. Falling to my knees at his head, I order, “Open your mouth.”
He clamps it shut, brown eyes glaring up at me. They promise retribution. He knows his hours are numbered, but he also knows his men will retaliate. It’s just a matter of when, so I’m going to make it worth it.
“Nite,” I call out.
He stomps on Bernard’s trapped leg, and the man screams out in agony. I use the opportunity to reach into his mouth and grab his tongue with the pliers. He mumbles a few choice words and tries to shake his head. His tongue instantly begins to bleed when I squeeze, securing the grip. His arms flail around, trying to push me away, but he is unsuccessful.
I look up at Nite as he bends down next to me. And without a second thought, he takes the razor blade and slices it through Bernard’s tongue, cutting it off.
I stand, the pliers still in my hand and his tongue hanging on the end. Bernard thrashes on the ground as blood gushes from his mouth. The sounds of gurgling and vomiting follow.
I hand the pliers to Nite, and he stares at it as if it’s his firstborn. The most prized possession he’ll ever own.
“We could make him swallow it,” I offer.
Nite shakes his head and hands it to Diaz to hold.
“Good idea. Keep it as a souvenir.” I pick up the knife from the ground. “You had your chance at freedom. You should have taken it.” I place it back in my boot. Bernard lies there. He’s twisted around to where he’s on his hands, his mouth wide open as the blood continues to run down his chin and cover his shirt along with the ground. His body shakes, his leg yanking on the bear trap and causing the chain to clank. His skin is so tore up, you can see the tendon and muscles.
“Diaz?” I snap my fingers, and he hands me the ice chest.
I bend down, opening the small red cooler. Most of the ice has melted, leaving it full of water and a white washcloth. I make sure to dunk it into the freezing water and turn to Bernard. I kick his shoulder, pushing him onto his back, and straddle his chest. He fights me, but again, he’s unsuccessful as I cram the washcloth into his bloody mouth. “We need to apply pressure,” I tell him while he tries to breathe. Blood sprays me from around the corners of his mouth as he coughs and chokes on the water. His body convulses while trying to breathe. “To make the bleeding stop.”
His hands slap at my body aimlessly. I stand and step away from him. His shaky hands yank the washcloth out and throw it to the ground before he grabs at his blood covered chest and neck.
I snort, watching his sorry ass flop around like a fish out of water. I turn, giving him my back, because I’m done playing with him. I get bored easily. “Boys, shall we?”
We walk off, leaving the man behind us with his leg in the trap and bleeding from his mouth. An animal will smell the blood, and he’ll either be eaten alive, or he’ll eventually die from blood loss or dehydration. Either way will be painful.
Nite slaps me on the back.
“You okay?” I ask, giving him a quick glance.
This week has been rough for him, and I hate it. I’ve always looked up to him like an older brother. And he’s the reason we’re five hundred miles away from home to begin with.
He nods because, well, that’s all he does. That sorry bastard we just walked away from cut out Nite’s tongue seven days ago because he wouldn’t give up intel on my family.
We’re the Bianchis, the Italian-American Mafia who runs most of Las Vegas. We’ve all got bounties on our heads and are always a target. If you don’t take out your enemies, they will take you out first.
The Mafia is the world’s most exclusive men’s club, and once you’re in, you’re in for life. Nite and I both wear the ring on our right hand. It’s gold and big. Heavy. The thing is tacky, but it represents power. Nite is the only Bianchi who wears the ring that wasn’t born into the family. My parents adopted him soon after my father found him, making him Oliver Nite Bianchi for life. So, like me, death is his only way out.
I didn’t have a choice. Twenty-two years ago, I was born into it, and I’ve been proving my worth and loyalt
y to my father and his men ever since. This trip will not be any different. I made this trip to show my loyalty to Nite as he has shown to me and my family. Heads will roll. Literally. And it’ll be by my bloodstained hands.
HAVEN
I walk down the hallway, my books in one hand and my cell in the other. Luca hasn’t sent me a text in days. I hate when he does this—goes off the grid—and he’s been doing it more and more lately. And I don’t just mean with me. He’s avoided his classes as well. It’s his father. I know it. His family is … different. They’re the dark figures who hide in the back alleys, just waiting for you to pass by. If you have something they want, they take it, no questions asked. He’s treating his senior year of college no different than anything else—like an inconvenience. And all the staff and faculty turn a blind eye. They don’t care. They get paid to teach our ungrateful, spoiled asses. Why should they give a fuck who shows and who doesn’t?
“Hey, you girls wanna help me out with something tonight?” Jasmine asks. Skipping beside me, she runs her hand along the dark blue wall where Wildcats is painted in white. She’s in a cheerful mood today for a girl who got dumped last night via text message.
“No thanks.” Emilee laughs from my other side. “I’m not in the mood to spend the night in jail. I have plans this weekend with my parents.”
Jasmine rolls her eyes. “It’s harmless.”
“I’ll help,” I say. Not like I have anything else going on. I would normally spend my evening with Luca, but it’s obvious I’ll be available tonight. And every other night to come until he decides to pick up his damn phone and send me a text.
“See …” She throws her arm over my shoulders and looks at Emilee. “That was the correct response when a friend asks you a question like that. We’re supposed to be ride or die bitches. I got your back, and you got mine.”
Emilee snorts. “Last time I had your back, we all ended up in the back of a squad car.”
Jasmine pulls away from me. “I talked us out of getting arrested.” She waves her off.
“No, your father did because he’s friends with the mayor,” Emilee retorts.
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