by Belle Aurora
As the men watch me distrustfully, I announce loudly, “Actually, I have something you’re going to want to see.” When Gambino looks down at me as though I’ve officially outstayed my welcome, I go on, “But I need to bring another guy in. He’s waiting for me to signal him in. He won’t advance until I call.”
Castillo looks confused. “See?”
My words come out slowly, meaningfully. “You’re really going to want to see this.”
Without a moment’s thought, he nods in consent. “Bring your man in.”
Taking one hand, I lower it to retrieve my cell and make the call. Not a minute later, a black Jaguar XE appears at the end of the drive, making the slow descent to where the gathering of men have amassed outside.
The tinted window lowers and Braden Kelly sticks his head out, smiling. “Someone order a pizza?” When nobody cracks a smile, Braden’s grin falls from his face, and he mutters out the side of his mouth, “Tough crowd.”
He exits the car, and his brothers, Shane and Connor, step out. Connor’s hand is still wrapped up tightly in gauze, the gunshot wounds I awarded him still fresh. Shane leans against the car, while Connor moves to sit on the hood.
Vito Gambino objects. “You said one guy, Carter.”
It’s Connor who responds, and he does this with a fuckload of heat. “If you think we’re going to let our baby brother into a locked house with the likes of you, and not be here to make sure he exits in the same condition he arrived in,” he scoffs, “you’ve lost your mind, old man.”
Gambino takes offense just as Connor meant for him to. “Why, you little fuck—”
But Castillo speaks over him, looking to the Kelly boys. “I know your mother, Aileen.” He tells them quietly, “She’s a nice lady. Runs a tight ship. Holds her family close. I like her.”
Shane, ever the diplomat, inclines his head, and his gratitude is genuine. “Thank you. We like her too, most days.”
Connor, who hasn’t stopped glaring at Vito Gambino, finds his sense, and explains, “Listen, we’re not going in with Braden. We’re just going to hang out here, completely in view. When family is concerned, we take safety seriously. I think you boys can understand that.”
Vito cools his jets with a long sigh, shaking his head. “Let’s get this over with.”
He calls all of the men into the house, stopping to whisper into the ear of one of his soldiers, and when the entrance is almost clear, two soldiers come to stand directly across from Connor and Shane. As I enter the house alongside Castillo, I hear Connor mutter to one of the men, “Well, aren’t you pretty in your fancy suits.”
We enter the parlor, the room where the meet was in full swing before my unexpected entrance, and Braden gets to work, setting up his laptop by the big screen TV on the wall and plugging wires into it. He gives me the thumbs-up when it’s ready to go, and I move to stand beside him to address the men of the underground.
“I don’t know some of you, but most of you will know me. Those of you who don’t will know my name in the very least, know my position.” I pause to look over the crowd of many faces. “The video you’re about to watch is disturbing. No sugarcoating it. But I need you to remember we’re men of code. I ask that you watch the video in full and think before you react.” My glare is deadly. “I have the reflexes of a cat and can shoot faster than any of you motherfuckers. I got the backing of thirty of the deadliest men and baddest bitches in the continental US, one of my recent acquisitions being Aileen Kelly. Not only did I put her youngest son in the ground, but also, I shot two holes in her middle son just days ago.” My gaze passes a smirking Claudio Conti, and I want to pistol-whip the jerk. Just for the record, I add, “As far as y’all are concerned, I’m untouchable. Remember that.”
I step forward to place my hand on the shoulder of Eduardo Castillo. From his place by Vito Gambino, I look down at him, before saying, “Maybe you should sit with me.”
His gaze narrows slightly, but he follows me to a leather sofa occupied by two soldiers. When we approach, they stand, making room where there wasn’t before. Eduardo sits, and I look around the room to watch the tens of men both sitting and standing in silence.
Showtime.
With a discreet nod to Braden, the screen lights up, and he moves to my side, kneeling by the sofa. Smiling, Braden leans in and whispers, “Thought I’d spice it up a bit, ya know? For entertainment’s sake.”
Before I can ask him what the hell he’s talking about, “Turn Down for What” by DJ Snake and Lil Jon blares through the speakers, shocking me as well as the men around me. Although I want to knock him the fuck out, it’s too late to turn back now, and with a clenched jaw, I let the video play.
Eduardo Castillo moves to object, but with a shake of my head and my hand firmly on his knee, his furious expression moves to watch the movie that will make grown men weep.
For the first twenty seconds of the song, Braden has made the video almost like a video clip for the song. Second long clips of Dino and Alejandra kissing in bed show up on the screen.
At the twenty-second mark, when the beat drops, the clips change dramatically.
Dino slapping Alejandra. Gio kicking her in the ribs. Ana gagging on Gio’s dick then vomiting all over the floor. Gio gripping her neck and rubbing her face into the puke. Dino tying Ana to the bed. A close up on Ana’s tear-streaked face. Gio fucking Ana roughly in the ass as Dino masturbates close by. A close up of Ana’s tortured features.
It goes on and on, and every short clip makes me want to shoot up this entire room, wanting nothing other than to destroy the sickness that lives inside the Gambino men.
A quick glance around the room shows the video has hit its mark. Men, hardened men, watch with their mouths gaping. They’re stunned.
Halfway through the song, the clips change, and Eduardo Castillo watches his son and heir, Miguel, be disemboweled by a trusted ally. Gio straddles Miguel and throws the hunting knife into him again and again, and he does this with a smile.
A choked scream sounds over the music, and without a single thought, I take the older man’s hand in mine and squeeze. My silent message to be strong. It’ll be over soon.
The end nears and I close my eyes, having seen enough.
At the crescendo of the song, as the music dims, I hear the sounds of grown men growling in anger and some sobbing like babies.
My eyes snap open, and I stand before anyone is able to react.
The Castillo family is barely holding it together, by a mere thread. The Gambino men have retreated away from the head of their family, hoping to blend into the background.
I hold up my hand in front of all the men, asking for silence, and when I get it, I train my eyes on a now pale Vito Gambino.
“Now, you ask yourself if you can still call what Alejandra Gambino did to her husband a punishable offense. You all called it murder at the time. I’m asking you now, how many of you still believe that?”
Not a single hand rises.
“I don’t know about you, but I would call Dino’s death self-defense on Alejandra’s part.” My voice hoarse, my anger begins to show. “This beautiful girl was thrust into marriage at eighteen-years-old. She was assured her husband was a good man, and when it turned out he wasn’t, she shut her mouth about it, because she was told—” I turn my stare to Castillo. “—that it was her burden to bare. That sacrifices were necessary for the sake of family.” My face pained, I hiss, “Six years she dealt with rape and torture. I ask you, is this how we’re treating our queens nowadays? Because I was taught we respected our women.” A moment of silence. “How did this happen? How did we leave one of ours feeling like she had no choice but to save herself?”
At my unforgiving words, Eduardo Castillo slides from the sofa to the ground onto his knees, his head lowered, body slumped, blubbering like a little baby.
The men remain silent, but more and more of the room venture to stand by Eduardo Castillo’s side in a show of support.
Vito Gambino stands
and tries to speak, but can’t seem to find the words. Finally, he manages a heartfelt, “My friend, my brother, I didn’t know. I… I…” he stutters. “I didn’t know. I swear it.”
Castillo stands, tears in his eyes, and spits, “Friend? You are no friend of mine. I am ashamed to be connected to you and your filth.” He begins to sob. “No more. It ends here. It was a mistake to see this through.” He sobers a moment, to get out, “I take full blame. As of this day, let it be known we are no longer indebted to each other, Gambino.”
Gambino pales further. He knows if he doesn’t get out of here now, he’s not leaving. Period. “Eduardo, I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry you feel that way.” He edges toward the door, but the entire room takes a single step closer to him, and some of Gambino’s men attempt to follow their retreating leader. The others know their fate and wait patiently for the ball to drop.
Two of Castillo’s men move to block Vito from the open doorway, and when he realizes he’s trapped, Vito blurts out, “Just ask Alejandra. She’ll tell you I didn’t know. I didn’t know!”
“I can’t do that,” I tell him. I reach into my pocket and retrieve the white rectangular jewelry box. I move to throw it at him, and he catches it.
Swallowing hard, Vito opens the box and, closing his eyes in disbelief, lowers the box, and the severed finger falls to the ground in the view of the entire room.
I reiterate my previous statement. “I can’t do that, Gambino, because your son got to her, and although I don’t want to believe it, deep inside I know she’s already dead.” If that didn’t hit him, this will. “He killed my wife, my wife whom I loved very much. On top of that, my partner is missing. The only thing I found of her was a pricey heel outside of her open and abandoned car. If you knew my partner, you’d know why that goddamn shoe is the reason I’m assuming she’s dead too.” I take a deep breath, and reply on an exhale, “I only had her for a second, old man, and he took her away from me.” My throat thickening with emotion, I tell them all, “She was finally happy with me. And, by God, she deserved to be.”
Defeat lines Vito’s leathery face as his shoulders slump. “Wait, please. Let’s be reasonable.”
I take a step back, pushing the crowd with me. “I am being reasonable.” With a jerk of my chin toward his chest, Vito glances down and sighs. Five gleaming red dots appear there, and I tell him, “See, I’m reasonable. I’ll make this quick.” I clear my throat and announce, “Anyone not directly related to the Gambino family should make a move. This is not going to be pretty.”
With a quick glance to the surrounding windows, I spot my men. All carrying semi-auto machine guns, thanks to my pal Titus, Marcos Demitriou, Titus Okoye, Lars Odegard, Luka Pavlovic and Elias Munoz all wait solemnly for my signal.
I may have called in every marker I was owed to get them here, but as my eyes meet theirs, I incline my head in appreciation.
I take a moment to lower my head and rub at my eyes.
I’m so very tired of this life.
As men file out, they offer their condolences to Eduardo Castillo over the deaths of his children. The Gambino soldiers are cornered by the Castillo’s like stray sheep, and at the look of their frightened faces, a sick sense of satisfaction radiates through me.
Finally, in the quiet of the midafternoon, we paint the Gambino house red.
Gio fits himself behind me, his clumsy hands gripping my waist tight enough to bruise, and when he presses his body into mine, I fight the shudder of disgust that wishes to be freed.
He wants me to scream for him. He craves my fear.
But he doesn’t know me anymore. I’m different now. I’m no longer the same person I was yesterday.
The man sitting in the corner of the room, watching Gio do his thing, chuckles, laughing at my lack of dignity, and I hate him. But that chuckle fuels something inside of me. It’s with great strength that I burrow deep into my mind and hide there, in my happy place.
A mere moment into the assault, his phone begins to ring, and with a harsh sigh, he slides out of me, moving over to the wooden table to answer it.
I don’t know what is being said, but whatever the news, blind rage takes hold of him. I hear the cell crash onto the floor. He cries out, clutching the sides of his head, his chest heaving.
My heart stutters a single moment before it calms. Gio may not know me anymore, but I still know him. Whatever has hurt him, it’s going to be me to take the punishment.
I know it’s coming and mentally prepare for it. I accept it.
With bright, eager eyes, he approaches the place I’m tied, naked and spread eagle, to a poorly made Saint Andrew’s cross that splinters my ankles and wrists. He pants as he rushes to stand in front of me. I can’t lift my heavy head at the moment, so my gaze falls on his fast deflating erection.
Panting, he utters, “They’re all dead. All of them. They’re fucking dead.” His voice laden with fury, he grabs me by the throat and squeezes as he hisses out, “What the fuck does he see in you?”
The man in the corner of the room watches Gio choke me, the hand at my neck trembling with rage, and his eyes light in soundless excitement. He reaches down to grasp his crotch, and I just know this scene is turning him on.
I see that man and he sees me. At my unblinking stare, he blows me a kiss from across the room, and it shoots a hole into me, gaping and raw.
I’m so very tired of this life.
All I want to do is sleep. Sleep for an eternity.
Gio grips my neck harder, and I don’t bother with the struggle my mind insists upon. What’s the point? I can’t win. Not now. Not ever.
With my air supply cut short, it’s with great pleasure that I close my eyes. I close my eyes and find sleep. But before I do, I look into the cold, emotionless eyes of Maxim Nikulin.
I sit on the large, leather-like throne and warm myself in front of the roaring fire at the hearth. I do this, and I wait.
When Black asked me where I was going, I told him I was going for a walk. I didn’t tell him where, because from our previous night’s stakeout, something told me he would’ve had a shit fit had he known my current whereabouts.
An hour passes, then another, and as I fight an irritated sigh, I decide standing and stretching my legs will help stop me from falling asleep. My arms come up high, over my head, in a stretch that pulls the plain black long-sleeved tee up, uncovering my stomach. My arms fall to my sides, and I shake my head in restlessness.
It’s risky being where I am, in the den of a man who is a legend in his hometown. Not just that, it’s also disrespectful to intrude on personal space as I am right now. Lucky for me, I never cared much about the whole respect thing.
So many people demand respect when they’ve done nothing to earn it.
I look around the impressive room, washed in firelight, and take in the screaming wealth. Persian rug on the floor, a Picasso on the wall, some of the finest whiskey known to man sitting pretty in crystal decanters that would likely cost a regular Joe’s yearly salary.
I’m tired and thinking of leaving, when the door opens and in he comes.
I’m sure he’s going to try to shoot me. However, I’m packing, and if he tries to off me, I wouldn’t hold back in gifting him a hole in his shoulder.
It’s not exactly how I imagined meeting my brother-in-law, but I guess it would have to do.
It only takes Evander MacDiarmid a moment to realize he’s not alone, and just before he reaches his desk, he turns slowly to face me sans weapon.
I’m almost impressed.
Almost.
Sure is a confident fucker.
Dressed in a light gray suit, with a white shirt and gunmetal gray tie, and Italian leather dress shoes, he’s a full head taller than me with a mop of brown hair slicked back, curling behind his ears. His hazel eyes piercing, his eyes wash over my features, and he relaxes, leaning back against his monstrous desk, crossing his arms over his chest and grinning. His heavy Scottish accent isn’t something I expec
ted. “You’re a ballsy fuck, aren’t ya?”
Slipping my hands into the pockets of my black sweats, my shoulders jump in a careless shrug. “So I’ve been told.”
He lets out a soft chuckle before pushing off his desk and moving toward the bar. He turns back and asks, “Drink?” I jerk my chin in affirmative, but I am watchful and untrusting. He shrugs off his jacket before throwing it onto a chair. He pours two glasses, setting them down on his desk, then walks to the office door, opens it, and barks, “Fuck off,” to the soldier he has posted there before slamming the heavy wooden door again.
Evander hands me a glass, and I gaze at him, watching closely as he takes the first sip before I lift the glass to my lips and taste.
Yeah, I’m paranoid. But that paranoia has served me well over the years. Besides, it wouldn’t be the first time someone’s tried to poison me.
“Oh, man,” escapes me without thought. It’s been so long since I had good whiskey.
His grin widens then he takes a mouthful, closing his eyes, savoring the taste. He swallows then smacks his lips together. “One thing the Scots do well, mate. Scotch whiskey. You cannae get better.” He holds his glass high, assessing the color. “MacAllan. ’72. Oh aye, it costs a pretty penny, but I’d rather swallow my own piss than drink some off-the-shelf shite.” He lowers his glass then peers over at me through narrowed brows. “Mandy,” he says, “told me you weren’t dead, she did. I didn’t believe her. Thought it was wishful thinking on her part. I know she wanted to meet ya.”
Okay, then. Here we go. “You know who I am.” Not a question.
He raises his hands in the air, eyes wide. “Only by chance, I assure you. Your da asked me to track you down for him when you moved to Australia to follow that lass a’yours. I got sources all over, see? His reach only goes so far as ‘merica.” He sips again. “Found you’d taken a bullet. Died.” Evander shakes his head. “Never seen my Mandy so blue. She couldn’t believe it, and when she got your autopsy report, her happiness came back in spades. Absolutely convinced you weren’t dead.” He tilts his head. “Gotta hand it to her. She’s a bit like Zep like that. Once they get something in their heads, forget about it. Nothing you say can change their minds.”
