by A. C. Bextor
“Did I wake you, my friend?” The jovial tone with which Ciro laces the question is a lie.
“Do not call me ‘friend,’” Killian spits with pent-up hatred, but Ciro doesn’t waver in the slightest.
“You sound tired, Killian.”
“Erlina is visiting her mother in Dublin,” the old Irishman concedes. “I don’t get much rest without her here.”
Well aware he desires no such adoration, not even in times with any of his mistresses, Ciro chastises, “Ah, to possess the love of such a woman. You’re blessed to have her.”
“What is it you want, Ciro?” his quiet rival responds with added irritation. “I don’t imagine you’ve called to discuss the state of my domestic bliss.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Well, what is it, then?”
“Pete is ill and I’ll be officially replacing his position as my consigliere. I need your men to be aware of this. And per our still-standing agreement, you’ll leave Pete alone, as well as Demitrius.”
“Pete is ill?”
With only little regret, the cold-hearted Ciro explains further while sensing Killian’s concern for the man they’ve both known for generations to be strong and powerful in body and loyal and faithful in mind. “Yes, I thought you may have heard. Lung cancer is eating him from the inside out.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, but I’m not sure what reason you have to tell me any of this. I wouldn’t take action against Pete, or anyone for that matter.” Silence hails the call before Ciro hears Killian’s exasperation. “Tell me why you’re really calling, Ciro.”
Boldly, Ciro orders Killian to do what he’s been dying to for years. “I’m making a final move against Vlad, and you’re going to back me when I do.”
Exhaling as though the wind has been knocked from his chest, Killian responds with no underlying message. “I won’t. Our families aren’t as strong as they used to be, Ciro. Time has passed and money is scarce. We’re not the same families we used to be. None of us are thriving as we once did.”
“Yours isn’t. Mine is.” The deceptive lie parts from Ciro’s lips without a second thought. “I’m sure I don’t have to remind you of this, Killian, but our families are one. Liam is living proof of this.”
“Liam,” Killian whispers to himself in remembrance.
“I’m not asking for your support in this, Killian. I’m expecting it.”
“Ciro, most of my men have left and are either out on their own, turning new, legitimate leaves, or they’re already dead.”
“This isn’t how it has to be.”
“We’re getting old. You’re living a past life, one that no longer exists. Vlad Zalesky isn’t the great and powerful man he used to be either. He’s made a family. He’s endured the same sacrifices that we all have.”
“He’s still strong in numbers, Killian. You’d be a fool to believe otherwise. He also has a living heir.”
“Yes, we know this. Veniamin, from what I hear, is doing quite well for himself,” Killian taunts. The news of any Russian living well off sticks in Ciro’s throat like dripping acid from an ever-churning barrel of disdain. “But his son has no interest in taking over the family business when it’s time. What does this have to do with anything?”
“Tell me, Killian. What would you not do to save one of your own from certain death?”
Ciro knows his words have clipped Killian to his core. Both Killian’s oldest son, Cillian, and his youngest son, Patrick, are already dead. Dealing out such a heartless question is a strategic move aimed to hold Killian’s attention. It’s always been suspected, but not proven nor admitted, that it was Ciro who ordered the hit to end Killian’s oldest son’s life.
After a brief moment of silence, Killian voices, “I must say, I don’t like where this is going, Ciro.”
“Let me handle the logistics and confirm the information I’ve received. I’ll call you soon. You owe me a lot, and I’ll be collecting for every favor in leniency I’ve graciously granted to you and your family in the past.”
Most likely due to being reminded of the tragic circumstances which claimed his sons, Killian asks, “How’s my grandson? Is he still being kept safe?”
“For now.”
Killian’s voice rises in etched anger, his venom penetrating as directed. “Liam is innocent. He’s good, just as my sons were good. Leave him out of your playing games with people’s lives, Ciro.”
Hanging up the phone without breathing a word in refute, Ciro smiles in reaction to Killian’s blatant disregard for the future. Killian couldn’t have been oblivious to the intention of his call. He had to know Ciro would do whatever necessary to bring the families together, and if killing the Russian heir is what must be done to secure a future in wealth and power, then so be it.
So. Be. It.
Killian allows three minutes of doubt to pass before compelling himself to regain his composure. A sense of betrayal washes over him as he picks up the phone, dialing the number for a man he hasn’t spoken to in years.
With a heavy heart, Killian believes this will be the first of many traitorous acts he’ll be forced to make against Ciro Palleshi and his kingdom of life-stealing thieves. If the malevolent man behind the Sicilian empire refuses to back down, it will soon become someone other than Killian who will guide the hand of the city’s organized crime future. Someone stronger. Someone who not only owes Ciro exactly what he deserves to get in pain and suffering, but has the wherewithal to deliver it.
One person who has what it takes to carry out such a task is the man he’s reaching out to now.
“You do know you’re waking me at one o’clock in morning,” Vlad greets Killian as he always has: some sincerity in his tone, some irritation in his words.
Over the last few years, the Irish family hasn’t been an active participant or so much as an unwilling witness to the inner workings of the criminal underworld. Simply put, there is no longer a place for his kind. Killian believes he was right in advising Ciro that times have changed and money doesn’t come as easily as it once did.
While draped in sheets and tucked into his four-poster bed, Killian sits up and nods, though Vlad can’t see. “I wouldn’t have called at this hour if I didn’t think it was important. But unfortunately, I believe my reason to wake you is.”
“The rumors that have been reported to me are true, then,” Vlad viciously surmises.
Killian struggles to understand the Russian accent that never faded from Vlad’s speech, even after decades of living among the American people.
“Yes, Vlad. I believe they are true. Ciro is up to his old ways.”
Vlad stays quiet. The remaining silence coming from someone Killian once considered a friend flames inside his chest, fusing his blood with the dreaded visions of another war between families he hoped to never be alive to witness.
After the death of his son Patrick, and his Palleshi wife, Gina, several of the city’s low-life bookies went as far as sanctioning bets on whether or not Killian would seek retribution in some form or another against those who even accidentally stole his precious child.
However, seeking revenge, even for a loved one, in this life makes it nearly impossible to obtain forgiveness needed to pass on to the next. And Killian is not a fool; he understands he already has enough blood on his hands to answer for when his time comes.
Gina Palleshi herself was never an imminent threat to her husband’s Irish family. And truth be told, Killian’s wife, Erlina, adored her. It was Erlina who convinced the Irish king to allow the marriage between the families to take place. The benefits of their joining carried with it the possibility to uphold a lasting peace, to lay the past to its final rest. Where it finally should be, he thought.
When Gina gave birth to a child who ultimately shared the blood of the two most powerful families in Chicago, Killian had hoped Ciro would finally settle into his own domestic life with dignity and grace. It would then be up to him to change how he ran his business and those he held
in his company while doing so.
After Liam’s parents’ unforeseen death, Ciro removed any Dawson ties to the boy. While doing this, he negotiated, promising to keep Liam from harm’s way, as he’d sworn to his younger sister, Gina, that he would. Killian was forced to forfeit his relationship with Liam because, while losing him hurt, the personal pain was of little cost in comparison to the bloodshed and loss of life that could’ve taken place had the families fought for which heritage Liam would be better part of.
Losing Liam aggrieved Erlina, though. To the point of despair. However, through her strength, determination, and insistence, Erlina soon found she had one very influential, yet highly unlikely, ally.
Sofie Palleshi had always been a good, strong, Catholic mob wife. She loved Ciro, and there is no doubt he loved her, too. But a love between a mother and a child is impenetrable.
After losing her precious sister-in-law Gina, Sofie felt Erlina’s pain as her own by extension and would often send messengers across town to the Dawsons’ elaborate estate. These messages included news, such as stories listing Liam’s accomplishments, as well as pictures of the young man as he grew. As far as Killian and Erlina could tell in pictures, Liam appeared happy, healthy, and thriving while in the care of his Sicilian family.
As time passed, news about Liam’s progression into adulthood grew sparse. Both Erlina and Killian feared the worst. However, just as Sofie had proven to become an unexpected friend to his wife, Killian also had one of his own in Ciro’s midst as well.
And to this day, he believes he still does.
While the Russians no longer hold animosity toward his Irish family, they’re still considered to be malicious and cruel against those they despise. They’re ruthless in torture and vast in soldiers still willing to carry out the orders to do so if given.
“Ciro mentioned your son, Veniamin,” Killian pointedly states,
wincing at Vlad’s sadistic laugh. The empty humor causes the hair on the back of his neck to stand on end. He considers this situation as anything but amusing.
“Ciro,” Vlad sadistically utters, “is a fucking idiot.”
“A determined one, Vlad. I would take what I’m telling you with caution.”
“Yes, I might.”
“He’s toying with an idea he thinks will lure you out of hiding.”
“Hiding?” Vlad’s tone is laced with contempt. “I haven’t been hiding from Ciro, Killian. I’ve been waiting for him.”
Killian slowly releases a breath, ensuring Vlad can’t sense his relief. Out of the three men, it would be Vlad, the cunning mastermind, to continue his crusade to bring Ciro down as he vowed to all those years ago. The only reason he didn’t after the death of Faina was because his wife, Klara, had begged and pleaded to end the cycle of anguish in death between Vlad and Ciro. If there was ever a reason for Vlad to stay breathing, it’s her.
“You’re afraid Ciro is up to something and what happens to him will bleed to you,” Vlad asserts.
Killian looks down, wishing nothing more than for his dear Erlina to be seated next to him. Since mourning the loss of so much, both living and dead, she’s been his constant well of strength. He needs to draw from her now, just as he’s always done.
“Yes,” Killian admits. “Though I don’t know what else I have to lose. My people are all but gone, and my territory has all but dried up.”
“You never diversified. You never followed the money trail. You’re paying for this lack of foresight now,” Vlad scolds.
Killian knows exactly what Vlad is speaking of and doesn’t appreciate it. Killian has worked hard to keep his business in gun trade alone, justifying the decision as a means to keep his family morally afloat without risking too many youthful lives as drugs and trafficking human flesh would.
He prides himself on remaining decisive regarding who he runs the trade business with and who he absolutely does not. Even as times began to change, the young and innocent citizens of his territory have always been one of his primary concerns.
Killian has never cared what Vlad did in the south, nor did he care what Ciro had moving in the north. His goal was to keep his place as clean as the dirty dealings would allow. Maybe it’s a ridiculous goal, maybe his aim’s too high, but he’s lived by this code of honor among the criminals for as long there has been a reprieve between them.
“As you know, I had hoped to live quietly for as long as I could. But Ciro’s reminder tonight that we’re family is going to keep me from doing that. He’s holding all I have left and he’s doing it carelessly.”
“Liam, I assume.” Vlad’s acknowledgement of the tie that binds the two families surprises him. “How is he? Veniamin tells me he’s a doctor now.”
It comes as no surprise to Killian that Vlad is aware of Liam’s choices. As long as Liam lives and breathes, he’s considered a threat to the Zalesky name.
Visions of what Vlad’s power is capable of doing to an innocent man, more so his innocent grandson, all but shatter his frayed nerves.
“He is,” Killian confirms. “And he’s doing very well in part because he’s half-Irish,” he reminds Vlad, hoping to assuage any threat against Liam in retaliation for Ciro stepping over his bounds.
Vlad laughs tiredly. “Yes, he’s half-Irish. There’s no threat from me because he’s also half-Italian, friend.”
Rather than question Vlad what his true intent in asking is, Killian replies with, “He hasn’t settled down. I hope he does. He deserves a family of his own.”
Family.
Killian mentally chastises himself for mentioning it at all. Like himself, Vlad has lost his family as well.
“I know you’ve missed Liam, Killian,” Vlad boldly observes. “He’s alive and well, but the two of you are still not close.”
“Of course. My wife and I both have missed a lot—”
“There’s work to be done,” Vlad curtly assures. “My son will not be a target, and neither will my young daughter. And you have my promise that Liam won’t either. But as you already know, I have no tolerance left for Ciro’s ridiculous ways.”
Killian’s eyes close in silent thanks and prayer.
“How is Emilia?” Killian asks. “And Veniamin?”
“Emilia is her mother’s daughter. Veniamin is still so much of Faina. In this house, I’m considered a fossil who knows nothing about anything.”
Killian laughs at his old acquaintance, imagining that this is likely true. Kids these days want for nothing, the fault of which falls on the parents.
“I think you’re being a bit dramatic, Vlad, but glad to hear they’re well.”
“I probably am. I’ve enjoyed the quiet, but I’ve known all this time it wouldn’t last.”
“Thanks to Ciro, nothing good ever does.”
“Well, if my patience is being tested by Ciro again, I’ll accept his challenge. If only to put an end to his miserable existence for good.”
Killian believes Vlad’s oath. The Russians have always stood by their words.
“Take care, Vlad. Give my best to Klara. If I learn more, you’ll hear from me again.”
“I hope I do, Killian. Take care.”
After Elevent left and I heard the last bike take off down my gravel drive, I stood alone in my ransacked house, wondering what to do.
The thought of going to the police was only a brief consideration. Anyone who pays any attention has heard about Saint’s Justice and the rumors that spread regarding law enforcement being paid to turn a blind eye to their activities. Citizens fear the gang and often steer clear of them just to survive in this city.
I contemplated calling Liam, asking him to come over to help, but my fear that he would involve the police—or worse, his family—stopped me from doing anything. We’ve had one date. One beautiful night together. And just as I was always afraid of, the chances of my life dirtying Liam’s is highly possible. I won’t do it.
Once I fixed as much as I could, I attempted to take what was left to the trash, though my
worried and tired body wore out quicker than I had anticipated.
For the rest of the day, rather than sitting alone in my home, unable to rest and worrying if those men were coming back, I caught a bus to town. My plan was to coerce Ed into letting me work an extra unscheduled shift.
I got him to reluctantly agree.
Now it’s nearing eleven o’clock, and I’m exhausted. My plan of resting before my next shift is thwarted when I open the door of my trailer, a home I now consider a crime scene.
Turning on the small lamp in the corner near the front door, my eyes lock on Chase’s silhouette. I startle as he remains silently sitting in my beat-up blue recliner. He doesn’t move other than to take another hit from a thinly rolled joint.
I can’t make out his features with any distinction, the bill of his ball cap hiding his face.
“I’m sorry, Wrennie.” His voice reaches out into the dimness of the room, sounding scared and unsure.
It doesn’t matter how scared he is. I can’t afford to care.
“Why are you here?” I hiss. “Get out.”
“Wren?” His voice is shallower, more afraid.
“You don’t live here anymore, Chase.”
“Wren, wait.”
“Did you not see what those men did in here?” I accuse, pointing to my shredded couch. “Christ, they were looking for you but found me!”
Chase dismisses my question and pushes forward with “I know you don’t believe I’m sorry, but I swear I am.”
“That’s all you have to say me?” I snap. “Do you not see what those men you work for did to my trailer—my home? How do they know where I live?”
I gesture about the room, but Chase still refuses to look up from his lap. The shadow creates a curtain around him, and it’s not until I watch the red flame of his joint light again that I know he’s even moved.
“Chase, the people who did this were here looking for you,” I explain, as if he doesn’t already know. “Why were they here? What did you take from them?”
For the life of me, I know I shouldn’t care. I’m moving on with a good man who cares for me. But I’m so angry. I deserve to know why those thugs came for me in Chase’s stead. What was worth destroying the few possessions I still hold close.
