by S. J. Smith
Her mother was dead.
Alexis was overtaken with anger. It was a new feeling. Since the night her dad told her what happened all she'd been able to feel was grief.
Her blood started feeling like it was boiling in her veins. Someone had killed her mum. Killed her for trying to protect her family.
Alexis threw the blankets off and charged downstairs to the training room, unleashing her anger on the fighting man dummy in the middle of the room.
It isn't normally in the middle of the room.
By the time Alexis calmed down enough to be able to think straight, she was covered in sweat. It was an effort and a half to untie her knotted hair and twist it back into a plait.
She looked around the room and remembered all the times she'd been down here with her mum, all the things she'd learnt. She looked to the right wall of the room and saw all the fighting weapons in their spot. Her mum always made her put things back where they belonged after each session.
Alexis remembered the first time they sparred with rattans. She'd had bruises on her forearms and legs for weeks. But they were nothing compared to the cuts she got from the throwing knives.
Going over to the wall Alexis took down the sheath of throwing knives before strapping it to her wrist. Then she positioned herself across the room from the precision target. Her mum had found one shaped like a human torso.
Her mum. Who died in an alleyway. Alone.
The first knife was flying across the room before Alexis realised she'd thrown it. It missed the target by a good thirty centimetres.
Relax your body.
It's what her mum always told her.
Stand up straight.
She pointed both arms towards the target before pulling her right one back, bending at the elbow just so. She shifted her weight, bringing her right arm forward. The knife left her hand and flew towards the target.
Hit. Right shoulder.
She did it again.
Chest. Dead centre.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Alexis spent an hour throwing the knives and retrieving them. Over and over.
Shoulder.
Heart.
Head.
She was always just slightly off centre when she aimed for the head.
Taking a moment to rest, Alexis thought about all the times her mum had shown her to throw knives.
The way she'd stood.
The stiffness in her wrist when she let the knife go.
Never taking her eyes off the target.
She had one knife left in the sheath. Taking it out, Alexis closed her eyes and took deep, steadying breathes.
Then she opened her eyes and looked at the target. It wasn't a wooden cut out anymore. It was the faceless man from her nightmares. The one who she saw in the darkness while she crouched over her mother's lifeless body.
She let the knife fly.
Mafia Hierarchy
Boss - Don/capo famiglia. Head of the family, makes all the important decisions. All members of the family pay tribute.
Underboss - Second in command. Ready to stand in for the boss and is usually groomed for the eventual take over. Some families have two underbosses.
Consigliere - Chief advisor to the boss. Doesn't need to be a direct relative of the boss. Offers unbiased information based on what he sees as best for the crime family. Third in charge.
Caporegimes/Capo - Captain of a crew of soldiers, anywhere from 20 - 1000+ soldiers. Report directly to boss/underboss.
Soldiers/Made men - Lowest rank within the mafia. They run errands, do whatever they can to hope to make a name for themselves. Can be as young as 16.
Associates - Anyone who does business with the mafia but isn't a member. Can be any ethnicity.
To earn one's button - In order for an associate of Italian descent to become a made man they have to earn their button. This includes committing a contract killing and taking the oath of omertà.
Italian - English
Bambina - baby girl
Ciccino/Ciccina - sweetheart/honey
Come ti pare - whatever you say
Costa Nostra - our thing, Mafia
Faccia di merda - shit head
Madonn' - goddamn
Mamaluke - idiot
Non essere una merda - don't be a shit
Non ti sento - I can't hear you
Stronzata - bullshit
Testa di cazzo - dickhead
Testa dura - stubborn/hard headed
Acknowledgement
I might have come up with Alexis and her story but I never would’ve been able to get this far without the love and support of so many people.
Matt, you’ve been my biggest cheerleader. The pompoms are okay but I think you need to reconsider the short skirt. Ever since I told you about my dreams of being a writer you haven’t stopped supporting that dream.
Mum, you’ve read and re-read this book more times than I care to count. Thank you for wanting everything to be perfect for me. We’ve probably missed something but it’s okay. You taught me that rejection didn’t mean that my book wasn’t good enough, it just meant I had to believe in it more than everyone else.
Dad, you’ve been helping me run through scenarios since I was twelve. Thank you for letting me beat you up, bounce ideas and theories off you and letting me grill you with very minimal questions as to why. Where mum was reason and logic you were railroad spikes and jumper cables.
Lauren, you have listened to me rant and rave and vent about everything under the sun and not only that but you’ve created the masterpiece that is this book’s cover art.
The four of you have inspired me in so many ways and none of this would’ve been possible without you.
Special thanks to Dani for reading through and editing the early incarnations. Renae for giving me your honest opinions and believing in me even when I forgot to. Kel, you definitely kept what small amount of sanity I have left from crumbling away this past year.
To all my friends and family who have believed in me and waited somewhat impatiently for this release since you found out about it a month ago, thank you.
To everyone who has read this and hasn’t immediately thrown the book across the room, thank you. If you did throw this across the room or have the urge to, I get it. I really hope you stick around for the next one. I write because I love it but it wouldn’t be the same without you, the reader.
A very special thanks to all the caffeinated drinks I consumed during the writing of this novel. Writing until 3 or 4 a.m. wouldn’t have gone nearly as well without you. Then again maybe if I’d been a little more coherent there wouldn’t have been so many grammatical errors to fix (sorry mum!). I will however maintain that some of my best lines came from a 3 a.m. caffeine haze so Dare, V, here’s to you.
About The Author
S. J. Smith
S. J. Smith lives with her fiance and two ragdolls in Perth, Western Australia. She found her love of writing stories when she was six years old. This is also the same age she discovered a love of video games. Since then she has spent her time finding a tentative balance between the two.
