by S. C. Ellen
I’m no longer a naïve boy who lives life concealing his demons and being ashamed of them. I’m now a man living life with all the knowledge in the world, embracing my demons and taking names right along with it.
I can’t get enough of it. The blood, the rush, the power—it’s all I ever live for.
Pulling on some work-out shorts, I head out onto my balcony and light up a cigarette, taking a long drag.
Looking across at the city lights, a thought occurs to me. I don’t know if it’s because I finally found my place in this world, being part of the familia, or the relief I feel knowing I finally put my parents’ death to rest, but for once in my life, I finally feel content. Content with how my life is at the moment.
Of course, my mind is still plagued with darkness, and I find myself still struggling with the lonely monster inside of me, but I’m eighteen years old and have the whole world in the palm of my damn hands, for God’s sake. I have more money than I know what to do with, I have my own penthouse in the heart of New York City, and a fucking bombshell waiting inside for me, ready to go for round two.
However, I’m no fool. Happily ever afters aren’t real. They’re made up by small-minded pricks who trick themselves into thinking that life is just going to magically fix itself. That somehow, somewhere, everything will just fall into place for them. But reality is one hell of a bitch and they’re going to be in for a rude awakening once they pull their heads out of their asses and realize that shit isn’t cut out that way.
See, life takes from you like a sly thief in the night. With no remorse, and without the thought of consequence. Kind of like me. It’s merciless, and once you think things are starting to go right for once, the rug is pulled out from under you, and you fall right back on your ass again. So happily ever afters can kick rocks. I’d rather live with the thought of disappointment in mind now than set myself up for it later.
But, hey, I’ll take this over my past any day. It’s nowhere but up from here…as long as I keep my guard up, that is.
A few months later
“Ride that cock, baby. Just like that.” My eyes intently focusing on the broad’s tits that are bouncing with every thrust of my hips.
“Don’t stop! Please don’t stop!”
I growl, squeezing her hard nipples to the point of pain. I have no recollection of what the fuck the girl’s name is, all I know is that she was eye-fucking me while she was dancing on the pole, and now here we are fucking in one of the private rooms.
After a while, though, I’m growing bored, so I push her off of me, grab her by the hair, and force her down onto her knees. “Suck,” I say, not giving a fuck if it sounds rude or not. She greedily takes me inside of her mouth, sloppily sucking at the tip. I finished inside of her mouth and throw her a wad of cash.
“I’m not a prostitute,” the girl angrily snaps, holding the crisp hundreds in her hand.
“Yeah? Well, maybe you should be, sweetheart. You sure suck like one.” And before I get a heel to the head, I walk out of the room, finding Elliot in the same predicament I was just in.
He lifts the broad’s head that was bobbing in between his legs, out from under the table. “Take a break, honey. We’ll finish this later. In the meantime, bring us two Jack and Cokes, would ya?”
I slide inside of the booth beside him, pulling out a cigarette as he lights up a joint. We are in New York’s most elite gentlemen’s club, owned and run by yours truly.
Of course, to anyone from the outside world, the club looks like nothing more than a fancy strip club, but everything from illegal gambling, to prostitution, and drug dealing goes down in the dark here.
“What fucking day is it? I swear every day is just one big blur,” Elliot mutters, exhaling the smoke from his mouth.
“Maybe if you laid off the weed, you’d have a clue.”
“Coming from the man who indulges himself in far worse activities than weed.”
After the death of Diavolo, I dived further into the familia. The demand got higher, and my desires got more twisted. There isn’t one drug run that isn’t controlled by me, one woman getting sold without me knowing about it, and if someone hires a hit or wants to deliver a message, I’m the one to do it. You want to know why? Because there is nothing more dangerous than a man who has nothing left to lose… and I am that man. I’m the world’s most lethal criminal and I. Fucking. Embraced. It.
That is it, this is my life. I know nothing other than the familia, working out, and having a new girl in my bed every night. I’m soulless and ruthless, and nothing in the world can change that.
I run New York City like it’s mine for the taking. I’m a man now, and Vinny doesn’t need to be here all that much like he did when I was a kid, so he gave all of New York’s businesses to me.
Of course, Elliot knows about the sketchy shit I do on a daily basis, he could sense the obvious change in me. The poor guy wants a taste of it for himself, as well, but because he has Irish blood, he isn’t able to join our La Cosa Nostra.
Vinny’s flying in today, saying he’s going to send me somewhere he thinks I’ll enjoy. If it isn’t spilling blood or getting pussy, I don’t think I’ll enjoy it all that much.
It’s right around midnight when Vinny sends me a text, telling me about an undisclosed location on the far outskirts of the city.
It isn’t much later when Elliot and I pull up into an old, rundown brick building, with the sign above reading ‘Underground Training’. We both look at each other with furrowed brows, why would Vinny invite us to an empty, piece-of-shit gym?
I try the glass door, but it’s locked tight. Elliot wanders over to the side alley and whistles out for me. “Carson! Down here!”
I follow him down the path, with my guard on high alert. Suddenly, a metal side door rips open from the abandoned gym, and I make a grab for my gun before Lenny steps into view.
“Follow me,” he demands. Elliot looks at me with a curious gaze, but I ignore it and walk into the deserted building. Cobwebs and a pungent smell of mold overtake my senses straight away. Lenny gestures to a door to follow him through, and I oblige, making sure to keep my hand close to my pistol, just in case it’s needed.
He leads us down a flight of stairs, and I can hear voices and shouting getting louder and louder as we descend farther down the steps.
My eyes latch onto two things as soon as a large archway opens up in front of me. A large metal boxing ring. And two men beating the absolute shit out of each other, while a crowd of people watch.
I spot Vinny amongst the crowd, and we make our way over to him. He’s eyeing the bloody scene playing out not even two feet away from him, with Romario flanking his left side.
“What is this place, Vin?” My tedious stare is glued to the death match, itching to be a part of it, and I can tell Elliot is on the same page as I am. The pull is powerful, watching men destroy each other round after round, and I want a taste of it for myself. These men are skilled, no doubt, but I know I can hold my own against them. I’d annihilate every single opponent, show them no mercy, and let my demons wreak havoc. I’d win everytime.
The blood I shed on a regular basis for the familia is enough to keep my demons satisfied at the moment, but I need more. I’m addicted, and I can’t get enough of it. It’s only a matter of time before I, too, grow bored, and my desires become more twisted than ever before if I continue along this route that I’m on. Vinny must have taken notice and knew that introducing me to this lifestyle would sustain and fulfill the monster within me for as long as I needed it to.
A man is carried off in a stretcher, as the other man revels in his victory.
An announcer calls overhead from a speaker somewhere, announcing the next fight, and a sly grin plays on Vinny’s features. “Welcome to the underground, boy. Where the darkest of monsters are free to unleash, and you are up next.”
Carson
Ten years later
Twenty-eight years old
With the adrenaline I’ve easily grown accusto
med to coursing through my veins, I circle the grimy bastard like a predator on the hunt for its prey. Little does he know, I’ve been tracking him for months now, calculating his every move in the darkest of shadows, all in preparation for this exact moment.
“I’ve already asked you once, and by my account, pretty fuckin’ nicely, too. I even went easy and spared you from having any permanent brain damage, like you know I could so easily inflict. Now with that being said—” Grabbing his face forcefully between my calloused hands, I shove my 44 Magnum under his chin to look him dead in the eye. “I’m going to ask you for the last fucking time before I lose my fucking patience and blow a hole straight from here—” I drag the revolver slowly up to his temple. “To here. Do you or do you not have the fucking money?”
The stench of urine fills my nostrils as the shaking shit in front of me forms a puddle of piss on the floor. I release him from my death grip, and he crumbles to the ground.
“Come on, Carson, don’t… don’t do this, tell Vinny I’ll do anythin’! I-I can get you the money, I just need some time!” His weeping face contorts in pain, almost unrecognizable by the nasty gashes I gave him earlier.
I signal my two men, and they both hold up the quivering piece of shit on the floor. With a skilled hand, my gun delivers a shot right through his left knee cap. Howls of pain sound throughout the abandoned factory building we’re in.
Shitface here used to work for us a year ago until he got caught pocketing money from the jobs he was given. He was let go without a word, and the fucker thought he was off the hook. Little did he know we were plotting something good for him. After word got out that he fucked us over, no one would ever dare give the bastard the time of day. We run this fucking city, and when someone fucks with us, well, let’s just say they’ll want to off their own damn self before we get to them. Otherwise, you deal with me, and only the dumbest of assholes would want to do that.
He went into hiding as if he stood a chance. We know every goddamn thing that goes on around here. If John Doe took a shit on one of our streets, someone would report it back to us just as quick as it happened. However, what’s even more pathetic about this guy is that he thought he could get another chance with the boss. There are no second chances in this life. Ever.
“Look, Nick, before I put a bullet in your brain for even asking for more time, and wasting my own fuckin’ time, I’m going to make it easier for the both of us. You either hand over the money you stole, and die with some dignity, or…” A sweet and sickening smile washes over my face as I take the picture out from my back pocket.
I turn the picture into view, and his face turns a cold shade of blue at the image.
“Grace McDaniels. Age sixteen, lives on 5467 Walnut Boulevard. Attends St. Mary’s Academy, and is daughter to—oh, would you look at that?” My smirk grows wider as I take a step forward, towering over him. “You.”
“You bastard!” He jumps, struggling to free himself from my men’s tight grip.
“Pretty girl.” I sneer, circling him. “How much do you think she could go for? $10,000? $15,000? Maybe even $20,000 if she’s still a virgin. Of course, that can be settled depending on the highest bidder’s taste. You know those men like their women a little experienced.”
“Fuck you,” he spits.
I grab him up by the throat again. “How does that sound, Nicky boy? Good enough to pay off her daddy’s sins, I would bet.”
The look of contemplation crosses over his features as he helplessly struggles in my tightening grasp.
“Deal! You have a deal!”
With obvious disgust, I throw the sick bastard to the ground. “You would sell your daughter’s soul to save your worthless one?”
The fear in his eyes is evident, especially when I grab hold of my gun and aim it straight at him.
“Carson, come on! I-I said deal!”
My sneer grows wider with his words. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you never to make a deal with the devil?”
The sweet sound of the trigger igniting the bullet escapes my gun, and right in the middle of the guy’s forehead lies my bullet with a dead man attached to it.
I collect whatever money he has from one of his coat pockets and place it in my own.
“The dick had it coming to him. Fucker was about to sell his own flesh and blood!” Marcus, a soldier who is typically with me on these runs, shakes his head in disbelief, kicking the fresh corpse.
Being fully inducted into the life of a mafioso, and having zero blood relations to the Pentalini family, Vinny broke all the rules giving me the title of his underboss. A title I worked damned hard to get. Of course, not many were happy with his decision, seeing as he did have an heir, but growing up like how I did, and the fucked-up shit I’ve seen, made me wiser way beyond my years, and Vinny knew I would be the right man for the job. The boss helped me out in a way no one else could; he gave me a chance at life, and I will be forever indebted to him because of it.
I signal to Marcus, dismissing him with a wave. “Clean this shit up. Nothing left behind, capisce?”
Call it an inkling, but it’s while I’m on my way out of the rundown factory building, that something tells me, the time to repay Vinny for everything he has ever done for me is going to be sooner rather than later. My phone rings through the silence, flashing Romario’s name. I pick it up without a greeting.
“Carson, it’s about Vinny. He needs your help.”
I’m on a plane as soon as I receive the call. In my twenty-eight years of life, I’ve never left New York City other than my initial travel to the States so many years ago, and here I am traveling to the only place I avoided going to for so long.
Detroit fucking Michigan.
Apparently, a group of certain individuals planned an attack against the familia, and took out a few of our men, and tried to take out Vinny, as well. I know he has a lot of enemies, fuck, one too many on my account, but I never thought one was actually ballsy enough to try and act on their hatred. I should’ve known who it was, though. The only crazy fuckers suicidal enough to pull off something like this are the fucking Russians.
Those bastards have been a thorn in my side for years now, always thinking they’re the superior ones, that they’re the best, and the rest of us are the results of a ‘brain-washed American society.’ Just a load of bullshit.
Family isn’t a part of the Russian’s language, and neither is a code of honor. They’re savages when it comes to business, and quite frankly, they’ve been grating on my nerves for far too long now.
And that’s just the American bratva. Now the Moscow bratva… They’re on a whole other league of their own. Thankfully, we’re on good terms with them—for the moment, at least.
It’s a short flight, barely above an hour, but with how agitated I am at the moment, it feels like an eternity. Vinny said he had an important job he needed me to do for him, and if it’s anything that has to do with taking down a bunch of Russian fucks, I’m all for it. My fists clench at the destruction I’m going to rain down on each and every single one of those bastards.
Finally arriving at DTW, I take in my surroundings. The air smells of motor exhaust and sewage, the air is thick with the summer’s heat, and the people bustle past me with a lot more friendliness than the ones back in New York.
Squinting around the condensed city, my eyes spot a familiar face among the crowd, one whom I only recognize from pictures.
“You must be Jase, Vinny’s son,” I acknowledge, walking up to him and noticing he already has my bags collected in the back of his Lincoln MKC. I didn’t pack lightly, that’s for sure. I knew it was going to be a long stay, seeing as no one knows exactly how long the situation with the Russians is going to be going on for. With that said, I have my Mustang being flown over the next day and bought a house in the suburbs right outside of Detroit City. My new home away from home.
He eyes me wearily. “And you must be Carson, my father’s second pride and joy.”
My brow turns up i
n amusement at his words. “Who’s the first?”
Jase makes his way to his side of the car before getting in the driver’s seat, rolling his eyes before his car purrs to life. “Only his darling principessa, of course.”
The Present
Alayna
Present day
Twenty-three years old
Detroit, Michigan
The strong smell of booze, sweat, and another distinct smell I have no intention of getting another whiff of hits me straight away as I walk into the old night club. Intimidating-looking men huddled in tense conversation fill the booths and bar. Bodyguards on every corner keep a watchful eye on the place, as the strippers are high up in the air, sliding up and down their poles—just like any other normal day. But I feel it, a slight eerie feeling as I step farther into the back of the club.
My mind reels as I catch sight of a door being ripped open, with two strange men holding onto a frequent regular. His receding hairline is now dripping in sweat, and fog has begun to form in his wide-framed glasses.
“It wasn’t me, Vincenzo! I swear it! Please don’t do this!” The men forcefully carry him into the soundproof basement, blocking out any further pleas.
My eyes grow wide; I survey the crowd, noting not one person bats a single eyelash at the scene that just took place.
My steps follow deeper into the club as confusion and spiked interest overtake my features.
“What’s going on, Luc?” I ask one of the main bodyguards who is parked in front of one of the ‘privacy’ rooms.
His gaze remains forward as if I hadn’t even spoken, but I see the way his body tenses up. “Can’t say. Boss’s order.” His stoic response does nothing to ease the anxiety plaguing my thoughts.
Whatever it is, it must be really bad for him to be making a show of this. One thing I know for sure is that any attention is bad attention. Unless you’re trying to prove something.
Ignoring the soldier, I head farther down and turn into a narrow hallway, pausing once I get in front of the door the screaming man just left from.
