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Other Books By Nicholas Sansbury Smith
Blackstone Publishing
The Sons of War Series
Sons of War
Sons of War 2: Saints (coming fall 2020)
The Hell Divers Series
Hell Divers
Hell Divers II: Ghosts
Hell Divers III: Deliverance
Hell Divers IV: Wolves
Hell Divers V: Captives
Hell Divers VI: Allegiance
Hell Divers VII (coming summer 2020)
Orbit
The Extinction Cycle Series (Season One)
Extinction Horizon
Extinction Edge
Extinction Age
Extinction Evolution
Extinction End
Extinction Aftermath
Extinction Lost (A Team Ghost short story)
Extinction War
Great Wave Ink Publishing
The Extinction Cycle:
Dark Age Series (Season Two)
Extinction Shadow
Extinction Inferno
Extinction Ashes
The Trackers Series
Trackers
Trackers 2: The Hunted
Trackers 3: The Storm
Trackers 4: The Damned
The Orbs Series
Solar Storms (An Orbs Prequel)
White Sands (An Orbs Prequel)
Red Sands (An Orbs Prequel)
Orbs
Orbs II: Stranded
Orbs III: Redemption
Orbs IV: Exodus
Copyright © 2020 by Nicholas Sansbury Smith
E-book published in 2020 by Blackstone Publishing
Cover design by K. Jones
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
The characters and events in this book are fictitious.
Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental
and not intended by the author.
Trade e-book 978-1-5385-5690-0
Library e-book 978-1-5385-5689-4
Fiction / Science Fiction / Apocalyptic & Post-Apocalyptic
CIP data for this book is available from the Library of Congress
Blackstone Publishing
31 Mistletoe Rd.
Ashland, OR 97520
www.BlackstonePublishing.com
For my wife, Maria, for encouraging me to write the story I always wanted to tell. For my agent, David Fugate, for all the early feedback. And for Josh Stanton of Blackstone Publishing, for believing in my stories and bringing them to readers around the world.
“Underdogs have turned empires into ashes. We’re going to build ours from the embers.”
—Don Antonio Moretti
“Sometimes, you have to use evil to fight evil.”
—Marine Sergeant Ronaldo Salvatore
Prologue
November 2011
naples, italy
The black Mercedes pulled up in front of one of the oldest basilicas in Naples, built with remnants of a far older Roman temple.
Antonio Moretti imagined how soldiers might have looked back then: the leather armor, muscular bodies, short swords gripped in callused hands. His own soldiers concealed their weapons beneath black suits. The difference in appearance was striking when he pictured it, but he supposed their minds were not so different. They had the same worries: protecting leader and family, making a living, surviving. In that regard, not much had changed over two millennia in the ancient city.
A Moretti soldier opened the back door, and Antonio stepped out, ignoring the demonstrators shouting across the street, and the signs insulting his family. He turned instead to the towering basilica of San Paolo Maggiore.
The exterior facade blocked the waning sunlight, but he kept his sunglasses over his eyes as he got out of the car. He didn’t want his family or his comrades to see him like this. He was respected as a hard man, and on these streets, respect was the currency that mattered most.
Growing up in the slums not so far from here had made a man of him early in life. Four tours of duty with the Italian Fourth Alpini Paratroopers Regiment in Afghanistan and Iraq further toughened and tempered his character. And working for the Moretti family organization had strengthened it with blood.
But tonight, he was going in blind. Nothing had prepared him for burying his father, gunned down by a rival mafioso outside a local café.
Antonio did a quick scan for threats, though he was surrounded by men who would take a bullet for him and his family. That hadn’t been enough to save his father, however, and they still didn’t know which of the rival families was responsible.
“Antonio,” said a rough voice.
Another car had pulled up, and several men in tailored black suits got out. At the lead was his younger and only brother, Christopher, also a veteran of the Fourth Alpini. They both had left their home as younger men to fight in a war, only to come home to another war.
They embraced with a kiss on the cheek, and Christopher turned back to the car to let out his wife, Greta, and their ten-year-old son.
“Help your mother, Vinny,” Christopher said.
Raffaello Tursi, a quiet soldier with a rosary in one hand, walked over. He was one of the Moretti family’s most loyal soldiers, a man who had never married and had given himself to the business and to God.
“Area is secure,” he said.
“Thank you, Raff,” Antonio said. He reached inside the Mercedes and took his wife’s hand.
Lucia, the embodiment of elegance and grace, stepped down onto the street. She leaned in and unbuckled their three-year-old son, Marco.
He smiled, revealing two rows of perfect little square teeth.
Antonio kissed his son on the forehead, just below his thick black hair, which matched Lucia’s dress and every article of clothing Antonio could see.
Raff instructed the other Moretti soldiers, who formed a phalanx around the two families as they walked toward the stone steps. Antonio helped his wife up the flights to the basilica’s massive front door.
The guards accompanying them weren’t the only armed men here. A pair of police officers stood sentry near the two ancient Corinthian columns that had survived wars from Roman times to twentieth-century aerial bombardment.
Inside the historic church, candlelight danced over the front foyer as Antonio stopped to dip his finger in holy water and make the sign of the cross. It had been a long time since he stepped into a holy place. The same guilt he always felt was with him today. Part of him believed he didn’t deserve to be here af
ter all the things he had done, all the men he had killed for his country and for his family.
The beauty of the ancient frescoes depicting the lives of Saints Peter and Paul helped ease his troubled mind as two police officers checked him for weapons.
He held up his arms and gave them each a glare. Today, he was in no mood to deal with these assholes.
“You’re clear,” said one of the guards. He motioned for Antonio to continue to a table where three more officers watched the guests.
“Sign here,” said a policewoman with sharp green eyes.
Antonio had expected this type of security, but it was still frustrating even though he knew it was for their own good. This was the first time in as long as he could remember that the entire Moretti family had gathered in one place. It was also why they had to break Roman Catholic tradition and have funeral home employees move the body into the church.
There would be no final ride across the city for the family, and no pallbearers for the casket of Stefano Moretti. With all the violence among the other crime families in the city, it was just too dangerous. No one was safe, and the escalating war was going to get a lot worse now.
Little Marco looked over at his father with eyes full of wonder and curiosity. Antonio had long ago decided he would protect the boy’s innocence and give him a childhood and a future away from all the bloodshed and crime.
A future unburdened by worries of war.
Christopher and his family were cleared through security, and together the two families set off down the central nave decorated with golden archways, carved marble columns, and a vaulted roof of magnificent frescoes. Passing through the transept, they gazed up at the polygonal apse covered in ornate paintings. Even little Marco seemed impressed, staring at the dazzling semidome above them.
The splendid art and the tone of hushed awe in the basilica, and the sight of his beautiful family already sitting in the row of reserved seats near the altar did nothing to mollify Antonio’s indignation at the closed casket. The bastards who did this hadn’t stopped with a bullet to the heart, but had riddled his father’s face as a further insult.
An image of the corpse surfaced in Antonio’s mind, filling him with another hot wave of rage, which he managed by letting out a discreet sigh. He would string them up by their guts when he found them.
The macabre thought seemed blasphemous in this holy space, but Antonio didn’t care. He had long given up any ideas of getting to heaven. Only endless fire and pain awaited his soul.
“Antonio,” said a gravelly voice.
The words came from cousin Lino De Caro. At first glance, standing there in his bespoke suit—if you ignored the gold hoops in his ears—he might almost pass for a banker or financial advisor, but the expensive drapery hid the ropy muscle, tattoos, and scars that reflected Lino’s violent past.
He was the Moretti family assassin, and his well-honed skills would soon be put to work. Sitting to his right was another seasoned killer, their husky cousin Zachary Moretti. Both were made members of Antonio and Christopher’s crew, much higher in rank than the grunt associates who had escorted them inside.
Raff ushered Antonio and his family to their row of seats.
“Be good, little man,” he whispered to Marco as Lucia carried him past.
Antonio shuffled over to make room for Christopher and his family while Raff knelt to pray.
Soldiers Frankie Trentino and Carmine Barese sat with their Moretti wives on Antonio’s left. The rough-looking men both had long hair, slicked back tonight, and weathered faces. They scooted down the row, the scent of cologne and cigarettes drifting off their suits.
“Ciao,” Antonio said.
Carmine, also a Veteran of the Italian military, forced a smile across his droopy, scarred face—the result of a grenade that had nearly killed him.
The two Moretti made men embraced Antonio in turn, giving murmured condolences. Then they, too, knelt for their prayers. More guests arrived to pay their respects, filing into the basilica, slowly making their way through security.
A small commotion pulled Antonio’s attention to the back of the nave.
“This is a disgrace!”
Antonio knew that deep voice the way a baby knew the voice of its mother. The man who had been a second father to him walked into the church, wearing a three-piece suit and a coat draped like a cape over his wide shoulders. Don Giuseppe Moretti, Stefano’s older brother and the leader of the Moretti family, was already arguing with the cops.
Two bodyguards flanked Giuseppe. After a moment of heated conversation, the husky old don lifted his arms, allowing them to check him for weapons. He continued to speak under his breath, no doubt uttering words unsuitable for this holy place and solemn occasion.
Antonio sat back in his seat, trying to relax. The gentle touch from Lucia helped calm his nerves, and she reached up to take off his sunglasses.
They locked eyes, sharing the strength that had gotten them through other difficult times.
Giuseppe took a seat with his wife across the aisle. They were childless now, having lost their son and daughter ten years earlier in a fire meant to kill them all, and now he was about to bury his only brother.
Antonio nodded when Giuseppe looked his way. He glimpsed a deep pain in his uncle’s eyes—a moment of weakness that he had never seen in the rock of the family.
The don’s eyes rested on the casket housing his younger brother. Stefano was a respected man, but he had been the muscle of the Moretti family, not the brains. The true titan was Don Giuseppe, who also served on the city council. His background in organized crime was well known throughout the city, and so was his ambition to run for mayor, which made him an even bigger target than Stefano.
Now, with Stefano dead, it was up to Antonio and the other Moretti captains to protect their leader and their family’s honor.
As the final guests were seated, the holy congregation entered through the back doors. The choir started in hymn, and the presiding priest, a short man with a gray beard and thinning hair, started down the central nave with his entourage of altar boys.
He swung a censer on a chain, back and forth, spilling fragrant smoke over the congregants.
Antonio looked over his shoulder to scan the faces. Many people, all of them carefully vetted by the family, had come to show their support and pay their respects tonight.
There were also men from other families, including the allied Sarcone family. Enzo Sarcone, a capo and brilliant entrepreneur, sat near the back of the basilica.
Their eyes met, and Antonio nodded, but Enzo looked away after only the briefest acknowledgment. Antonio turned again to the front of the basilica. Everyone here was nervous about the financial implications of his father’s death.
The priest raised his arms, his robe hanging loosely.
“Tonight, we are here to pay respects to Stefano Moretti, a man whom many of you loved deeply,” he said. “His life was cut short by the violence that plagues this city—violence that I pray will end.”
Lucia gripped Antonio’s hand.
The priest continued his appeal for peace and empathy for several minutes. Antonio wanted to tell him that his hollow words meant nothing, that the church had its own problems and, moreover, that the Moretti family was one of the biggest donors in the city.
Marco climbed onto Antonio’s lap, resting his head on his father’s shoulder. As Antonio shifted to get comfortable, he noticed that Enzo had gotten up from his seat and was walking out of the church. Four more police officers walked through the open door and closed it behind them.
But why would Enzo leave right now ? What emergency could possibly …
Movement caught his eye. Across the basilica, on the other side of the rows where Don Giuseppe sat with dozens of highest-ranked men and their families.
In the glow from hundreds of candles, Antonio spotte
d three other cops walking in the shadows near the marble columns and statues.
Something was wrong …
Antonio whispered to his wife, “Get ready to move.”
“What? ”
“Do as I say.”
Antonio jerked his chin to Christopher, who had already sensed that something was off. The cops continued in the shadows.
“Let us pray,” said the priest.
As the guests bowed their heads, Antonio turned toward the back of the church, where the officers pulled out their handguns. One man pulled a submachine gun from a duffel bag under a table.
Another officer looped a chain through the handles of the front door and secured it with a bicycle lock.
“Dio mio,” Antonio whispered, realization hitting him like a bullet.
While everyone had their heads bowed, the choir broke into hymn. The heavenly voices stopped with the raucous din of automatic gunfire directed at Don Giuseppe.
His body jerked spastically as the rounds hit him. Bullets lanced into the pews, and the Moretti associates and soldiers who stood up were cut down. In seconds, ten of the men Antonio had grown up with were slumped dead, their blood pooling on the holy ancient floor.
Tuning out the screams and the chaos, Antonio focused on the one thing that mattered most: his family. He had to get them out of here.
They were already moving left out of the pew, with Christopher in the lead, but when he started toward the front foyer, Antonio grabbed him and pointed toward the altar, where the priest had taken cover.
A cop was waiting for them there.
Not a cop, Antonio realized, pulling back on Lucia’s hand.
He recognized the assassin’s face: a midlevel soldier from the small but aggressive rival Canavaro family. A shock wave of disbelief ripped through Antonio.
The underdogs were behind this?
Most families wouldn’t dare do this in a church, of all places. Not on holy ground. The very idea was monstrous. There were rules in La Cosa Nostra, and killing in a church—especially killing women and children—was a cardinal sin.
Sons of War Page 1
