The southbound lane, heading into California, was wide open. The lights of cars heading north to Oregon glowed like a thirty-mile strand of Christmas lights.
Ronaldo turned with his rifle, but Dom didn’t see a Humvee or any other vehicle in pursuit. His mom sat up, pistol in hand, ready to fight.
“Keep your head down,” Dom said.
“I’m sick of staying down,” she said. “I’ll …”
Monica looked up as her mom’s words trailed off. Dom kept his foot on the pedal, heart pounding. They were all at their breaking point, but seeing his mom show strength now helped reassure him they could make it through anything.
“I don’t think we’re being followed,” Ronaldo said. He kept staring out the back window.
Dom drove for twenty minutes at ninety miles an hour, every mile putting them deeper in rebel-controlled territory.
Dom could see smoke on the skyline again. He wasn’t sure what city, but it was a reminder they were heading toward the fighting and not away from it.
The engine rattled, then sputtered. They made it another mile before the Explorer coasted to a stop, out of gas.
The refugees walking on the side of the road looked at them, and this time Dom didn’t look away. Unless he could barter some gas from someone heading toward the border, his family would soon be joining these desperate people.
* * *
A week and a half after the fighting erupted, over a third of LA’s population had fled the violence. Antonio heard that the same was true for other cities in California.
In that time, the Moretti family had taken a beating, losing its main customers after navy cruise missiles destroyed the AMP base at Los Alamitos, and nearly losing their remaining capital in a parking-garage ambush by the Bloods.
But Antonio had known better than to send such a small group of men to so important a meeting. What the gangbangers didn’t understand was that he had ambushed them, not the other way around.
It had cost him almost ten men and nearly taken Yellowtail, but Antonio’s younger cousin had proved very hard to kill.
The Moretti family was stronger than ever now that Vito and other relatives had joined them from hiding spots all across the world. Soon, they would be as strong as they once were in Naples.
Moreover, killing Lil Snipes and his posse had netted him street cred that was already riding high after he shot Mouse in the face. Now every gang in the city knew who the Morettis were, and knew better than to fuck with them. Even more importantly, he had proved himself to be the fearless boss who would lead the Morettis into the new age of America.
Everything he had done so far was for their future. Now, having added men to his ranks, weapons to his armory, drugs to his operation, and a new deal with the González family, his plan to expand and rebuild the Moretti empire was coming together.
He would find new customers too, but before that, he had one last thing to do: bring new blood into the Moretti family and reward those who had helped him get this far.
“We’re ready for you, Don Antonio,” said a voice.
Christopher stood in the doorway of the office, looking sharp in a slick black suit and with a fresh haircut, short around the sides and spiked at the top.
Antonio, also in a dark suit, stood and made sure the cuffs were straight. Then he walked over to the Raging Bull poster and ripped it off the wall. Wadding it up, he tossed it into a can with the bandage he had already removed from his face.
“Why’d you do that?” Christopher asked.
“’Cause I have something better to replace it with,” he said. “And I no longer need the reminder about what I have to lose.”
Christopher stepped aside as Antonio walked into the hallway. Candlelight flickered from the warehouse at the end of the passage.
Six men, decked out in their finest, stood in the center of the warehouse, eyes on Antonio. They all had their hands crossed over their belts, except for Yellowtail, who stood with the support of crutches.
He was a lucky man, and he owed part of that luck to his gold-plated cross, which had stopped a bullet meant for his heart.
Behind them, fifty more men sat in chairs, and these were only the most important members of the family. Hundreds more had been added to their growing ranks.
In the center of the room stood a round cherrywood table. On its polished surface lay a sword, a pistol, and a stack of postcard-size pictures of their family’s patron saint, Francis of Assisi.
Candles lit the room, and not just because the grid was down in Compton. It was tradition for the induction ceremony.
Antonio walked toward his most trusted confidants. He stopped in front of Vinny first, noting the proud gaze before continuing down the line, scrutinizing them one by one.
Yellowtail. Carmine. Frankie. Lino. Raff.
“You all have sent many Moretti enemies to hell,” Antonio said, walking away with his hands clasped behind his back. “You all have proved yourselves in battle.”
He turned to look at the men sitting in the chairs. Several were former Sarcone associates who had since sworn loyalty to the Moretti family.
Those that hadn’t were on the run or already dead.
“The six men standing before me made the trip from Naples to Los Angeles six years ago, after we spent many years on the run,” Antonio continued. “They did so with a great sense of trust in me that I will not forget. Your loyalty since then is also something I won’t forget.”
He unclasped his hands and raised his right arm, pointing at the boarded-up windows. “While the United States has fallen into chaos and a war rages around us, you have continued to trust me and fight with me.”
Antonio moved to the table in the center of the room.
“And soon, you all will see the rewards for that loyalty,” he said. “Tonight, however, we are here to give six more of you the honor of aiding in our war.”
Christopher walked over and lit a candle. The glow spread over the weapons and the stack of St. Francis pictures. Raff, Frankie, Carmine, Yellowtail, and Lino—already made men—stepped over and joined Christopher, but Vinny remained where he stood, looking confused.
Antonio stopped beside him.
“You’ve proved yourself to be a man, Vin,” Antonio said quietly, “but you still have more to do before you take the oath of silence. Your time will come, but not yet.”
Vinny started to open his lips, but he knew better than to reply.
Antonio took the pictures and stepped over to the seated men, then gestured for the six he had decided to make—mostly his cousins and other family who had come over from Italy.
They all stood and joined the men standing in front of the table.
Tradition typically allowed only one or two inductees at a time, but some things had changed since he came to America, and he had decided to do a ceremony for everyone.
Time, for the Moretti family, was of the essence.
The one rule he wasn’t bending, however, was who he would make. Only true Italian blood could be made.
Over the years, the rules had changed from full-Italian blood to half-Italian blood, but that was as far as he would bend it, even in desperate times like these. Men like Sergeant Rush would never be eligible to join the family. But that didn’t mean they couldn’t fight.
“Tonight, six men will take the oath of omertà and become members of the Moretti family,” Antonio announced. “I had the honor and privilege of taking this oath many years ago with my brother, Christopher, when the Moretti family was run by our uncle, Don Giuseppe.”
Antonio made the sign of the cross and looked at the ceiling, thinking of his deceased uncle and his father. Tonight, he honored them and remembered their legacy.
Antonio grabbed the short sword off the table and walked over to the men. Vito, in a suit that was too small, was first in line.
“I’m proud to be with you, Don Antonio,” he said. “Don Giuseppe would be very proud of you if he could see you now.”
Antonio nodded back at his cousin and handed the sword to his brother. “Hold out your trigger finger.”
The Moretti inductees held up their hands, and Christopher pricked their fingers one by one. When he finished, he set the sword back on the table and grabbed a candle. He walked down the line, lighting each picture.
While the pictures burned in the hands of the inductees, Antonio told the men to repeat after him. “As this card burns, may my soul burn in hell if I betray the oath of omertà,” he said.
The men repeated the words, the blood-stained pictures burning in their hands as they kept their gaze on their don.
With the oath complete, Antonio gave a rare smile. Pride warmed his veins.
“Welcome to the Moretti family,” he said.
There was no clapping or applause, just a palpable silence.
Normally, celebration would follow, but these weren’t normal times. Antonio again scrutinized his men, his mind focused on what would come next.
Antonio would give all his orders through his brother. Christopher would serve as the underboss and help with day-to-day operations in growing their business. Carmine would serve as a captain and oversee the new drug operation, including the distribution.
Vito, Lino, Yellowtail, and Frankie would work with Sergeant Rush to eliminate rivals and find new sources of revenue. Raff would be in charge of protecting the women and children, and Vinny and Doberman would continue to help with shipments.
Los Angeles was looking more and more like Naples every day, though the enemies here weren’t Italian. They were gangs: Crips, Bloods, Norteño Mafia, and countless others. And now they all knew who the Morettis were.
He motioned for the men still sitting to rise from their chairs. They weren’t made Moretti soldiers, but they were still Moretti associates, soldiers in all but name, and they would be the muscle in the war against enemies of the family.
For the first time in his adult life, Antonio had a small army of his own. Enough brave, competent men that he could make a real difference if he deployed them properly. It was time to send them out there and start taking over territory, starting with finding them a nice mansion somewhere in the hills, which Antonio had promised Lucia.
The ash from the pictures of the patron saint curled away and drifted to the floor as Antonio walked away from his men, putting distance between his army and himself.
“The gangs that once ruled Los Angeles are dying,” he said confidently, “but the Moretti family has never been stronger in this country. Tonight, before you leave, you will receive new orders that will help get us to our proper place at the top of the food chain.”
-13-
There was nowhere to go—nowhere safe, anyway. Not in California.
Almost a week after leaving Los Angeles, Ronaldo’s family was out of food and almost out of water. They had lucked into a ride in the back of a rebel army truck that was in between moving supplies and troops from outposts up and down the state.
But eventually, the goodwill ran out. Even the army had to set limits on what it could do for refugees. And so Ronaldo and his family were again walking along the shoulder of Highway 395.
Soon they would turn west toward Mount Baldy, on their way back to where they had started—Los Angeles. It was the only place Ronaldo could think to go. That was where his brothers were, and if he could get back to them, maybe, just maybe, they could find shelter and safety—assuming that Marks, Bettis, and Tooth were even still alive.
The growl of diesel engines pulled him from his thoughts. Ten fuel tankers rumbled down the highway, turning thousands of heads along both sides of the road. With the army no longer giving people rides, the flow of refugees had gone from a steady stream to a flood.
“They must be headed to LA,” Dom said.
Ronaldo spotted the army Humvees and two armored M-ATVs following close behind. One of the Humvees sped up to get ahead of the convoy.
Raising his sunglasses for a better look at the soldiers manning the turrets, he wanted to throw a salute up at the beautiful sight. All the old jokes and competition with the other branches seemed stupid in hindsight. To Ronaldo, seeing the army out here was like seeing the Virgin Mary in the flesh. Add in the marines, and it would be the second freaking coming.
Curbing the urge to flag them down, he kept his hands to his sides.
Aside from his family, no one in this group of trekkers knew who he was, and the last thing he needed was for anyone to find out he was a marine.
Some of these people, maybe even half of them, believed that the marines were responsible for everything going to shit, and that made him a target.
It makes your family a target too.
He put his sunglasses back down and looked over at Dom, Elena, and Monica.
An elderly woman stumbled ahead, and a man just as old reached over to steady her. He glanced back at Ronaldo but didn’t ask for help. Most people knew there was no help to give.
The filthy, starving, thirsty people were unpredictable, and he couldn’t trust a damn one of them. That was why he kept Monica and Elena near the far-right side of the road, where the asphalt gave way to cracked earth. It was also why he and Dom carried their backpacks against their chests and why they had put some of the jewelry in their socks.
Elena could hold her own, especially with her pistol. Even without it, she would claw out eyes and bite off ears if it meant saving her kids, but she was still a target, and so was Monica. Women, and especially children, were marks for the predators out here, and predators there were—men who had little to fear from the law.
The only law on this road was the eight hollow-point rounds loaded in the Sig Sauer 1911 Nightmare holstered between Ronaldo’s belly and his backpack. He also had a Glock holstered at his side, under his shirttail. Dom carried a pistol, but they had bartered the shotgun and the M4 for extra water and some freeze-dried meals.
Ronaldo was regretting that decision, especially right now. The service rifle would have come in handy, but as long as he had one gun and ammo, he could put up a hell of a fight.
Gusting wind beat against them, carrying the bouquet of perspiration and piss as the throng slogged ahead. Sporadic shouting and coughing filled the late afternoon as fights broke out between exhausted people.
Ronaldo focused his mind as he had learned to do when dog tired in combat zones. This was bad, but nothing he hadn’t been through before.
A memory from after the fall of Baghdad, when refugees were escaping the violence, surfaced in his mind. He had watched from the relative safety of his Humvee on the highway out of the city as thousands upon thousands of civilians made the long trek through the desert.
But he had never thought he would see this in America, let alone be part of it.
He couldn’t let the dread and darkness seep in. He had to keep strong for his family.
A dust devil forced him to pull his bandanna up over his mouth. The stinging vortex whipped over the road, swirling under a scorching sun. He mopped the gritty sweat from his brow with his sleeve.
“Daddy, I’m thirsty,” Monica said.
Dom pulled the water bottle out of the backpack on his chest. Just as he went to give their last bit of water to his little sister, a middle-aged man with a comb-over blowing like a loose shingle in the wind snatched the bottle.
“Hey!” Dom shouted.
Ronaldo grabbed the guy by the back of his shirt as he brought the bottle to his lips and sucked some down.
Dom grabbed the bottle back, and Ronaldo spun the man around and punched him in the nose. He fell to the ground and scooted on his back, clutching his nose with one hand and holding the other up to ward off any further blows.
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” he shouted.
<
br /> Ronaldo started to hit the man again but hesitated. He could feel the gaze of dozens of people curious to see what he would do with the thief.
“Get the hell out of here,” Dom said, kicking the guy in the backside as he stood up.
He let the man take off running into the crowd, which pushed on as if nothing had happened.
The thief got off lucky. Earlier in the day, they had seen a man get shot in the stomach for stealing a granola bar.
Dom handed the bottle to Monica, and she wiped off the rim before taking a drink.
“Gross,” she said. After she finished, she handed it to Elena, who also took a drink. Dom shook his head when it was his turn, and Ronaldo decided to save the rest.
A quick shake told him they were down to half a liter. They would die of dehydration if they couldn’t get more.
“We need more water,” he said to Dom.
Dom nodded. “I’ll go up ahead and see if I can barter for any. What do you want me to trade?”
Ronaldo looked at Elena. The last of their cash had gone for gas on the way out of the city. They were down to her most expensive gold and diamond jewelry, his silver watch, and the thousand dollars in silver coins he kept in his bug-out bag. They also had their pistols and ammunition, which were almost as valuable, but those weren’t for trade.
Yet.
Aside from these things, they had a small supply of food—mostly just the shit-tasting energy bars Dom had hoarded before the collapse, to fuel his body while training. They tasted like cardboard, but they were far more nutritious than the candy bars that others had to make do with. Most of these people hadn’t eaten in days.
A low rumble began, and Ronaldo froze as it grew in pitch and volume. He knew that screaming roar.
“What?” Elena asked.
“Listen,” he replied, scanning the sky.
Another memory surfaced in his mind: of fleeing civilians torched in a bombing raid. The roar of the fighter jets brought back the images of blackened bodies. Two F-35s appeared from over the barren peaks of the Tehachapi range, headed right for the highway.
Sons of War Page 17
