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Don
“Though this be madness, yet there is method in’t.” ~Hamlet.
While I wasn’t the smartest kid in the world, I had one trait most don’t—ambition. Ambitions so grand I envisioned myself one day ruling the world—and I wasn’t satisfied with just imagining it. Sure, the dumb fantasies were no different than what most punks aspire to at that age, but I’d wanted more. More than a kid raised in the streets was entitled to.
More than I deserved.
Mama called it “dreaming,” thinking too big for my britches but, bless her soul, she was naïve when it came to the way of the world. She never taught me that dreams don’t mean shit in the long run, or that success has a price—desperation. You have to take it. With pain, with blood, by any means necessary, you take what you want.
And the easiest way to do that? Through force. Young Donatello learned that violence could garner him whatever he craved. Cars. Booze. Women.
But I also learned that there isn’t one damn thing that can’t be ripped away afterward. Despite the odds, I’d gotten my wish once, gaining everything I’d dreamed of and more. The funny thing is, I was so fixated on what I lacked, I didn’t even know it. Greed was the one constant I knew, and I only ever had one goal. Money. To have more of it than God himself, enough to have this entire city in the palm of my hand. I got that wish too—my name was feared, be it Donatello or the various monikers assigned to me by rivals. Il Mostro. The Butcher. That Violent Cunt.
Back then, I’d been stupid enough to assume that fear meant something. That fear equaled power. In his own esteem, the old Donatello was a force to be reckoned with—and if that smug little punk could see the man I am now, he’d scoff, unable to recognize himself.
A man who scrapes for what he has and appreciates every damn cent. Who knows what it means to be humble. To suffer. To bide his time and keep his fucking mouth shut.
This new man ain’t no Butcher, for damn sure. From crook to legitimate businessman. Hell, it sounds like some shitty fairy tale, but reformed or not, a man never forgets his past. If he’s smart, he’ll even learn from it.
Now, of all times, I remember a particular piece of advice—coincidentally given to me by the last bastard I ever killed myself. His name didn’t matter; he was some balding, pudgy little asshole who read Hamlet once, and thought that made him a fucking intellectual. Funny, because that “intelligence” didn’t pan out so well for him in the end. I will give him this much, though—he made an impression on me in a way few have.
“Though this be madness, there’s a method to it, see. Like Shakespeare?” he’d ranted, right before I’d put a bullet in his skull.
The madness was selling me out. The method? Using back-channel deals to frame me for extortion. In his mind, it all made sense. He wasn’t trying to set me up to save his own skin, see? By slithering his way into my inner circle like the lying cunt he was, he was merely doing me a favor by revealing how easy it could be to fuck me over. His betrayal was all for the greater good.
Unimpressed by that genius rationale, I’d reacted the only way I knew how back then.
Fast-forward almost a decade later, and karma gives me a cruel, new perspective. Finally, I understand just what the dumb son of a bitch was getting at. He wasn’t smart; hell, he wasn’t even trying to be. Logic doesn’t mean shit when you’re desperate; when you have nothing else to fall back on but insanity.
In such a mental state, everything starts looking like a good idea—like what I’m doing right now.
It’s insane to stand here before two armed guards, holding a gift wrapped by some lady in a store who assured me a woman would “enjoy such a thoughtful present.” She even tied it with a goddamn bow.
It’s insane to wear this pathetic smile and pray to God my act holds up.
It’s methodical insanity.
“We’re Fabio Botelli’s guests,” I say, gesturing to the slender man beside me. Just like I’d told him, he keeps his mouth shut, his smile as dumb as mine.
One look at these guards, and I know they’re no bumbling rent-a-cops. Ex-soldier is written all over their stiff posture and the cautious way they glance me over. Considering the reputation of the man who owns this property, I’m not surprised.
Nerves ripple through my belly, catching me off guard. I feel like a punk again, stepping up to the head of the famiglia for the first time, wearing my Sunday’s best. Little did I know, the dress shirt sported a fucking pizza stain on the collar. Old Giovanni had taken one look at me and scoffed, seeing through my act. He’d turned me away that time, warning that he didn’t work with “boys.” He only hired men.
This inspection feels no different, though one would hope a couple decades of experience would improve my chances. A week after that initial meeting, I’d returned to Giovanni, but with the added prestige of having shot one of his rivals at point-blank range. Bloodstains carry a bit more weight to them than pizza sauce. The old man had taken me on then and taught me the importance of casting an image. Of sowing a reputation based on fear. He bought me a brand-new shirt, and I made sure never to stain it. Hell, I still have it, a reminder of that valuable lesson.
If he could see me now, Giovanni would shake his head in disbelief. “You look plain, Donny,” he’d scold. “You are a lion among men dressed like a fucking sheep.”
In this city, aptly named Hell’s Gambit, sheep wear Italian designer suits and grease their hair to shine. They smile awkwardly before those in authority and simper just long enough to go undetected. Those sheep? They dine with the wolves, a position preferable to figuratively starving. Hell, I’d bleat if I thought it would help.
Luckily that aspect of this ruse doesn’t seem necessary. The guards share searching glances, and then one inclines his head. “This way, Sir.”
He gestures to the massive oak doors propped open to allow guests inside. With a few tense steps, we’re in, joining an advancing line of other guests.
Relief surges through my blood, mingling with the shot of whiskey I’d taken for good luck. I fall into step behind a woman dressed in a black gown and catch sight of myself in a mirror hanging on the wall. A crazy son of a bitch stares back, his eyes only slightly bloodshot, his hair the neatest I’ve seen it in days. His smile is charming, but the strain in his expression gives it all away—he’s desperate. In a sense, he looks like Mr. Hamlet did when he pled for his life before me.
What supposed method might explain this man’s madness?
That’s easy. Survival.
I’m here because the only other option is to lie down quietly and let the brutality of this city swallow me whole. I can’t, not even newly reformed as I am. Luckily, Mischa Stepanov, owner of this massive residence, has done the one thing worth prostrating myself at his mercy. An act powerful enough to change the entire Vanici legacy for the better.
He’s decided to present his daughter to the world on a silver platter.
So, call me insane. I’m here, ready to grovel.
And apparently, I’m not the only one. A queue of well-dressed guests extends both ahead of me and behind. On polished shoes and pointy heels, we tread over a floor burnished to shine, and into a home displaying breathtaking gothic architecture. A large central staircase dominates the entryway, and past that is a winding set of corridors capped by vaulted ceilings and grand arches. Eventually, we’re herded into a massive grand hall, every bit as impressive as the name would imply. Instantly, I find the rumors were true after all, and this isn’t some elaborate trap. The fearsome leader of the Russian mob has decided to throw a birthday party of all things, in honor of his eldest daughter. Fresh roses litter nearly every available inch of space. Soft white accents lessen the intimidating atmosphere cast by the house itself and the security presence out front. As the swell of elegant music reaches my ears, and I spot dedicated servers mingling with trays of food, some of my unease lessens.