Pietro Romano held that same glower the day he took his oath. But every day before and since, Pietro’s sapphire eyes have held the same joie-de-vivre gleam that Big Sal himself wears proudly. Not once have I seen those dead eyes again in my presence.
Ciro’s eyes, however, seem to be branded with a hollow void, which I fear will only worsen the longer he stays here. If my father’s attitude toward him is any indication, he is still as unwanted here now as he was the day he left.
Welcome to Chicago, Ciro. You should have never returned. The Butcher doesn’t like defiance, and you don’t seem the obedient type, I think to myself, the underlying threat the young man was bold enough to shout out at my father, still tumbling around in my head.
Hmm… Ciro LaSpina—The Thorn.
I wonder just how bold a thorn could be without its rose?
SIX
Giovanni
Sixteen years old
The cafeteria is a mess of loud noises and upheaval. Teenagers fill the room, talking shit about what they’re going to be doing this weekend, or showing each other the latest hilarious comment that some mindless douchebag posted on Facebook.
Fucking normals.
If they knew some of their classmates had whacked off some pathetic excuse of an associate for keeping a few mementos from the last gun run before they even brushed their teeth this morning, they would freak the fuck out.
But I guess my boys have gotten used to wearing their masks. Both Dom and Vince have become too cunning actors, pretending to play the social ladder game to such perfection that no one really takes notice of the blood on their hands. I skim the room and see my fellow soldati sitting at their usual table, surrounded by the Sacred Heart Academy elite. What a fucking joke.
I can be a lot of things.
Instigator.
Rebel.
Hustler.
Conman.
But I’m not a liar pretending to be something I’m not.
Of course, thanks to my dear old dad, I got my first kill the day I turned fifteen—to his never-ending disappointment—and added ‘killer’ to my list of despicable merits. All the other soldiers my age were already proficient in their death toll, while I was as green as they come—a fact I would have gladly held onto a little longer if given the chance. Taking a life isn’t something I look forward to. I’ve seen Vincent slice up some poor sod without batting an eye, and Dominic seems to be on a mission to put as many bastardi in the ground as possible—as if that will somehow solidify his made status and get him his own crew faster. My father sure seems taken with him. Never seen the old man so quick to praise. It pisses me off. Of course, it could be the fact that Carmine has never had a gentle word to give me that gets on my nerves, and not that he thinks Dom is the shit. To him, I’m just one big-ass disappointment and he never lets me forget it.
Shit.
I know my father isn’t a heartless bastard as I make him out to be. He has his good qualities. He’s good to my mom. Never once laid a hand on her. Never cheated on her either, and for a mafia man, that’s practically unheard of. But when it comes to me, let’s just say being born male has its fucking rewards.
Not.
It means he expects a certain type of behavior and attitude from me. He wants me to be hard as nails like he is. No back talking and no fuck-ups.
And I am a fuck-up.
I mean, how can you not be in this life?
The shit I’ve seen would make anyone a little bit loopy. Yet here is this man expecting me to deal, to conform, and be a part of an association I don’t believe in. I mean, to me, the syndicate is as fucking outdated as the house phone. They’re making their money the old-fashioned way when they could be cleaning it up and getting filthy rich with fewer bullets. And don’t get me started on the buttload of cash the Outfit could be making online. The world is changing, and even crime needs to roll with the times. We shouldn’t be tainting our hands in the streets to make a profit. We should be on keyboards in locked rooms, killing it on the dark web.
But telling that to my father is a big no-no. The man does not do well with change. He’s an old school dog from the old country, through and through.
‘It’s our heritage, boy,’ he reprimands anytime I forget that I’m not only talking to my father but also to the underboss of the Outfit.
Fuck our heritage!
I was born for greater things than to be someone’s muscle, knife, or lackey.
So, what does my father do when I intentionally fuck up in defiance? The old man puts me to work in the shittiest of grunt jobs to teach me humility.
What-the-fuck-ever.
I’d rather wash dishes and clean toilets in one of his clubs than have to reload my gun to shoot some schmuck down because he’s dealing on our turf, anyway.
The normals don’t know how good they’ve got it.
Our mafia progenitors have spoon-fed us from birth that sacrifice and loyalty are the very bones of our heritage and way of life. Nothing less than total dedication and servitude will do.
I very much doubt the everyday teenager have parents who demand such things—loyalty and sacrifice.
As usual, my eyes wander over to the table in the corner, away from the student havoc, to feast my eyes on the only thing that would merit such devotion. Alone and ethereal, there sits the other reason this life pisses me off so much.
My girl.
My principessa.
My Selene.
The only one I would gladly kill for, if she asked, with a smile on my face so fucking wide, people would want to lock me up based on my psychotic appearance alone.
She hates this life just as much as I do. Only, while I have a father who is always on my ass to learn the ropes to become the great capo he commands me to be, she has a madman who gets his kicks in raping women and beating them senseless and has no qualms about his only daughter receiving similar treatment in her future. Far from being awarded the father-of-the-year title.
Shit.
The stories we three have heard from the other soldiers would make you sick to your stomach. And that maniac lives with two of the gentlest souls you could ever meet.
I mean, Anna Maria is almost a fucking saint in our parish—feeding the hungry, clothing the homeless—and there isn’t a charitable institution who doesn’t know her name. And in turn, he treats her with as little respect as one would a back-alley whore. Always with a demeaning word on the tip of his tongue and complaining about how she spends her time being a trophy wife, lamenting his annoyance of how she wastes his dirty money to go to charity events just to show off the latest designer dress. Deep down, the only reason the asshole likes to paint his wife as vainly flawed is so that no one would dare insinuate his misconduct is uncalled for. In reality, he couldn’t give two shits that she uses his money to do some good in this wretched city. As long as everyone knows he’s the one controlling her strings, and that his benevolence and deep pockets are what enables his wife’s philanthropy work. Unfortunately, for every good deed Anna Maria does, The Butcher adds two more transgressions to his list of sins.
Then there’s Selene—the girl who wears armor, so thick, it’s a wonder she can walk on five-inch Manolo Blahnik’s like a model taking a stroll on the catwalk. Her resting bitch face is carefully designed, and fabricated, just as her flawless, old-Hollywood hairstyle is made up to be each day. But the well-placed camouflage still does nothing to hide what lies beneath—a heart so big, it hurts for all those she truly cares for; selfless to the point of never asking for anything her own heart desires, but content in letting others live out any happiness they can find, even if those fleeting moments are enjoyed without her.