Part of the family…and how did I repay that trust?
By turning my back on the organization entirely—a mortal sin in our world. You don’t just leave the famiglia and come back.
Still, I can’t help but taunt myself with that fucking cliché at the sight of the battered sign appearing up ahead, pointing the way forward.
Home sweet home.
It even smells the same, a stench that seeps into the body of the car, despite the windows being rolled up. My nostrils flare to inhale it all. Damp wood, dirt, and musk.
Up ahead, the gate’s entrance looms, a simple twisted wire fence outfitted with more security cameras than some military bases. Whoever is manning them has seen me coming for a mile now—but, oddly enough, they haven’t mustered the cavalry to meet me.
Yet.
A battered metal speaker is affixed to a pole, easily reached from the driver’s seat, and I wrench the window down, craning my neck.
“You know who I am,” I say into it as a weak smattering of raindrops pelts my head. “Either let me in or put a bullet in my head now. I don’t fucking care.”
I mean it, and I close my eyes in grim anticipation of a response. If fate would have it that my story end here, then so be it. What a pathetic finale, but at least I’d have some ounce of peace. I might even see Olivia again on my way to hell…
It isn’t long before an answer comes—not a gunshot. Rattling metal and the telltale whine of turning gears cut the silence instead. I open my eyes, resigned to the sight I find.
The gates slowly drift apart, clearing the way—but it’s not the greeting one would expect in the old days. No men appear to line the road, and no warning comes from the speaker. Both signs don’t bode well at all. Either the famiglia has become more welcoming to visitors, or I’m heading straight into a trap.
Though, hell, it’s not like I have any other options. Sighing, I grip the wheel and drive.
It could be the fact that I’m viewing everything through a cracked windshield smeared with mud, but the landscape doesn’t look quite how I remember it after all. Gone are the meticulously maintained fields and hints of regular patrols. Nature’s returned with a vengeance, swallowing every inch of available land in thick weeds, and I don’t see a guard or van in sight. Not only that, but the fact that I’ve made it this close without being met with gunfire speaks for itself.
Trap or not, one thing is apparent. Antonio let the place go to shit.
The overall layout still resembles a large rectangle with the main headquarters residing in the center, three outbuildings on the perimeter, and a lumberyard in between. A layer of grime shrouds the landscape, and if I didn’t know better, I’d assume the property was abandoned. Most of the equipment appears rusted with disuse, and the piles of lumber stacked out in the open look suspiciously as though they’ve been there since the days of Giovanni.
The old man is turning over in his grave. Maintaining the sawmill was one chore he always insisted on, no matter how much money his empire amassed. Everyone, including him, worked at least some part of the business. In his words. You forget the upkeep; you might as well forget your freedom. All the power in the world can’t buy you a good cover.
Because the sawmill is just a front. Beneath the property is where the real business lies—an underground warehouse with direct access to the river.
Though who knows what state the enterprise is in now.
With every inch I gain on the winding road leading to the main building, Antonio’s influence becomes more obvious—primarily in the row of luxury vehicles parked amid a yard of overgrown weeds and sparse gravel. Apparently, he and his cohorts have taken the money for themselves rather than use it to maintain the façade.
And it shows.
Only five men stand on the steps of the building up ahead, weapons drawn—a fraction of the men Giovanni kept around at a given time. They look trained enough, despite wearing a mismatched array of jeans and casual shirts, another breach of protocol that would catch Giovanni’s ire.
None of them move as I park and climb out. They just stare. As I spot my reflection in the glossy black paint job of Fabio’s car, I realize why.
I look like hell. My hair is a fucking rat’s nest, my clothes rumpled, drenched in booze, and lighter fluid.
Or maybe it’s the blood that has their attention? Reddish smears streak my hands. My wrists. My chin. My clothing is stiff with it, like armor against the judgment of anyone watching. I start to tug on my collar, only to let my hand fall. Instead, I jerk my chin without adjusting a damn thing.
Let them stare. I may look like an animal, but they’re no different.
“Keep your hands where I can see them.” The man in the center of the pack steps forward, keeping his pistol trained over my chest. A formality, I suspect, given he had every chance to stop me at the gate. I recognize his face. Luciano. Hours earlier, he watched me stroll out of Antonio Salvatore’s mansion.
“You have some nerve coming here,” he says. His tone gives me nothing to go off of, his expression blank. I’m impressed despite myself—as far as poker faces go, he’s damn good.
Which is a bad sign if I intend to navigate this meeting peacefully. Looking at him, it’s impossible to guess his motive—mainly why he let me go in the first place. Not to mention why he hasn’t shot me now. I could always go the intimidation route to gain answers, but as I spy the blood on my shirt, I lose the urge.
Instead, I drop all pretense, facing him with my arms outstretched and nothing held back. Whatever he sees makes him grimace, though it doesn’t take a stretch of the imagination to guess what impression I’ve made—that of a crazy motherfucker covered in blood.
He’d be better off opening fire—but he hasn’t, and as the seconds tick past, he never gives the call to attack. Even his men don’t seem to understand why, trading questioning looks between them.
It’s easy to conclude that on this battlefield, Luciano is the only one worth confronting, so I turn my full attention to him.
“You haven’t shot me yet,” I finally point out, but there could be a multitude of reasons why, none of which being a desire to reconnect with an old ally. One real possibility is that he has Mischa already lying in wait inside? Admittedly, I didn’t think this far ahead in terms of returning to my old outfit. Coming here at all could be neatly summarized as a suicidal death wish.
As I observe the mouth of the gun, I’m forced to admit that could very well be the reason. Why? I don’t feel a shred of fear.
I don’t feel a damn thing.
Luciano’s expression reveals nothing either way. Without a word, he eyes my hands, and a muscle in his jaw twitches, but I doubt it’s the blood alone that has him so wary. Sure enough, his eyes flicker toward the trunk, giving me a clue as to what might be behind his restraint.
Surprisingly, it might be as simple as basic human decency.
His next words leave no doubt. “Where is Kisa?”
Kisa Salvatore. The child I took from her home still dressed in her nightgown after strangling her father before her eyes.
From the man’s tone alone, I can tell exactly what he thinks happened to her—I, the Butcher, Il Mostro himself, killed her.
Rather than answer him out loud, I circle around to the car.
“Why are you here, Donatello?” Luciano snarls as I run my fingers along the side of the driver’s seat, finding the lever for the back. “Come to finish us off the way you did Antonio? Did you hurt Kisa too? Answer me! Don’t think I won’t fucking put a bullet in your skull—”