Anger propels me forward, and I take him to the ground. My body slams on top of his. Francis rolls to the side and spits out a mouthful of blood. I’m still on the ground, and I’m debating with myself. I know only one of us can leave this cage. Francis is a better man than I am.
He charges, his foot rising and connecting with my face. Pain smashes into my skull, and the pull of the pain rolls me several times across the sand-covered floor. I have a moment of blindness, the world growing black as metallic taste floods my tongue.
Francis slides beside me, madness dancing in his eyes. “If I kill you, I will live,” Francis says.
I nod. “Then just do it.” I cringe at the words. I’m not on a suicide mission, but killing Francis wouldn’t just end his life. It would end my life, too. There would be no coming back from that.
Francis grips my neck and squeezes. “I’m not here to live, Luca.”
Confusion floods me.
“Even if I walk out of here, I won’t make it far before I’m dead. So just fucking do it, or they will.”
I rise on one knee. I want to ask who they are, but the crowd wants blood, and what difference will it make at this moment? The weight of what Francis wants of me is almost too heavy to bear. I take a final look at the VIP box. My father is no longer there. He has abandoned me once again. I look into the faces of all the men who demand death, who demand to be entertained.
Francis’s leg rises, and he kicks sand toward me. I spin and get to my feet, and the world seems to go wild. The rattles of the solid cage bars make me fear they will break them and the entire world of death will pour in on top of us.
Francis bounces like he knows what he’s doing. Adrenaline and pure fear have me getting up to my feet. My best friend flexes his neck from left to right, and his gaze tells me he’s ready. No one is going to stop this, and apparently, if I don’t kill him, someone else is going to do it.
Why, I don’t know. But I’ll find out. I’ll find out who, and I’ll find out why, and I’ll kill the motherfuckers.
A roar rips from me as I charge, and before I collide with Francis, I see the quick flash of his familiar, beloved grin.
I hate him for making me do this. He knows this will destroy not just him, literally, but me in every other way there is. I take my best friend to the ground, and I can’t look at him. I spin with an arm around his neck and drag him to my chest, where I picture my father as I tighten my arm on his windpipe. Francis keeps his hands clenched into fists at his sides, doing nothing to stop me from killing him.
“Fight me, damn you.”
His legs jerk and kick up sand, and I focus on each kick as white dust rises in front of me. His weight on my chest is heavy as his arms finally take the command from his mind to stop this, and he starts to claw at me.
I think for a second of letting him go, but that just means starting this all over again. I close my eyes and roar into the air as I tighten my arm on his neck, taking a life that shouldn’t be taken. With a final jerk, I sense the break of his neck before his legs grow limp and his hands fall away from my face.
His dead body rests in my arms, and the Pits get their fifth soul.
Or maybe it was their six. Mine isn’t worth anything right now.
I’ve never asked for forgiveness for anything in my life, but as I lie on the sand with my friend in my arms, I ask God, Carina, and Francis to forgive me.
I don’t think they ever will.
I know I won’t.
Chapter 1
Luca
Geno slouches in the chair, his back slightly facing in my direction, his position blatantly disrespectful. One arm rests on the table, and he flips a coin around his fingers in quick succession.
He doesn’t trust me—that much is clear by his posture and the way his gaze darts restlessly around the small family-owned Italian restaurant. We have a chain of restaurants, but this one in particular is special to my family because it’s one of the first my father opened. It holds no emotional value to me. It’s just convenient, bricks and mortar.
Right now, it’s empty for my meeting with Geno. All the tables are set with white linen and glassware except for the one where I sit. A cup of coffee sits in front of me on the square mahogany table, untouched.
The space appears different without customers. I’m used to the hustle and bustle of the business, but I have my men at the door to stop any passersby from entering until I vacate the premises, which I will shortly. I know this won’t take long.
“Are you nervous?” I ask, lifting the small cup of coffee to my lips and taking a deliberately slow sip.
The coin stills on his middle finger. He shrugs. “No. Should I be?”
He takes a quick glance at all the floor-to-ceiling windows that showcase the busy outside world of the streets of New York. It’s like watching a muted TV as people walk past with no notion of what goes on inside these walls. Or maybe they do, but they prefer to live their small lives in blissful ignorance.
I grin without answering, and his gaze grows shifty. He’s the new leader of the 17s, a street gang that does the dirtier dealings for the Marzano family. That’s why two more of my men sit at the table toward the front of the restaurant. Heavily armed, their lives are mine, and they will use them to protect me if trouble comes knocking.
Another two men stand ramrod straight to the left of our table, near the long bar that runs the length of the establishment. Large overhanging lights fall from the ceiling in a teardrop formation only a foot apart from one another. The appearance is dramatic in daylight, but at night, it gives a very romantic feel, or so my mother always says.
Geno shifts again. He has been frisked for weapons upon entering the restaurant. He should have more sense than to show such disrespect toward me, especially since he isn’t packing.
“Do you know the grocery store called Zanetti’s?” I ask.
He blinks a few times and relaxes at the easy question. The coin bounces from one finger to the next. “Yes, it’s within the 17s territory.”
The 17s. The gang picked that name to make themselves sound formidable, its street meaning commonly known as “My life is over.” They’re bold and cunning, and yet, they answer to the Marzanos.
Geno could have been a god in his own right in the New York Mafia world; he comes from old Italian blood. He could have been so much more than a lackey for the Marzano family, but he pissed off the wrong person in his youth, and that, in turn, led him here to me, answering to my family.
I suppose we all pick our own paths in this world and make our choices from ones that seem to shift and pivot constantly. The instability and ease with which things change always made me nervous, but ever since the Pits, nothing could knock me. I have nothing left to give the streets of New York.
“Are you aware that the Marzano family has been taking payments from the Zanettis in exchange for their store not being hit?” I ask and take a sip of my coffee. It’s another simple question with a simple answer.
The coin continues to bounce from one finger to the next. “Yes, I’m aware.” A look of boredom tightens his brows, and he secures the coin in the palm of his hand. He faces me. His unspoken ‘What’s your point?’ hangs in the air between us.
I place the cup carefully onto the white saucer. “So, Geno, why has the store been hit twice since the arrangement was made?”