The past:
I curled into myself. I didn’t fight back. I never did.
Father grunted from the effort of beating me. Punch after punch. My back. My head. My stomach. Creating new bruises, awakening old bruises. I gasped when the toe of his shoe shoved into my stomach and had to swallow down bile. If I threw up, he’d only beat me worse. Or take the knife. I shuddered.
Then the hits stopped and I dared to look up. I blinked to clear my vision. Sweat and blood dripped down my face.
Father glowered at me, breathing hard. He wiped his hands on a towel that his soldier Alfonso had handed him. Perhaps this was the last test to prove my worth. Perhaps I’d finally become an official part of the Outfit. A Made Man.
“Do I get my tattoo?” I rasped.
Father’s lip curled. “Your tattoo? You won’t be part of the Outfit.”
“But—” He kicked me again and I fell back to my side. I pressed on, not caring about the consequences. “But I will be Consigliere when you retire.” When you die.
He gripped my collar and pulled me to my feet. My legs hurt as I tried to stand. “You are a fucking waste of my blood. You and your sisters share your mother’s tainted genes. One disappointment after the other. All of you. Your sisters are whores and you are weak. I’m done with you. Your brother will become Consigliere.”
“But he’s a baby. I’m your oldest son.” Since Father had married his second wife, he’d treated me like dirt. I’d thought it was to make me strong for my future tasks. I’d done everything to prove my worth to him.
“You are a disappointment like your sisters. I won’t allow you to bring shame down on me.” He let go of me and my legs gave way.
More pain.
“But Father,” I whispered. “It’s tradition.”
His face twisted with rage. “Then we’ll just have to make sure that your brother is my oldest son.” He nodded at Alfonso, who rolled up his sleeves. The first punch hit my stomach, then my ribs. I kept my eyes on my Father as punch after punch shook my body, until my vision finally turned black. He’d kill me.
“Make sure he won’t be found, Alfonso.”
Pain.
Bone-deep.
I groaned. Vibrations sent a twinge through my ribs. I tried to open my eyes and sit up, but my lids were crusted shut. I groaned again.
I wasn’t dead.
Why wasn’t I dead?
Hope flared up.
“Father?” I croaked.
“Shut up and sleep, boy. We’ll arrive soon.”
That was Alfonso’s voice.
I struggled into a sitting position and peeled my eyes open. My vision was blurry. I was sitting in the back of a car. Alfonso turned to me. “You’re stronger than I thought. Good for you.”
“Where?” I coughed, then winced. “Where are we?”
“Kansas City.” Alfonso steered the car onto an empty parking lot. “Final stop.”
He got out, then opened the back door and pulled me out. I gasped in pain, holding my ribs, then staggered against the car. Alfonso flipped open his wallet and handed me a twenty dollar note. I took it, confused.
“Perhaps you’ll survive. Perhaps you won’t. I suppose it’s up to fate now. But I won’t kill a fourteen-year old kid.” He grasped my throat, forcing me to meet his eyes. “Your father thinks you’re dead, boy, so make sure you stay away from our territory.”
Their territory? It was my territory. The Outfit was my destiny. I didn’t have anything else.
“Please,” I whispered. He shook his head, then walked around the car and got in. I took a step back when he drove off, then sank down to my knees. My clothes were covered in blood. I clutched the dollar note in my palms. This was all I had. Slowly I stretched out on the cool asphalt. Pressure against my calf reminded me of my favorite knife strapped to a holster there. Twenty dollars and a knife. My body ached and I never wanted to get up again. There was no sense in doing anything. I was nothing. I wished Alfonso had done as my father ordered and killed me.
I coughed and tasted blood. Perhaps I’d die anyway. My eyes flitted around. There was a huge graffiti on the wall of the building to my right. A snarling wolf in front of swords.
The sign of the Bratva.
Alfonso couldn’t kill me himself.
This place would. Kansas City belonged to the Russians.
Fear urged me to rise and leave. I wasn’t sure where to go or what to do. I hurt all over. At least it wasn’t cold. I began walking to look for a place I could spend the night. Eventually I settled for the entrance of a coffee shop. I’d never been alone, never had to live on the streets. I pulled my legs against my chest, swallowed a whimper. My ribs. They hurt fiercely. I couldn’t return to the Outfit. Father would kill me. Perhaps I could try to contact Dante Cavallaro. But he and Father had worked together for a long time. I’d look like a fucking rat, a coward and weakling.
Aria would help. My stomach clenched. Her helping Lily and Gianna was the reason why Father hated me in the first place. And running to New York with my tail between my legs to beg Luca to make me part of the Famiglia wasn’t going to happen. Everyone would know I had been taken in out of pity, not because I was a worthy asset.
Worthless.
This was it. I was alone.
Four days later. Only four days. I was out of money and hope. Every night I returned to the parking lot, hoping, wishing that Alfonso would return, that Father had changed his mind, that his last pitiless, hateful look at me had been my imagination. . I was a fucking idiot. And hungry.
No food in two days. I’d wasted my entire money the first day on burgers, fries and Dr. Pepper.
I held my ribs. The pain had gotten worse. I’d tried to get money with pickpocketing today. Chose the wrong guy and been beaten up. I didn’t know how to survive on the street. I wasn’t sure I wanted to keep trying.
What was I going to do? No Outfit. No future. No honor.
I sank down on the ground of the parking lot in plain view of the Bratva graffiti. I lied back. The door opened, men got out and walked away. Bratva territory.
I was so fucking tired.
It wouldn’t be slow. The pain in my limbs and hopelessness kept me in place. I stared up at the night sky and began reciting the oath I’d memorized months ago in preparation for the day of my induction. The Italian words flowed out of my mouth, filled me with loss and despair. I repeated the oath over and over again. It had been my destiny to become a Made Man.
There were voices to my right. Male voices in a foreign language.
Suddenly a black-haired guy stared down at me. He was bruised, not as badly as me, and dressed in fight shorts. “They say there’s a crazy Italian fucker outside sprouting Omertá. I guess they meant you.”
I fell silent. He’d said ‘Omertá’ like I would say it, like it meant something. He was covered in scars. Only a few years older. Eighteen perhaps.
“Talking that kind of shit in this area means you got a death wish or are batshit crazy. Probably both.”
“That oath was my life,” I said.
He shrugged, then looked over his shoulder before turning back with a twisted smile. “Now it’s going to be your death.”
I sat up. Three Men in fight shorts, bodies covered in tattoos of wolves and Kalashnikovs, heads clean-shaven stepped out of a door beside the Bratva graffiti.
I considered lying back and letting them finish what Alfonso couldn’t.
“What family?” The black-haired guy asked.
“Outfit,” I replied, even as the word ripped a hole in my heart.
He nodded. “Suppose they got rid of you. Not the balls to do what it takes to be a Made Man?”
Who was he? “I got what it takes,” I hissed. “But my father wants me dead.”
“Then prove it. And now get the fuck up from the ground and fight.” He narrowed his eyes when I didn’t move. “Get. The. Fuck. Up.”
And I did, even though my world spun and I had to hold my ribs. His black eyes took in my injuries. “Suppose I will have to do most of the fighting. Got any weapons?”
I pulled my Karambit knife from the holster around my calf.
“I hope you can handle that thing.”
Then the Russians were upon us. The guy began some martial arts shit that kept two of the Russians busy. The third headed my way. I swiped my knife at him and missed. He landed a few hits that had my chest screaming with agony, and I dropped to my knees. My bruised body had no chance against a trained fighter like him. His fists rained down on me, hard, fast, merciless. Pain.
Black-haired guy lunged at my attacker, ramming his knee into his stomach. The Russian fell forward, and I raised my knife, which buried itself in his abdomen. Blood trickled down my fingers and I released the handle as if burnt as the Russian toppled to his side, dead.
I stared at my knife sticking out of his belly. Black-haired guy pulled it out, cleaned the blade on the dead man’s shorts, then held it out to me. “First kill?” My fingers shook as I took it, then nodded.
“There will be more.”
The two other Russians were dead as well. Their necks had been broken. He held out his hand, which I took, and pulled me to my feet. “We should leave. More Russian fuckers will be here soon. Come on.”
He led me toward a beaten up truck. “Noticed you slinking around the parking lot the last two nights when I was here to fight.”
“Why did you help me?”
There was that twisted smile again. “Because I like to fight and kill. Because I hate the fucking Bratva. Because my family wants me dead too. But most importantly, because I need loyal soldiers who will help me take back what’s mine.”
“Who are you?”
“Remo Falcone. And I will be Capo of the Camorra soon.” He opened the door to the truck and was halfway in when he added. “You can help or you can wait for the Bratva to get you.”
I got in. Not because of the Bratva.
Because Remo had shown me a new purpose, a new destiny.
A new family.
