Chapter One #2
“And why is the body our problem?” This is our turf, but not all murders happening here are caused by our family.
“Recognize him?”
I look at the corpse’s ashen face. It has dirt all over and fresh scars, but I can’t get a clear view. No visible tattoos or accessories that could help me identify him.
Marco gets fed up. “It’s Coretti’s right-hand’s son.”
“Giorgio Doppi’s son?” He’s about, what? Eighteen?
“He started working for the Corettis a couple of months ago. Doing small errands, dropping off products, nothing major,” Marco lets me know.
I crouch down to stare more closely at the dead boy again.
He has no clothes, at least not on the parts exposed from the soil.
Most of his fingers were cut off. There are stab wounds and long and round slashes on his arms and chest, just like on his face; someone carved them deeply into his skin.
It almost reminds me of my interrogating MO, although I usually use a bigger blade.
“It looks like he was tortured,” I muse.
“His neck was twisted.” He points at the bruise around the boy’s neck.
“You thinking it was one of ours?” I ask as Carlo and Jo start pulling the body out of the ground.
“I think that whoever did this wanted the corpse to be discovered on our turf to make it look like…we did it,” he hisses.
Fuck. Thoughts start flying inside my head until everything halts as I look at the knife wounds again. “You mean to look like I did it.”
Marco lets out a sigh that confirms my suspicions.
In the criminal world, there are the so-called message jobs, in which a person is killed in such a specific way to send a message to a family or to that person’s crew.
It could be done by placing a bullet in a particular area of the body—Marco seems to prefer the eyes and mouth.
For me, knives are the weapon of choice when torturing, stabbing, and removing parts.
I’m notorious for that, and the killer seems to have used it against me.
I’m pulling myself up when a glare coming from something on the ground hits my eyes.
I slide my yellow pocket square out of my suit jacket and use it to pick the small shiny object from the ground.
It’s a gold horn pendant, a traditional Italian amulet worn to protect against bad luck. This one has a cross carved on it.
“What is it?” Marco asks.
I hand it to him. “Ever seen this before?”
“Could be. Italian-Americans are a superstitious bunch.”
He’s right. It could belong to a wide range of people. Marco himself has custom-made gold knuckles with crosses carved on them, a present from Don Massimo.
“Let me see,” Seb says, remaining on the cemented path and waiting for Marco to walk to him—he hates getting dirty.
His grizzly locks shine under the light.
They started turning white in his twenties, premature gray, a genetic trait he took from his father.
It sure emphasizes his icy demeanor and stony appearance.
“The carving could narrow the search. Tell your men to ask around,” he orders us as he looks at the horn.
I nod. Carlo and Jo move the dead body onto a black plastic sheet, and I look down at it.
I’ve seen too many corpses to be affected anymore—some caused by my hands.
Most people in the mob don’t live a long life.
Doppi’s boy was born into it, so he knew the risks.
Usually, a couple of bullets is how we expect to go.
Torture could definitely happen, but in this case, the killer seemed to have enjoyed disfiguring the boy.
There are more, similar scars on this waist and legs.
“We need to find out who did this before Coretti gets a whiff of it,” Marco states, interrupting my pondering.
“It has to be Enzino!” I snap. “He’s the only one who would start a war between us and Coretti in such a ruthless way.”
Marco shakes his head at my conclusion. “He’ll get extra firepower, Coretti’s shipping company, and with that, control over almost all the docks after Art marries his daughter. Why would he try to jeopardize the merging of the two families by starting a war between Coretti and us now?”
I head toward them. “We are on shaky ground here since Seb rejected Coretti’s marriage proposal. The relationship between our families has become strained. This would definitely make Coretti lose his shit.”
I know Seb had his reasons, I’m not saying he should have accepted the marriage deal.
But the way he refused it must have been pretty harsh if Coretti is still this pissed at him.
Diplomacy isn’t one of Seb’s strongest suits.
Finance is, though. He’s always had a knack for economics, money management, stakes, and holdings.
In his twenties, he invested some of the family capital in different companies, which quickly expanded into the market sectors, increasing their profitability.
Now he is an executive and major shareholder of a company conglomerate.
He has quickly moved the Leone family into the twenty-first century, hiding our illegal deals behind legitimate—borderline ethical—work.
We are still thugs—thank fuck—but with nicer suits and a legion of lawyers.
And that’s why Enzino wants to take us out.
We are becoming too powerful for his liking, especially after we started shaking hands with outside gangs.
“All Jack Enzino actually wants is to be the only boss left, to be il capo dei capi,” Seb says, reading my mind.
After Don Massimo died, Seb was supposed to get it.
The title comes with a majority of votes; the bosses of each family decide who becomes the big boss.
Seb had that majority, but before the voting could happen, Enzino asked for a mourning period to let the people adjust to Don Massimo’s abrupt death.
Bullshit, the vile snake had a plan all along.
During the mourning, the bosses of two families—Cerruti and Esposito—died.
One in a weird boat accident, and the other just dropped dead.
I knew it was Enzino’s doing. Everybody suspected him, but there was no proof.
He then proceeded to destroy what remained of the Cerruti and Esposito families and, through intimidation and blackmail, took their turf, gifting some to Coretti.
A fucking bribe if you ask me. The snake was already working to get the other boss on his side.
He would’ve killed him as well if Coretti weren’t a recluse with very strong connections through his late wife to the Mexican cartels.
“This is too messed up for Jack Enzino. The way the murder was conducted makes me think about someone else,” Seb calmly adds, staring at my face. His eyes move to the long scars there.
“Mario Enzino,” I spit the name out like I would bitter poison.
All the hate that has been growing inside my chest threatens to spill out as a growl filled with fury rips out from my chest. I want Jack Enzino dead at my feet, but his son?
He needs to suffer ten times more, to feel my rage through my sharp blade while I carve it on his brain, so deep I’ll reach his soul until all he sees and hears and breathes is my name.
He created this beast that craves blood, screams, and the suffering of others.
It scratches and claws at my insides. It hungers for Mario Enzino.
Seb’s hand falls on my shoulder, reminding me of Don Massimo’s soothing pats. The familiar gesture placates some of the beast’s raw fury.
“It’s possible, but improbable,” Marco states. “Mario is a fucking psycho, but after the mess with Fly, he disappeared. He isn’t in New York.”
A month ago, after fighting with Marco, Fly was kidnapped by a man in Mario’s crew.
Luckily, that fucker didn’t get his hands on him before Marco arrived and saved him.
Mario escaped and is in hiding, but the good news is that I can kill him now since he knew Fly was under Marco’s protection and let one of his men take him anyway.
“His brother, Arturo, helped us find Fly. Their friendship seems legit since he went against his family,” Seb says.
I’m still trying to find a reason behind the brat’s behavior. Does he expect something in return? A favor? Protection when his house is crushed and burned? Fat chance! He’ll be charred meat like the rest of them.
“He doesn’t seem to be interested in the family,” Seb adds. I can see the wheels turning in his scheming head.
I sniff in disagreement as Seb gestures for us to walk back the path we came from. “He’s going to marry Coretti’s daughter, which means he is fucking interested.”
“What’s with the continuous changing of the wedding date?” Marco interjects. “Maybe the little prince got cold feet?”
Since he’s queer as a rainbow, I can see the possibility.
“No. Arturo was on board with the marriage from the beginning. There were rumors that Coretti’s daughter was involved with someone else, but she’s ready to tie the knot now.
Word is it’s a power struggle between the dons,” Seb lets us know.
He has informants on the inside—in every crime family, gang, and corporation, apparently.
Enemies or allies, doesn’t matter. In true boss fashion, he needs to have control over everything, no surprises.
“Coretti is asking for more out of the marriage contract, and Enzino is not liking it much,” he finishes.
I bet. Coretti is an old fox, made from the same cloth as Don Massimo.
“What’s our next move?” Marco stops near his car as we reach the parking lot once again.
Drops of rain start coming down, which is a good thing.
That, combined with the early morning spring bite in the air, will keep people away from the park and the moving of the corpse.
Not that they would dare to talk. Most of them know who we are and stay away.
“Next move is the kidnapping of Arturo Enzino.”