Chapter 8 – Age 28
DOMINIC
“Where the fuck is he?” I demand, twisting the collar of his shirt tight in my fist, gritting my teeth as I stare at a man who looks terrified.
He should be.
He’s the only one currently alive in this warehouse, but not for long. When we get what we need, he’ll be dead, and just as pretty as the rest of them.
“I swear I don’t know,” he cries.
Actual fucking tears. Pathetic.
My brother Dante is holding a gasoline canister behind me, opening and closing the top, taunting him. “Maybe if we pour this over his head and light him on fire, he’ll talk faster.”
“Please!” Greg begs. “He and his brothers are in hiding! No one knows where they are. He didn’t tell us.”
Smart. I didn’t expect Faro to tell anyone where he is.
It makes no difference to me. I plan to kill every soldier, every capo, in the Palermo crime family if I have to. Until I kill the don himself, Faro Bianchi, along with his three brothers.
If anyone in their organization stands in our way, they’ll pay the price.
But before we kill the Bianchi men, we’ll burn every legitimate business they own and enjoy watching it go up in flames.
I look Greg up and down, the blood of his soldiers smeared across his white t-shirt. It looks much better now. Adds a little character.
“It’s unfortunate that you don’t know where they are,” Enzo says from beside me. “Without that information, you’re damn useless. Kinda like them.”
He gestures toward the twelve dead bodies with the gun in his hand.
“What else can I do? Please. Come on,” he openly sobs. “I don’t wanna die. I didn’t do shit to no one.”
“That isn’t true,” I spit out, clenching his shirt in my fist, the anger for anyone who associates with Faro spiraling through me. “We know who you are. You work for that piece of shit. You kill for him. You sell guns for him. You’re as bad as he is.”
Greg here isn’t some low-on-the-totem-pole moron. He’s a captain in the organization. A capo, as they call them.
He leads the crew of the now-dead group of soldiers and works directly under Benvolio and Agnelo, two of Faro’s brothers.
It’s not common to have two underbosses, but I guess good old Faro couldn’t choose just one.
His other brother, Salvatore, is his consigliere, the right-hand man, the one who’s supposed to be giving him advice.
“My family’s gotta eat, man.”
The tears shining in his eyes have no effect on me. I only tighten my fist around his shirt.
“He’s my boss,” the sorry son of a bitch continues. “I don’t know what he did to you, but I’m sorry, man. Please, let me go. I’ll do whatever the hell you want.”
Dante chuckles, walking around me, his shoulders shuddering as though someone’s just told him the funniest joke he’s ever heard.
He reaches to the back of Greg’s head and yanks on his long, brown hair until their eyes meet.
“Do we look like we’ll let you come out of this breathing, my man? Have you not been here when we were slaughtering your pals over there?” He twists Greg’s face toward the dead bodies.
Greg sobs worse than a kid who’s lost all his Halloween candy. But soon, his fear will be gone. He’ll be nothing more than rotting flesh.
I don’t pity him or any of the dead men here. That’s what they get for working for a man like Faro. The one who destroyed my family fifteen years ago when he pulled the trigger on my eight-year-old brother, Matteo, and my father. And for that, he must pay with every ounce of his blood.
They all must.
His brothers were there and did nothing to stop him.
I vowed to get revenge, and every day of the last fifteen years has been building up to their deaths.
When he took our dad and brother from us, he killed my brothers and me in the same moment. We turned numb, and any values our parents instilled in us, like “thou shalt not kill,” vanished.
And when I helplessly watched them die at only thirteen, I suddenly grew into a man within a boy’s body. My mind became filled with nothing beyond their blood, their cries, their screams for mercy.
We were my father’s everything. The only reason he was slaving in the bakery he’s owned since before we were born. He and my mother put every penny they had into that place, and it became really successful.
My parents both loved to bake. It was something they did together all the time. Oftentimes, my brothers and I would help, and it would be this family thing we did.
Then, one day, my mother’s car was hit by a drunk driver. She was dead on impact. And nothing was the same. Not for my brothers, and definitely not for my father. The love of his life was gone.
Some piece of shit was drunk at two in the fucking afternoon and smashed right into her. My father didn’t give me the details then because I was so young, but the boys and I found out years later.
Our home was broken from that day on, but my father did his best to raise us without her, continuing to work hard, to bring us up into the men he knew my mother would want us to be.
But if she saw us now, she wouldn’t be proud. She’d hate everything we’ve become. The crimes we’ve committed, the lives we’ve taken, all in the name of retribution.
It’s worth it, though.
I hope she can understand that. They took her baby boy. That has to matter.
After my brothers and I ran from Faro, hitchhiking our way across state lines, I swore one day I’d find a way to kill them all.
We spent a year living on the streets before going to shelters, keeping faith we’d somehow become rich as fuck so we could find some guns, hire some people, and kill every motherfucker who had a hand in our brother’s and father’s death.
We dreamed big. We had to. It was all we had left. We didn’t see any other way. And after two years in a crummy shelter and working side jobs, I hit a lucky break, changing our entire life.
I was only sixteen when I met the man who helped secure our future.
I was working at a small coffee shop, mopping floors every damn day, when he saw me.
Powerful gray suit, coffee in his hand. When he tapped me on the shoulder, I thought I did something wrong at first. Worry over getting fired ran through me.
I couldn’t lose my job. We needed the money.
I was saving everything to make a life for us.
Being the oldest, I was their protector, and I took that job very seriously.
Tomás Smith was his name. The man who saved us. He asked me why I wasn’t in school. I lied, saying I was homeschooled, and that was partly true. I used books from the shelter we were at and taught my brothers what I knew.
Contemplating my answer, Tomás then asked if I wanted a better job. At first, I wasn’t sure what the fuck he wanted. Some creepy-ass dude talking to me, asking if I wanted work…it felt slimy.
He must’ve seen my hesitation, so he pulled out a card and handed it to me. Royal Onyx Resort & Spa, it read. I looked back up at him, not understanding what a kid like me could do there.
He told me he liked hiring young kids to work for him, to give them a path to something more. I assumed it was the cheap labor, but I was wrong. He paid everyone well.
He explained that he ran a hotel chain, five locations in total, and was looking to expand his cleaning crew. I would’ve been stupid not to try it out. The money was way more than I was getting at any job I had.
I told him I didn’t drive and would have to figure out how to get there by bus. He waved off the idea, offering a driver to take me back and forth.
I didn’t know what the hell to say. I had no home.
I had brothers to take care of. It wasn’t going to work out, and I told him why.
Instead of leaving, he made me get our stuff from the shithole, as he put it, and offered us a room at one of his hotels free of charge, plus a teacher for all three of us.
I couldn’t believe it. I even asked if it was a joke. He laughed, saying he was just a man who had a rough start at life and wanted to repay the good that someone had done for him when he was young. It was his way of giving back.
After my brothers and I moved to the hotel, we realized he was telling the truth. Some of his staff had been with him since they were our age, telling us how much he helped them.
Tomás had everything: money, power, women.
But he was lonely as hell. I could see it.
He lost his daughter and his wife five years before we met.
They both died in a house fire while he was on a business trip.
He never forgave himself for it, he told me one night while we drank a little too much whiskey.
Maybe that was why he treated me more like a son than a stranger.
Maybe it was the loneliness. And maybe that was why he left his CEO position to me when he died a year ago, and ensured my brothers had a seat on the board as well.
He believed that his legacy would live on with me, and I haven’t disappointed him yet.
Tomás knew everything about our past and helped shape our future. Within a year of working for him, we became very close, and I confessed about what happened back home.
In a week, we had new identities created. This allowed us to have a life.
Finally.
Then, a year after that, he asked to adopt us.
We were no longer the Cavaleri brothers. We were the Smiths. I was Brian, Dante was Chris, and Enzo was Patrick.
We have our true identities back now. Tomás ensured a way for that to happen through his lawyers if we ever needed it, and he secured our positions within his company, no matter which names we decided to use.
When he was diagnosed with stage four rectal cancer a year before he died, I confessed of my plans for revenge. He wasn’t an evil man. I never thought he’d bless my decision, but he did. All he asked was my promise I wouldn’t get myself or the boys killed.
Of course I promised him that, even though we both knew I might break it.
Once his condition worsened and the chemo stopped working, I swore I’d not only continue his legacy, but make my own like he taught me. He wanted us to have something of our own one day.
So, my brothers and I opened three nightclubs right before he died, under our own newly formed company, Vendetta Corporation, which we set up using our real names.
Tomás was proud. It was the last thing we were able to give him before he was gone.
And the name of the company? Well, we’re not very creative, and we were done hiding from the Bianchis.
When we lost him, it felt as though we had lost another parent. He was family to us in every sense of the word. We were indebted to him for everything.
We wanted Faro to know we were back in case he was still looking. I have no doubt he spent years tracking us down, and being bested by some kids is probably not something he’s chosen to forget.
Dante tosses Greg onto the floor.
“Your time’s up,” I tell him. “Time to meet your maker, or the other one.”
He raises both hands, wailing like a drowning cat, begging for mercy that’ll never come. “Please! I can help you. I can work for you! Whatever you want.”
“Can we just fucking do this already?” Enzo urges. “I’ve got shit to do in an hour, and I still have to wash this blood off of me.”
I know what kind of shit he has to do. It’s more like who he has to do.
I don’t know her name, because they change every week, but it’s definitely a woman.
My brother’s always either drowning in pussy or liquor, and usually at the same time.
The clubs made that much easier. Dante is just as bad as he is, but Enzo’s worse.
Enzo peers down at his bloodied hands for a mere second, clenching them into a tight fist, the knuckles stained with dark crimson.
I glance at his navy pants and gray button-down, blood spattered all over him. All over each of us, as though someone has thrown paint on us, like in one of those weird-ass paintings people call art.
“Let’s kill him already,” Enzo insists.
I remove the gun from the holster at my waistband, and at the sight, Greg prays through the tears in his eyes.
“No God is gonna help you,” Dante mocks.
I lift the weapon, point it at Greg’s leg, and pull the trigger.
“Ahh!” he screams as the bullet rips apart the flesh of his thigh.
Then I do it to his other one.
No hesitation.
But we’re not done yet. Not even close. By the time we’re through, this place won’t be recognizable.
Greg continues to scream through the pain, holding on to one leg, covering the bullet hole with blood seeping out between the slices of his fingers.
Dante opens the canister of gasoline still in his possession.
“Wha-what are you gonna do with that?” Greg asks, eyes widening in sheer terror, the tears drowned out by fear accosting him.
“What the fuck you think I’m gonna do?” Dante tosses the cap somewhere onto the ground. “Fry you up nice and crispy. Then we’re going to blow this whole place up so your boss has a nice mess to clean up.”
“Oh my God! You’re all crazy! What the fuck, man? Just shoot me!”
“That’s too easy, my friend,” I add. “And a lot less fun.”
I look to Dante, with Enzo now beside him, both with matching sinister smiles. Dante flips the canister over Greg’s head, the smell of gasoline permeating my nostrils as it spills down his body, pooling around him.
Greg struggles to get up, forgetting about his legs, before giving up, crying heavily, knowing the end is near.
A torturous end.
Enzo takes out a matchbox from his pocket and lights it up, staring at the dancing flame. “It was nice not knowing you.”
Then the match falls on top of Greg’s lap just as we jump back.
A fire roars to life, blending with the howling of Greg’s screams. We all move further away, watching the blaze eat away at him, melting and destroying, the way he’s destroyed so many innocent families at Faro’s request.
How many of those people begged him for mercy he never gave?
Fuck him.
We pick up some more canisters, pouring gasoline all over this place. I retrieve a t-shirt we took off one of the men, light it on fire, then throw it on the ground.
The fire starts slow, growing, getting fiercer as it continues to combine with the gasoline.
I know we have to get out of here before the whole place blows into an inferno.
I look around at our handiwork. Twelve men, all dead, all shot in their legs, then finally their head. We would’ve burned them too, but we saved the best for last. Greg is one of their best hitmen. Those crocodile tears didn’t put a dent in our hatred for him.
“All right, let’s get the fuck out of here,” I say, heading toward the exit, taking a quick look at the spot where my father once begged for our lives. For Matteo’s life.
Now, this entire place will burn to the ground, burying that memory with the ashes of Faro’s mistake. One he’ll regret once he realizes our plans for him are only just beginning.
Once outside, we stand side by side, watching the flames rise, painting the walls with its golden-orange heat, connecting with ferocious power no man can destroy. Not in time at least.
Revenge is beautiful.
And it’ll be a lot better once we destroy everything Faro ever cares about.