3. Pietro
PIETRO
WELCOME TO THE WAR
T he city is a beast. It’s a breathing, pulsing monster with life even in the darkness. New York isn’t like Sicily. Sicily is old and wise, filled with traditions and culture. It’s a land of blood oaths and quiet vendettas.
New York is young and loud, full of neon signs built on forged steel and promises of a new beginning. It’s a place that doesn’t sleep, nor do the men and women who run it.
I step off the plane and into the crisp autumn air, the sharp bite of the cooler season cutting through the last of Sicily’s warmth that still clings to my skin.
I roll my shoulders, adjusting to the weight of the leather jacket draped over me, my fingers tightening around the handle of my duffel bag.
This city has changed since I last set foot here. Or maybe I’ve changed.
A sleek black Hummer idles near the curb outside of JFK, and its tinted windows mask whoever waits inside.
But I already know. Matteo doesn’t trust anyone, not even when we own the city.
And if I know him, he is even less trusting because we’re the most powerful family, and others long to weaken us.
And because of that, this vehicle is bulletproof. Matteo is thoughtful and cautious. He’s a man with a vision and he’s a great negotiator. Perhaps that's why we’re all still standing .
It’s been no small feat. The Borrelli curse hangs over us, along with enemies waiting for a weakness to surface. Even if we don’t see them, we know they’re there, under the surface, waiting for us to drop our guard.
I'm counting the days until Renalto’s wedding. It’s a time to celebrate together and bring Abigail into the fold. Unfortunately, a wedding is a perfect time for enemies to strike. The first red wedding happened well before its shocking portrayal in Game of Thrones .
Marriage entails increased responsibilities and inherent trepidation.
The unspoken presence of our enemies, some known, some unknown, hangs in the air as a reminder of our past. Our past was marked by the tragic death of our mother, our father’s murder, and a long-standing vendetta with the Moretti’s.
I’m about to open the back door when it swings open, and I’m met with my oldest brother’s cold stare.
“Welcome home,” Matteo says, his voice a rough rasp—like he’s smoked too many cigars today. He reaches out, grips my shoulder tightly, and hugs me. We share a moment of brotherly love before I slide in beside him, tossing my duffle bag onto the floorboard.
Gio, his right-hand man, is in the driver’s seat, his fingers tapping the steering wheel and his eyes scanning the mirrors like a man who’s seen too much.
Niccoló leans forward and hugs me, slapping my back. And Renalto, the groom-to-be, lounges in the front passenger seat, looking too goddamn relaxed considering he’s about to put a wedding band on his woman’s finger.
“Long flight?” Niccolò asks, finally sitting back in the plush seat.
I stretch my legs, letting the stiffness seep from my muscles. “It felt longer than it was.”
Matteo smirks. “That’s what happens when you spend too much time in Sicily. You forget how fast the world moves.”
I scoff, shaking my head. “Nothing moves fast in our world, Fratello . It just waits… shifting beneath the surface, biding its time—until it strikes when you're least prepared.”
Matteo nods once. “Speaking of striking, we have a problem. ”
“Of course we do,” I smirk.
Damn. I didn’t expect to be thrown into the thick of it so soon.
It’s like the whole damn world is looking me dead in the eye and saying, “Fuck you.”
All I wanted was one week of family fun and festivities without the darkness of our life shitting on it.
I mean, really . I just breezed into town, and I’m digging the fact that I get to head up the next family business, and wham!
We have a problem. It’s the story of my life.
When in the hell will we be able to live like normal people?
But that’s a rote question. We aren’t normal .
Gio pulls the massive vehicle into traffic and merges onto the expressway.
I see city lights through the windshield, like an endless sprawl of fireflies stretching in the distance.
The low hum of the engine vibrates beneath me as we glide over the concrete highway.
This armored vehicle is the epitome of luxury, making the rest of the world feel like a distant world.
Rock music plays softly in the background, but it does nothing to calm the unease in my chest.
“You know, I should’ve stayed in Italy. I can live without all this excitement,” I scoff. But curiosity’s a bitch, and before I can stop myself, I add, “So… what gives?”
I doubt I had to ask because Matteo likes to keep us in the loop. We’re tight. I guess growing up without our mother made us rely on each other. Granted, we had some wicked fights growing up, but Matteo made sure we always patched things up.
They say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. There must be some truth in it—if not, all this pain would be for nothing.
I settle back into the leather seat, confident that I’ll be bombarded with sordid details of another grizzly murder. I don’t know a single man in the mafia who got lucky enough to die of natural causes.
In our world, death doesn't knock—it kicks the door in.
Renato twists in his seat, and his sharp blue eyes lock onto mine. “You remember Trey? Abigail’s ex-fiancé?”
How could I forget? Milo? Petrovi?, the leader of the Serbian transatlantic human trafficking ring.
Abigail was with Renalto when he took down the Petrovi?/Moretti flesh trade. His goal was to bring Moretti down, but it also hurt the ringleader, Petrovi?. It then evolved into a shitshow of blood, betrayal, and bodies—it was all there.
I nod slowly. “He was an asshole; of course, I remember him. He ran with the Morettis before we wiped Vincenzu off the map. Why do you ask?” I glance at my brother, and it still catches me off guard how much we look alike.
The same dark hair, the same chiseled jaw.
We’re a reflection split down different paths.
Matteo exhales through his nose, and his jaw tightens. “His body washed up this morning. East River. Someone wanted him to suffer before they dumped him.”
I tilt my head. My interest is now piqued. “Tortured?”
Damn, that’s a tough way to go. I glance around me and notice Niccolò keeps his gaze on Matteo, but his voice is heavy when he says, “More than that. Cut up. Disfigured. Someone wanted to send a message.”
I run a hand down my face, exhaling. There are only two possibilities. “Was it Petrovi? or Moretti?”
Silence answers me, which confirms that I’m on the correct path. Obviously, they are wondering the same thing.
“Trey was in business with Vincenzu Morretti, so it makes sense it’s payback, but then again, the Serbs are tough fuckers.
Vincenzu was shot and killed by his wife.
After that, a stereotypical power vacuum inevitably emerged.
We thought Santino’s younger brother, Stefano, was too weak to take control.
Apparently, we were wrong. I’m sure he’s a psycho just like his father and brother,” Matteo adds, successfully giving me a recap of the family tree.
“One more asshole died. I hate the Morettis!” I speak of what I know because we all grew up on the same island. An island that’s not large enough to encompass both our families.
Renalto shakes his head. “We’re not sure.
That’s the conundrum. We don’t have proof to implicate either one.
Both families have a beef with him. But Trey was one of the only guys left from that human trafficking fiasco, and he had ties to Morettis since he was laundering their money.
If Stefano wanted to clean up loose ends after his brother’s death, Trey would be on that list. But then again, Petrovi? is trying to salvage his trafficking ring, and after we exposed his operation, he went underground.
He moved, and Julia hasn’t been able to pick up the chatter. ”
Julia is our back-hat ace in the hole who does cyber stalking and fixing.
Matteo developed an encrypted messenger application that has been released for use.
It has a back door that allows us to spy on and manipulate data.
It’s not foolproof, but it gives us an advantage over our enemies. And every advantage helps.
Electronic devices are the downfall of many who underestimate their power. Even those who are keen on anonymity often forget the fact that they leave a huge digital footprint. No matter how small an infraction, it can be fatal.
“I’m sure Trey was an easy target. He was society-born and bred. And if Petrovi? is going down the road of blame, the Morettis would be at the top of his list.” I shrug. “The Serbs don’t mess around,” I add.
“Are we expecting anything from this to reach us?” Renalto asks.
He has a right to be concerned because it’s na?ve to think the rift is over. He hit Vincenzu hard, and it stirred all up the ensuing shit show we now face.
But we’ve got a code: protect women and children, no matter the cost. This time, it cost us more than we wanted to give.
But we sleep better at night knowing that we saved innocent lives. That’s how we roll.
The silence inside the Hummer is deafening. What are we getting ourselves into this time? I guess this is the question on everyone’s mind.
With the wedding coming up, it’s the worst time to be sucked into old grievances. But, in our world, they tend to fester. And in our world, retribution runs deep, and no family, no matter how powerful, is immune.
The criminal world doesn’t rest. It feeds on grudges, thrives on blood debts, and every so often, it throws us a bone—a fragile alliance. And that gives us just enough time to fuck and enjoy a peaceful night of sleep before it all begins again.