Deal with the Devil (Il Diavolo Mafia #2)

Prologue - Rafael

“ Chi gioca col diavolo, si brucia.”

Mamma’s words echo in my ears as I lurk in the shadows of the alley. It’s a rainy night, the streets slick and air bitter and cold. My breath frosts out in front of me, my heart pounding inside my chest as if I’ve run a mile.

I’ve been standing still for more than seven minutes, but my pulse races anyway. It pounds like a drumbeat, almost loud enough to drown out Mamma’s warning.

She’s never been wrong before; she’s more than likely not wrong now.

But she’s not here anymore, and I’ve got decisions to make.

I’ve got a future staring me in the face as I stand at a crossroads with an angel and devil on my shoulders, each trying to convince me which route to take.

I know Mamma’s answer; I can still hear the quiver of worry in her voice.

Her weathered face materializes in my mind’s eye, each line on her furrowed brow telling a story of the rough cards she was dealt in life.

We were never fortunate. We were always dirt poor.

One of the poorest in Ragusa.

I decided from a young age I didn’t want my future to look like my past, regardless of how it broke Mamma’s heart.

The backdoor halfway down the alley creaks open and two men step into the rain. It’s so dark out, they’re shrouded in shadows, but I can tell who they are by their silhouettes.

A short, round man with his head tucked against his chest to shield from the rain walks alongside a taller guy who’s his muscle for the night.

They’re coming out of Il Toro.

On a normal night, the club vibrates from the loud Eurodance music playing inside. But tonight’s no normal night for several reasons.

My grip tightens on the pistol. I clench my teeth despite how fast my heart beats, readying myself to do what I’ve got to do.

This is my only chance. If I want something better, I’m going to have to fight for it.

Bleed for it.

…even kill for it.

Before the two men can reach the end of the alleyway, I come up fast behind them. They hear me only at the last possible second, half turning for a glance at me.

Panic explodes inside me, my heart pounding fast. The last thing I need is for them to see my fucking face.

If I had any hesitation before, it vanishes in that single second—that last second where their eyes meet mine and my finger squeezes the trigger.

Twice.

Bang. Bang.

One shot for Enzo Morelli, underboss of the Morelli crime family, and the second shot for?—

I go still when I realize who the second bullet’s hit, the tall man I thought was his bodyguard walking at his side.

But it’s no bodyguard. As Enzo sinks to the muddy ground with a groan, the guy falling at his side is none other than his son .

Elio Morelli can’t be older than sixteen or seventeen years old. Younger than me.

…just a kid.

His eyes don’t close like his fathers. They remain stuck on mine as he crumples to the ground in a puddle of rainwater, shock and pain etched on his face.

I’m so thrown for a moment I don’t react. I stand there in the rain with the pistol I’ve just fired, staring down at the two people I’ve gunned down in cold blood.

Life leaves them in that time. In a matter of seconds, Enzo Morelli groans for the final time, dying in the alley by his son. Elio’s eyes slip closed, the last thing he ever sees is the man who murdered him standing over his body…

The backdoor to Il Toro opens and a couple more men pile out. They catch sight of me immediately, shouting and reaching for their guns.

It’s the wake-up call I need to get the hell out of there.

I race from the alley, slipping away before they fire their first shot. I’m long gone by the time they’ve dashed toward Morelli and his son and found their dead bodies.

Adrenaline does wonders for the human body. It surges through my veins and gives me the speed and energy I need to make myself disappear.

An hour and a half later, I’m the man everybody toasts to as they raise their glasses and yell, “Salute!”

The job has been completed. The hit has been carried out, and I’ve earned my place.

I’ve proven myself.

Don Vito’s dark eyes glitter as he sits at the end of the table and puffs on his cigar. “Sono soddisfatto della tua prestazione. Hai fatto bene, Rafael.”

The other men around the table nod and raise their glasses again for another drink.

I haven’t touched mine. I’ve hardly said a word since I made it back from the job and updated Don Vito that it was done.

This isn’t how I pictured it would be—the moment I was finally made .

“Mi scusi.”

I get up from the table without waiting for anybody’s acknowledgment and head off to the restroom. We’re at an old cigar lounge the Belluccis often use for meetings and other events.

Under the flickering light, I splash cool water on my face, trying to jolt myself out of the stupor I’m in. I’ve got to get my mind right and stop acting like a fucking codardo.

But as I twist off the faucet and look up in the mirror, I’m back where I started. A sharp sense of surprise streaks through me at what I see—the man staring back at me is not myself.

He’s me but different . Like some sort of cloned version.

His face is different, his eyes are darker, his mouth twisted as he grins and watches me in the?—

Knock! Knock!

“You taking a shit, Calderone?” comes Anthony Citti’s throaty baritone. He bangs a fist on the door. “Hurry the fuck up, kid. I’ve got my own situation to take care of on the shitter.”

I blink and the reflection disappears, leaving only me alone in the small bathroom. The instant I pull the door open, Anthony’s squeezing inside, patting his gut like he’s sorry in advance for what’s about to go down.

“It’s about time,” he grunts. “What were you doing in here? You should be out there celebrating! This was a big night, kid. Your first big job and you aced it. Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts.”

I narrow my eyes at him, irritated and defensive. “When did I say that?”

“I know how you new soldatos get. Some of yous anyway. The weak ones. You second guess yourselves—well, guess what? Sometimes it’s a hard life.

You’ve got to do what you’ve got to do. If it bothers you, you push it to the back of your mind and focus on something better.

Money, women, drugs. Food… if you want to wind up with a gut like this! ”

He laughs as he steps to the single stall and slams it shut.

I don’t stick around to carry on the conversation.

I walk out of the bathroom and return to the table where everybody in Don Vito’s close circle is drinking and celebrating.

The mafia boss ruthlessly known as Il Diavolo grins and watches me closely as I take my rightful seat and finally do what I should’ve done from the moment I pulled the trigger, killing Enzo Morelli and his son.

I push it to the back of my mind…