2. Chapter 2
Chapter two
Emilio
W hen Gennaro Catucci proposed I marry his daughter, I laughed in his face. The first proposal he had made me was the reason I was in this predicament.
Gennaro had approached me to invest in a new meth lab. He said that we were importing too many drugs; that it would make more sense to cut costs and make them here. And it did.
Until he fucked it up.
We had invested twenty million dollars in a state-of-the-art laboratory, only to find out that Gennaro cheaped out and hired one man to guard it because “there was no product inside.” The lazy bastard had fallen asleep on the job and was dreaming sweet dreams while a group of (presumably) gang members snuck in and set fire to the lab, destroying the new and valuable equipment.
This was a huge fuck up on my part. As the Don’s best friend and near brother, it was my job to give sound advice. I prided myself on how I had always helped Ettore with successes.
I was surprised he didn’t kill me when I told him. Fortunately, we had been friends for so long and I was (normally) so good at my job that he just told me to “fix it.”
I was so fucking pissed. When I figured out which gang did this, I would burn three times the amount of their product.
And Gennaro thought marrying his daughter would fix this? What a joke.
I didn’t give it a second thought until I received a call from Gennaro’s brother, Fabrizio. I respected the man, unlike the brother that lost me twenty million dollars.
After a lengthy conversation on the phone, Fabrizio made me realize it was a good idea. I was at an age where it was expected of me to be married, and we both understood that finding true love was not in the cards for me.
It still felt odd receiving a person as an apology, but fuck it.
As I looked at her standing in front of me, it was clear I had made the right choice.
The smooth, pale surface of her skin resembled delicate porcelain, glowing in the fireplace's light. The navy blue fabric of her dress hugged her form, accentuating her curves and highlighting the deep brown pools of her eyes. Every move she made seemed to radiate elegance and grace, like a work of art brought to life.
She would make a fucking beautiful wife. The question was, would she stay out of my way?
“Nice to meet you,” I said, extending my hand to Luciana.
“Pleasure.”
Her words were at odds with her expression. Despite the calm tone, her eyes held a fierce, almost murderous glint. It was as if she could barely contain the rage bubbling just beneath the surface. The tight set of her jaw and the tense lines around her mouth only added to the intimidating aura emanating from her.
Something told me she’d have no problem staying out of my way.
“Well?” Ettore asked.
“Well, what?” I responded.
“How’d it go?”
“How’d what go?”
I was well aware of what Ettore was referring to - the initial encounter between myself and my fiancée. However, we were working, and I couldn’t fathom the relevance of bringing it up.
“Don’t make me play twenty questions,” he said. “And you know exactly what I’m talking about.”
The dinner felt like navigating through a minefield, full of tense silences and forced conversation. Luciana was clearly disinterested in speaking to me. Her parents would silently reprimand her with a stern look, and then she would awkwardly attempt small talk.
And it was fucking perfect. I wanted that invisible barrier to always be between us. I never wanted to hold more than a simple conversation with my wife for the rest of our marriage.
“It was fine,” I said.
“ Fine? No butterflies or anything?”
The shit-eating grin he had on his face told me he was fucking with me.
Many saw Ettore as a serious, unfeeling individual, but I was fortunate enough to call him a good friend. Behind his stoic facade laid an obnoxious and mischievous personality that only those who knew him well were privy to. Ettore was a secret prankster and joker at heart.
“Tell you what. When you get married, or even get a girlfriend, maybe I’ll start taking what you have to say about relationships into consideration. Now, can we please get back to business?”
“Fine, fine,” he sighed dramatically, pretending to be wounded. “Back to business it is.”
We both turned our attention back to the bloodied man tied up in front of us. His face was bruised and battered, his clothes stained with blood. I could see the fear in his eyes as he shook, struggling against his restraints.
“So,” I said casually, twirling a blade between my fingers. “You feel like telling us what you know yet? Or should I keep going?”
The man sat tied to a chair, his face contorted in pain as blood dripped from various cuts on his body. The room was filled with the sound of his ragged breaths and grunts. My tools I used on him lay scattered on the table beside him, glinting under the dim light.
There was a reason I was known as “The Butcher.”
“Fuck...you,” he said, chest heaving.
“Wrong choice, kid.”
I grabbed a flathead screwdriver and shoved it under his thumbnail.
With a sharp tug, the nail tore off his thumb without breaking. He let out a loud cry of pain, tears leaking down the corner of his eyes.
“Fine, fuck! I don’t even work for them,” he said.
“And who is ‘them?’” Ettore asked.
“I don’t know! Some Mexican dudes. They hired me as an extra body for the gig.”
“Names,” I said.
“I don’t know! I was just an extra body.”
“Looks like you’ll be losing the index nail, too.” I moved the screwdriver back towards his right hand.
“Wait, wait! One guy was named Albert, I think. He was in charge. Please, that’s all I know!”
Ettore and I locked eyes, a wordless understanding passing between us. The man’s blank stare and fearful expression made it clear that this was all he knew.
“Can I go now?” he asked.
I put my gun against his head and pulled the trigger.
“God dammit,” Ettore said. “You got blood on my pants.”
“You turning into Felix?” I said, referencing our friend who was a cold-blooded killer, but would also whine about minor inconveniences.
“Watch it,” he said. “Now, I guess we have to find this ‘Albert’ guy.”
“Looks like it.”