Reaper & Ruin (Gangsters Paradise #7)

Prologue One, Giovanni, Aged Thirteen

I stood frozen in my father’s office, the smell of blood and sweat thick in the air.

The man on the hardwood floor let out a low, broken moan, his face barely looked human.

His lips were cracked and bleeding, his nose flattened into a mess, and one of his eyes was so bruised it was nearly swollen shut.

Two of my father’s men loomed over him as they finished their work.

One of them—the taller one with sleeves rolled to his elbows—stepped back, shaking out his hand like he was trying to rid himself of the pain in his knuckles.

The other stayed close, pressing the toe of his boot into the man’s ribs to keep him pinned down.

Normal things. In this house, anyway.

The man coughed wetly, a sound that made my stomach twist. Blood splattered onto the pristine Persian rug beneath him, staining it dark red.

My mama had bought that rug last year from some boutique in Florence.

She’d spent hours agonizing over its color, its design, its ‘perfect place’ in the office.

She kept talking to me all about it, as though I cared about a rug.

As though I knew what half of the things she said meant.

What I did know, was that I felt bad for her. Because her rug was stained. Her effort was ruined.

I wondered if she’d even notice the stain—or if this was just as normal to her as it was to my father.

“Giovanni,” my father snapped at me in Italian, dragging my attention away from the rug.

I looked up at him instinctively, though I already knew what I’d see.

He was behind his desk, leaning casually against the edge of it, his arms crossed over his chest. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes—the same dark shade as mine but lacking all warmth—bored into me like he was waiting for me to crack.

“Are you even listening to me?” he demanded, his voice smooth but laced with irritation.

“Yes, sir,” I said quickly, though my voice came out hoarse as I glanced at Emilio.

My younger brother was paying attention. His back was straight; his dark eyes were focused.

Emi didn’t look unhappy about having a man dying near us. He just looked… bored.

“Are you sure you’re paying attention? It doesn’t look that way to me,” Father snapped.

I wasn’t sure if he believed me, but it didn’t matter. He pushed off the desk and started walking closer, his polished leather shoes clicking against the floor with each step. He stopped just in front of me, close enough that I could feel the weight of his presence.

I swore he could see into my soul. Swore he could find the cracks inside me that I hid from everyone else.

“You’re thirteen now,” he said, his tone low, like he was explaining something simple to someone stupid. “It’s time you stopped being a boy and started acting like a man.”

I clenched my fists at my sides, trying to keep my face blank. The knot of anger and fear in my chest tightened, twisting like a blade. I didn’t want to be here. I didn’t want to hear this. But I couldn’t show weakness—not in front of him.

He’d yelled at me last summer for crying when I fell out of my treehouse and broke my leg. There was no way he wouldn’t scream about me not following his commands.

“This family,” he continued, his hand sweeping in a broad gesture to encompass the room, “only survives because of strength. Because we do what needs to be done. And you,”—his gaze sharpened, and he jabbed a finger at me—“you need to understand that. You need to prove that.”

I wanted to scream. To tell him that I didn’t care about this family or his rules or his warped idea of what strength meant. But I kept my mouth shut. I knew better. My father didn’t tolerate disobedience. He didn’t tolerate much of anything, really—except blind loyalty.

He turned toward the man on the floor, his lip curling in disgust. “This piece of shit,” he said, nudging the man with his shoe hard enough to make him groan, “thought he could steal from us. From me.”

The word ‘me’ hung in the air. I had nothing to say. Stealing was wrong, sure. But so was murder and my father did that himself.

“That’s not okay.” I drawled.

He glanced back at me, his expression expectant. “And what happens to people who steal from us, Giovanni?”

I swallowed hard, my throat dry. “They… they pay,” I mumbled, the words tasting horrid on my tongue.

“That’s right,” he said, his voice softening slightly, though it didn’t feel like a kindness. “They pay. Because this family doesn’t forgive. And we don’t forget.”

The knot in my chest tightened further until it was nothing but a ball of fury and screams I desperately wanted to let out. I also wanted to look away, to pretend I wasn’t standing here in this room, with the man I hated most in the world looming over me. But I couldn’t.

“Come here,” he said, his voice leaving no room for argument.

My legs felt heavy, but I forced myself to move. One step. Then another.

When I stopped in front of him, he reached behind his back and pulled out a gun. It was sleek and black, its barrel catching the faint glow of the desk lamp. He held it out to me.

I knew how to shoot. We’d been taught, all of us, since we were children. I also knew that I didn’t like guns.

Guns were violent, and I… I didn’t like being violent.

“It’s time,” he said. “Time for you to become a man.”

My heart stopped. Or maybe it sped up. I couldn’t tell. All I knew was that I didn’t want to touch that gun. I didn’t want to touch anything in this room. But my father was still holding it out to me, his eyes locked on mine, daring me to refuse.

I felt my fingers curl into fists again, my nails biting into my palms.

“Take it,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “Don’t make me ask twice.”

I hesitated for a fraction of a second longer, then reached out and took the gun. It was heavier than I expected, the cold metal settling into my hand like a stone. My fingers trembled against the grip, and I clenched them tighter, willing them to stop shaking.

“Good,” my father said, stepping back slightly to give me room. “Now, kill him.”

I stared at him, my stomach churning. “I…” My voice cracked, and I looked down at the man on the floor. His one good eye was wide, his lips trembling as he tried to speak. I couldn’t tell if he was begging or praying.

I couldn’t work out which was worse as a lump formed in my throat, and my heart pounded loud enough to make me dizzy.

The gun stayed in my hand. Tight in my grip. Shaky too. I wanted to lift it. Use it. Do what I had to do, but…

“I don’t want to,” I said, my voice barely more than a whisper.

“What did you say?” My father’s voice was sharp enough that Emilio flinched too.

“I don’t—”

“Hesitation is weakness, Giovanni,” he snapped, cutting me off. “And weakness gets people killed. Do it. Now. Or I shall dispose of you instead.”

My chest felt like it was caving in, like all the air had been sucked out of the room. My father’s words echoed in my head, drowning out everything else.

I hated him.

I hated his voice, his rules, his cold, unrelenting eyes. I hated this house, this family, this life he was forcing me into.

And for a split second, I thought about turning the gun on him instead.

But I didn’t. I couldn’t.

Because murder wasn’t right. Not unless it was for self-defence. And this? This was not self-defence. It was just a way for the worst man I knew to show me I didn’t know just how nasty he could be.

So I raised the gun, my arm trembling under its weight. The man on the floor whimpered, his broken body twisting slightly, as if he could somehow crawl away. My finger hovered over the trigger, my pulse pounding in my ears worse than before.

I closed my eyes. Squeezed them tight.

Pulled the trigger.

There was silence. Silence so loud that my eyes flew open, lips parted.

Father stared at me, a cruel smirk on his face as he raised another gun of his own. “Glad to see you’re not useless, son.”

The sound of the gunshot was deafening. But it was not me. My gun, after a quick check, had no bullets.

It was a game. A test. A horrid thing.

Blood pooled beneath the man, soaking into the rug. My father didn’t blink once at the sight of the man he had killed. He just kept looking at me.

I stared down at the body, my chest heaving, my hands trembling around the gun. My stomach lurched, and I had to swallow hard to keep from throwing up.

“Clean this up,” my father said to his men, already turning away from the scene.

Then he placed a heavy hand on my shoulder, ignoring Emilio entirely.

“You’re a man now, Giovanni,” he said, his tone almost proud. “Remember this. Everything we do is for the family, and this family will be great. This is just the beginning.”

He walked away, leaving me standing there in the cold, suffocating silence. Leaving my younger brother and me to just… wait. Watch. Do anything other than be children.

“I hate him.” Emilio whispered quietly enough that I almost didn’t hear it. “One day you need to kill him. Or I will.”

I looked down at the gun in my hand, at the body on the floor, at the blood that would never wash out of the rug.

I looked at my younger brother who was asking me to kill the man who gave us his DNA.

I hated our father more than I’d ever hated anyone in my life.

“So do I.” I breathed. “I’ll work it out.”

And for the first time, I hated myself, too.