Chapter 18
Marco
“Boss, they’re here!” Van booms behind me.
But I don’t move. I need another minute with Mia. I’m stood by her gravestone, reading the engraved words over and over like I have done every day since we buried her ashes in my garden. “Much loved daughter and sister.”
But that’s not all she was. She was loved by me. I loved her.
However, I never got to tell her what she meant to me. The Martelé took her away from me before I had the chance. The focus of my existence since she left has been to end everyone who had a hand in her murder. But I have failed her again. Now the Martelé have the house surrounded. The fight in me has run out. At least I will finally be with my Mia again. I just wish I could have avenged her death as I wanted.
The night I found out that the Martelé were responsible, I went to Al Martelé’s usual place of business, a sex club on the other side of the island. Obviously he was expecting me. A Guerra cannot pass over their turf and not be noticed, especially not the Don of the Guerra. But my mind was elsewhere. I had no thought for the consequences of my actions. My only thoughts were to kill. An hour later I left, barely alive, having started the biggest war our organisation has ever seen.
“Marco, its time.” Van places his hand on my shoulder and turns me around to face him. “Whatever happens, boss, it has been an honour to work alongside you.”
Holding my hand out, I reply, “The pleasure was all mine, Van. Thank you—for everything. Now let’s kill as many of these motherfuckers as we can and go out with a bang.”
We leave the back garden and enter the house through the back door. The house now looks more like an armoury than a home. Each surface is covered in guns and ammunition. I wrap as many ammunition belts around me as I can, clip my communication radio to my belt, and pick up my machine gun.
“Boss, your vest.”
Van throws me a bulletproof vest, but I let it drop to the floor. I have no intention of surviving today. A captain always goes down with his ship. After one last look at Van, who nods in acceptance, I make my way through the house to the front room where I will be stationed. We have ten men left in the Guerra. After months of bloodshed, too many men have lost their lives fighting for our name. Each remaining Guerra member is set up around the house, ready for battle.
The Martelé have outnumbered us. Over the past few years, they have been recruiting, waiting for their chance to take over. Unfortunately for us, that day has come. But they won’t be getting past me that easily. Settled in the window with my gun pointing at the gate, I’m poised and ready for attack.
“Get ready,” I instruct through the radio after seeing movement around the walls of the front gardens.
BOOM! There’s a blast outside to my left. A large fireball shoots into the sky. Black smoke surrounds it.
BOOM! Another at the end of the driveway.
BOOM! A third blast to the surrounding walls on the right.
Once the fire turns into smoke, Martelé men appear, running towards the house, machine guns firing frantically in front of them. I shoot them one by one, not missing, each bullet reaching its destination, every man taking a hit. Bodies drop to their deaths on my front lawn. But they keep coming, one after another. It’s like a conveyor belt of armed men.
I reload my gun over and over. Sweat pours from every part of my body, the sound of gunfire intensely vibrating my eardrums. I’m aware of explosions and shouting throughout the house, but I daren’t take my focus off my job in hand for a second. After what feels like an eternity, Martelé men stop coming through the blown-out walls. When I stop shooting, everything is quiet. Too quiet.
“Marco Guerra.” Al Martelé says my name sarcastically as he presses his gun into the back of my skull. The cold metal against my hot sweating head feels quite soothing.
“Al Martelé,” I reply with the same sarcastic tone. “What took you so long.”
“Stand,” he orders. “Put your gun down.”
I release my gun and place it on the windowsill. As I go to stand up, I feel the familiar sensation of a bullet piercing my skin and tendons. Falling forward, I catch myself on the window.
“I said stand the fuck up,” Martelé orders again.
But I can’t. My legs cannot hold my weight. I have been shot in both heels. My Achilles tendons are blown to smithereens. My inability to get up has the men behind me laughing. I quickly throw my upper body around, grab Al Martelé, and pull him to the floor. I wrap my hands around his neck and squeeze with every ounce of energy I have left. I’m beaten and shot again until I can no longer hold my grip. Al rolls around on the floor, coughing and gasping for air.
“Tie… him to a fucking… chair!” he orders, spluttering as he tries to catch his breath.
Martelé soldiers restrain me tightly and uncomfortably to a chair. I know I am in for a few long hours of torture. I made my peace with death a long time ago. Living a life like mine, you have to. Unfortunately my body has been trained to withstand hours of torture, which, when you want to die, isn’t a good thing. It’s not that I don’t feel pain, but that I have trained my body not to react to it. Therefore, my blood pressure and heart rate will stay the same, and there will be no verbal or facial reaction. My breathing won’t change, nor will the quickness of my reactions.
The next moment Van is brought into the room, not looking his best. He is tied to a chair next to me. I was hoping he had somehow managed to escape. No such luck, obviously.
“Ahh, wonderful. Now you are both here, we can start our meeting,” Al says, still sounding hoarse from my strangulation. “I have some exciting news to tell you both. The Martelé have now taken over the whole of Itay.” Al laughs.
Vans grunts. I keep quiet.
“We have now claimed the last of your territory, and once you die today, Marco Guerra, the Guerra bloodline will die with you. No more Guerras.” He claps his hands in excitement.
This has been a worry for the Guerras for the last few generations. Each line has become smaller through death. Last in line before me was Leonardo Guerra, who needed to marry and have children, but as he and his wife died, that line ended there. I am only Leonardo’s cousin, but still Guerra blood. I needed to have had children before I died for the line to continue.
“Van, I know the Alboni family have been very loyal to the Guerras through the generations. If you prove yourself, I may be able to find some work for a man like you.” Al lights a cigarette as he speaks to Van.
“I’d rather die,” Van spits.
“That can also be arranged,” Al growls back. “Back to my exciting news. I have a new business partner.” Al gestures towards the open door. “I think you already know Lorenzo.”
Lorenzo enters with smuggest grin I have ever seen.
My body automatically lunges towards him in anger. Al and Lorenzo laugh as I fall face-first to the floor, still fastened to the chair. I’m left there for a few moments while they all have a good chuckle at my expense. The men continue to talk about their takeover plans. But I switch it off to focus on my own thoughts. I’m trying to pinpoint the exact time it all went wrong. Where I made my first mistake. What I could have done to change this outcome—when I hear a name that pulls me back to the present moment.
“Mia. Yes, that was all my idea,” Lorenzo admits confidently.
My eyes bulge. “You bastard,” I spit. Unfortunately, although my body has been trained to not respond to physical pain, I have no control over emotional pain. That must be what their plan is. Torture me with emotional pain that actually feels like physical pain.
“The plan did, however, take an unfortunate turn, but the results were what we wanted in the end,” Al explains.
“Yes, that was unexpected,” Lorenzo agrees.
Van pushes for more information on his sister. “What do you mean? Unexpected?”
“The plan was to kidnap Mia and hold her hostage in return for Marco surrendering enough territories over to the Martelé that the Martelé would be a majority leader. We had seen how much Mia had become to mean to Marco,” Lorenzo explains.
My mind is goes crazy. So many questions. What happened? Why did she die?
“What changed, Martelé?” I demand.
“That is still a mystery.” Martelé frowns and rubs his chin. “We assumed you had worked out our plan and intercepted or Mia had fought back after her kidnapping, then in turn, the car lost control, and she blew them all up. It couldn’t have gone any better for us, really. Mia dying meant we got more than we could have imagined.”
“You’re lying. Your men drove into Mia at speed and killed her. I’ve seen the CCTV!” Van shouts at them both.
“Enough!” Al Martelé demands. “I don’t want to waste any more time here. You will both die now. You may have thought I’d draw your death out as long as I can, but you are already a pathetic broken man, Marco Guerra.” Martelé then addresses the room. “Here, today, you will witness the death of the last Guerra. After this moment I do not want that name to ever be said again. The Guerra name dies with him.”
I don’t mind dying to save another person or for the future of my organisation. But to die like this, full of guilt and regret, is the worst death anyone could have. I drop my head in shame and wait.