Chapter 1
The first time I killed a man, I felt nothing.
Just the cold metal of the gun in my hand and the distant echo of my father’s words: “In this business, Tomas, hesitation is death.” It was December 26th, 1970, I was nineteen years old, and Toronto’s winter was colder than a witch’s tit.
The forecast was calling for a nor’easter to hit the region, dumping over a foot of snow.
Which would be perfect. The body would remain well hidden until the spring thaw.
I longed for summer, walking through the swirling snow as I wiped the blood from my leather shoes, heading back to the Lincoln Continental, where my older brother waited, engine running, breath fogging the windows.
The family business demanded sacrifices.
That night, my father ordered me to kill my cousin, who had sticky fingers.
He liked to skim off the profits from the local arena on fight night.
“It gets easier,” Ian had said, pulling away from the dock, his eyes never leaving the road. “That’s what Da always says.”
It felt like a lifetime since Ian had said that.
Now, thirteen years and thirty dead bodies later, exactly to the night of my first kill, all I want to do is leave. Leave for someplace warm, with white-sand beaches and plenty of women. “I need a drink,” I muttered, staring at my hands.
They weren’t shaking. That should have bothered me, considering we just offed an entire family, but it didn’t.
I was a twisted fuck, already third in command of the MacGallan clan, my future mapped out in territory lines and protection rackets.
The Irish mob owned me, and one day I knew I would own it.