Chapter 14
Fourteen
Enzo
The Past
Initiation Day: Sophomore Year at Saint Vale University
Age Twenty
I pulled my hood over my head and stepped inside the Initiation Chamber.
Adrenaline moved steadily through my bloodstream as my eyes adjusted to the dark. The space was swallowed by darkness.
But I knew I wasn’t alone.
The Night Sons were watching and waiting.
Flames sprang to life around the chamber, dozens of candles placed along the outer ring of stone. Their light revealed what the darkness had blocked.
Symbols carved deep into the walls and floor.
Only the men who had survived their Initiation knew what they meant.
Soon, I’d be one of them.
I rolled my neck slowly.
Whatever they had waiting for me, I was ready.
I had no idea what was coming, but I knew one thing: there’d be no hazing.
It made sense why they’d never incorporated it.
Humiliation was a weapon for insecure men. Men like us didn’t tolerate that kind of weakness. I couldn’t remember a single moment in my life when anyone had tried to humiliate or degrade me.
Let a motherfucker dare, and he’d be in the ground by nightfall.
Hell, I wouldn’t even bury him. I’d leave his body in the open and let the animals pick him apart.
We’d swear allegiance to the Sons, but we weren’t the kind of men who’d crawl on our knees to become one.
Men who begged for power looked weak.
And weakness had no place in the Night Sons.
Societies where superiors degraded others reminded me of frat houses, and no fucking thank you on that.
But this Initiation was far riskier than any humiliation ritual. If you failed, they killed you at the end.
The tiers above me slowly illuminated, masks emerging from the darkness. Each mask had glowing neon X’s where their eyes should’ve been. A thin, horizontal slash marked each mouth.
It was showtime for the Night Sons.
Both Current Sons and the Elders.
More masks came to life on the chamber floor. These were the Current Sons, the ones I’d work beside and stand with.
Fuck the old bastards in the tiers. These men were the only brotherhood that mattered to me.
I stood alone at the center of the chamber, barefaced and unhidden, unlike them, as I felt each stare on me.
I popped my knuckles. Not one for patience, I threw my arms out in a what’s next gesture. They had come here for a show, and I was going to fucking give them one.
I’d give them the best, bloodiest fucking Initiation they’d ever seen.
I was a Marchetti, and we were the kings of violence.
A spotlight came on overhead, flooding the center of the chamber with harsh light. It illuminated what looked like a boxing ring, stripped to the bones, with no ropes or padding. Just a wide square of concrete.
The chamber door opened again, and a masked Night Son stepped inside, moving toward the ring with long strides.
Tape was wrapped around his knuckles, and he cracked his neck the same way I had minutes ago.
I knew the next step without needing any explanation.
Music suddenly blasted, an old Obie Trice song playing, flowing from hidden speakers above in the soundproof room as I strode toward the ring.
The masked Son ripped off his mask and tossed it aside. Him wearing a mask would’ve been a severe disadvantage for me, making it harder for me to bash his face in.
Paul’s eyes met mine from across the ring. He was chosen to lead the society that year. He was also the Son who’d brought me in and the realest dude I knew.
This was his final year before he became an Elder and moved back to the UK to resume his normal life.
Neither of us waited for a signal. We moved fast, closing the distance as we collided.
Paul swung first, his fist cutting through the air toward my jaw.
I twisted to the side, sidestepping his strike, and immediately swung back.
My fist slammed into his face, and I grinned at the sound of bones cracking.
Pain shot through my knuckles as I shook out my hand, unsure whether the cracks belonged to my bones or his face. Probably both.
I wouldn’t know until later. The adrenaline canceled out any discomfort.
His next hit made contact, landing on the right side of my face.
My head flung to the side at the blow. Before I could fully recover, his fist drove into my face again.
My teeth clacked together. I groaned, driving my head forward and slamming my forehead into his.
Paul staggered back but caught himself before he lost his balance.
We bounced on our toes as we fought, hitting each other, one strike after another. Paul was as violent as I was, so I wasn’t dealing with an amateur.
Our fists flew through the air, delivering blow after blow.
Kick after kick.
Blood dripped from his nose. My lip was split open, warm blood sliding down my chin and trickling onto my hoodie.
I was positive that both of us would have mild concussions by the time this was over.
This wasn’t torture to us. It wasn’t hazing.
We thrived on this kind of violence. We could’ve kept fighting for hours, maybe days, until one of us finally dropped.
My next swing connected with his jaw, snapping his head sideways.
Here, we were showing our true strength.
How we refused to quit and were worthy of being a Night Son.
We stopped when the light above us cut off.
Paul’s silhouette faded into the darkness, the sound of his footsteps retreating the only noise in the chamber. The door opened, and a thin beam of light seeped through the shadows, before it shut again.
I stood there, waiting for what was next.
A simple fight wouldn’t cut it. Initiation wasn’t that easy.
Another light clicked on, and the spotlight now focused on the far side of the chamber. As I walked toward it, a faint ache spread through my muscles. I’d feel that fight for the next week.
Even from across the chamber, I could make out the brass cage waiting for me. Weak cries spilled from inside it. Desperate, pleading sounds that annoyed me.
The closer I got, the louder they grew.
A man fell to his knees when he saw me approaching. His filthy fingers curled around the bars, as if he wished he could tear them apart.
He was tall with shaggy red hair, and his skin was slick with sweat and grime. His shirt was ripped in shreds, displaying offensive tattoos he needed to die for anyway, and he reeked of cheap liquor.
His voice was hoarse as he asked, “What the hell am I doing here?”
I stepped up to the cage and leaned forward until the cold bars brushed against my cheek. “You’re my sacrifice.”
His already-pale face went even whiter.
“What?” he whimpered, scrambling backward until he slipped and collapsed onto his ass.
I stepped back as the man hauled himself upright. His hands returned to the cage bars like he had to hold them to keep himself steady.
To my right, several racks held the tools meant for the job. Devices designed for one purpose only: death. Beside the rack stood a narrow metal table with a folder resting on it.
Before any of us had agreed to Initiation, we had been told one thing: if you wanted to prove yourself worthy of being a Night Son, you had to kill.
Unlike some new initiates, I wasn’t new to murder. By nineteen, I’d already begun killing my fair share of men, all under my father’s supervision. He treated those kills like training exercises, and afterward, he’d pointed out the mistakes I’d made and explained what I should’ve done differently.
My father was a killer. Benny was one too. Most of the men who surrounded me were.
Still, there was an art to it. One simply couldn’t go around murdering people. I mean, you could, but you’d get caught.
Getting away with murder required precision, planning, and obsession over every detail. One mistake was all it took to lead to a lifetime of rotting in an orange jumpsuit and eating shitty food where fuckers pissed in your chili.
It was even harder in today’s age. Technology had turned the world into one giant surveillance system.
This was required to join the Night Sons, to prove we could handle violence and weren’t merciful men. They wanted any innocence inside us eradicated. Not that I had any to begin with.
The victims for Initiations weren’t chosen for entertainment or personal vendettas. The Elders only selected those who deserved to die, and they were always predators and abusers who poisoned society.
The man in the cage was one of those.
As I opened the folder, the man dropped to his knees in desperation, and he shoved his face between the bars.
“Please,” he sobbed, sounding pathetic. “I have a wife. I have kids.”
I ignored him, skimming the first page of his file.
“Marlow Sutton,” I said, his name tasting rancid on my tongue.
He smashed his face harder against the bars, his cheeks flattening against them. “How … how do you know who I am?”
My lips peeled back as I bared my teeth with each word I read while flipping through the pages.
One page of sins. Two pages. Three.
“You’re a fucking rapist,” I said.
Anger detonated inside me as the words left my mouth. Heat surged through my veins as every word of his file sank into my brain.
None of Paul’s earlier punches had hit this nerve.
Marlow hurt women. According to his file, he hunted them on the streets and at bars near college campuses. He’d follow the women outside when they were too drunk to fight back, then rape and kill them.
The police hadn’t connected the disappearances yet.
But the Sons had.
We always did.
I shut the folder, looking at him like the scum he was, and dropped it onto the ground. Whistling, I walked over to the rack, eyeing my weapon options.
Certain tools would give him a faster death, like a gun, knife, or machete. And then there were ones that’d offer a slower suffering, like the pear of anguish, a rusty tongue tearer, and a chappy chopper. A bottle of cloudy liquid sat with them, most likely poison.
I shoved a few knives into my hoodie pocket, grabbed the tongue tearer and chappy chopper from their hooks, and unlocked the cage.
The metal creaked as the door swung open. Taking one step inside, I waited for Marlow’s reaction.
Would he try to rush me to escape?
Or beg me for his freedom?
Marlow chose the second. He scurried backward on his hands and knees, sobbing loudly. He slid his back down the bars and pulled himself into a tight ball.
I shut the door behind me.
Marlow tucked his head between his knees, shaking, while pleading at the ground.
I didn’t rush, taking my sweet little time, giving everyone a show as I tortured him. I said the names of the women he’d killed with every different device I used on him.
By the time I was finished, blood covered nearly every inch of us both.
He could barely lift his head. I dragged the blade across his throat, stepping away as blood spilled down his neck. His hands clasped around his neck, fingers slick as he tried to stop the bleeding, stop the pain, stop his impending death. But it wouldn’t.
I waited until he took his last breath.
That was it.
I was officially a Sworn Son.
I’d killed to become one.
And I’d die if I ever betrayed them.