A Dark Bloom (The Donati Famiglia #2)

Chapter 1

Rico

The sound of the mechanical screwdriver drilling into a kneecap combined with the cries of the man zip tied to the metal chair before me creates a hauntingly beautiful symphony.

Blood sprays and splashes against my face and dark clothes.

I leave the drill inserted in his kneecap as I reach over to my work table and collect a clean cloth to clean his blood from my face.

After I take my time cleaning my face I say to him monotonously with a fake smile that requires too much effort on my part, but I do so to put him more at unease, “You would think after doing this countless times I would remember to wear a face shield.”

The man’s eyes widened further, reminding me of a caricature.

Tears have already fallen from them after I had made his arm my very own experiment with acupuncture.

The entirety of his right arm is covered in specialty made small knives.

I haven’t removed any as of yet. Every time he goes to squirm, or try to remove himself from the zip ties the knives create such an exquisite pain as they embed themselves deeper in his skin.

Stupidity at its finest.

They all are. Every person I have tortured for Don Constantine Donati to either gain information or prove a point lacks intelligence.

And this man does not only lack intelligence, he has also proven to be the most blubbering pathetic mess.

It doesn’t affect me either way, it only extends my time with him. Trying to decipher the words of gibberish sobs takes more time than coherent words.

“I-I don’t know. I don’t know what you’re. . .” He stutters while sobbing, his Irish accent thick. Snot leaks from his nose like a faucet as salvia mixed with blood pours from his mouth.

He’s a fucking mess.

I prefer my life and my environment to be clean and pristine.

But in these moments, and these moments alone, I prefer the mess. It means I’m doing my job and more than that it means he’s closer to his end.

Which is indeed most preferable to me and Constantine.

“Spit it out, Dougal. I haven’t cut out your tongue. Yet.” I let the threat sit heavy in the air. He breathes it in, fear engulfing his lungs.

What does fear feel like?

I ask myself this during each torture session.

I still don’t have an answer. And seeing it varies from person to person.

Take Dougal for example, he tends to cry and spit upon himself as if he were a newborn baby.

The woman I tortured last week didn’t cry once.

She said she had known pain since the moment she was born and what I was inflicting was no different.

Fear, it’s special to each person.

But no matter how brave they are, strong or weak, a blubbering mess or silent, they’re fear all leads to the same end when I’m the one instilling it; death.

He cries more. I glance down at my watch, the second hand ticking, ticking, ticking. I click my tongue in time while looking at him. “Tick, tick, tick. How many more seconds will pass until I decide it’s your eye that must go next?”

“Please. Please, please, please,” he pleads for his eye that hasn’t dried since I started my own take on acupuncture.

I rest back on my own chair, allowing my long legs to stretch out before me as I clasp my hands over my belt buckle. I’m completely relaxed, unbothered and unaffected. A complete contrast from Dougal.

Appearing bored and tired of his pleadings I sigh heavily. I’ve seen the act done enough to perfect it.

“Your pleadings are music to my ears, Dougal. As much as I have loved this tune for the past,” I glance down at my watch before settling my eyes on him, “two hours, I’m afraid I want to hear something else.”

He spits out blood. Remnants staining his chin. “You’ll kill me either way.”

I tilt my head to the side, regarding him with no emotion in my eyes. I do, however, place my chin between my pointer finger and thumb to appear as if I’m considering his claim.

After a minute filled of silence that creates torture on his part without me having to lift a finger I finally say, “This is true.” I see his chest deflate along with the last shimmer of hope in his green eyes vanish.

“However,” hope returns in his eyes, what a stupid man, “I can make your death quick or prolong it for as long as I wish.”

“Fuckin’ fuck,” he curses under his breath. His eyes hold horror in them as he says, “I’ve heard what you done. I ain’t fuckin’ doin’ that.”

I knew my reputation hadn't preceded me. And it shouldn’t. My name is spoken with fear. The smarter criminals know better than to cross my path. But you have the daring ones, the ones with a brain the size of a pea who have no common sense that try to sneak past me.

I move in the shadows, moving in the dark where no one can see me until it’s too late.

I am the darkness. There is no soul upon this earth that can make me see the light.

“Then tell me who ordered you to steal our shipment of guns, Dougal and I promise you a quick death.”

“Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, help me. . .,” I stop listening as he prays to his God who will never come. He hasn’t answered the prayers of the innocent, what makes him think he’ll answer the prayers of a criminal?

Raising my hand to stop him I say, “Your god can’t help you now. This is your end. I’m allowing you the courtesy of a choice, which is far more than I do for anyone else.”

“Why do you think I’m praying, son?” I refrain from correcting him that I am indeed not his son. “I knew the second I saw ye face I was a dead man.”

“Then why have you stayed silent?”

He spits up more blood, a grimace leaving his busted lips. “The same we all do. Loyalty. All mobs have that in common don’t they?”

I can’t disagree. Loyalty, honor and respect is what separates the mob from the lowly criminals on the street. It’s where The Donati Famiglia rises and others fall.

Constantine was always born to be a leader. He was meant to rule, and he does it with an iron fist. The underworld of the entire east coast is his. And ever since he married Carina Fiore, an arranged marriage of two years ago, he himself has only become stronger.

I didn’t understand it, the obsession and desperation he had at wanting Carina to rule as his Queen by his side.

Truth be told, I still don’t. But I can’t deny the facts that stare at me boldly and don’t lie.

Carina has made him stronger. She’s the perfect piece that none of us knew he was missing. With her he’s unstoppable.

And while she has made him stronger she has also given him the only weakness his enemies can use; her.

It’s a good thing she harnesses the same darkness he does. Men fear her and not because she’s married to The Devil of The East Coast, but because she’s just as ruthless and vicious as he is.

Their feelings towards one another I don’t understand.

Loyalty, honor and respect I don’t feel. But I understand the facts.

Carina had nearly died saving Constantine. She makes him stronger. And she’s the undeniable Queen to his King.

Those are the facts and because of them I understand that without her our outfit, The Camora Outfit, The Donati Famiglia, will fall.

So I will ensure with my life that no harm comes to Carina Donati. Because without her Constantine will ruin all that he has built and burn the entire world for daring to take her away from him.

And I’ll never understand that. I’ll never feel that way towards anyone.

“I always knew I’d end up dead. But I always wanted it on my terms.” I let him talk. When they realize there is no other option for them they always talk. Whether it’s to stall or the feel of acceptance of their death I don’t know. “Do me a favor, will you?”

“A favor,” I repeat robotically. Killing him quickly is a favor enough.

He stiffly nods his head. “Send me body back to my family. Let them celebrate my life in my favorite pub. Let them bury me in my family burial site. It’s all I ask of you. From an Irish Catholic.”

It should move me, or perhaps speak to my soul and squeeze my heart. The man’s dying wish is to be with his family. He’s thinking of them instead of himself. A family man. A true Irish Catholic indeed.

I raise a cool brow. An act I’ve seen Constantine and Carina do one too many times that I’ve copied. “And you’ll tell me who's behind all of this?”

Another nod of his head.

I stroke my finger along my jawline, eyeing him with narrowed eyes. It’s all a facade. This mask I’m wearing is all a game he’s playing into without even knowing it.

Placing my elbows on my knees I lean forward and force a smirk upon my face. A smirk that reads the cat has caught the canary. “This is a favor I can promise you.”

He expels a sigh of relief.

I don’t give him the knowledge that his body was always intended to return to his home land. Sending his body in pieces for them to find sends a message.

“Seamus,” he gives me the name on a ragged breath. Hearing it I immediately straighten in my chair.

Long before the Italians had infiltrated New York and became known as the infamous mobsters who ruled the underworld it was the Irish.

They held their reign for a brief period of time but when they did they were feared and respected. All until the Sicilian outfit of the Italian mob wanted to expand to The United States of America. They fought the Irish, starting a war and ending with the Sicilian outfit reigning supreme.

Then, not much longer another war had begun. A bloody massacre of a new outfit of the Italian Mob. An outfit called The Costra Nostra. The outfit that The Donati Famiglia started with their bloodline.

Ever since this massacre The Costra Nostra has held the power and Constantine Donati sits upon the throne as thy king.

“Seamus,” I repeat the Irish Mob leader’s name to confirm.

He nods his head. “He wants revenge.”

“Revenge for?”

“For killing his only son, his heir.”

Seamus, the proud father of one son and one daughter. If I remember correctly his daughter is a year older than his son. Rightfully, the heir should still be intact with her. But because of old Irish Catholic traditions and archaic beliefs his daughter isn’t fit to be heir.

But because he's a loving father in his own right he still cares deeply for his daughter. He just won’t give her the title she rightfully deserves.

Another thing about me, I remember every face and name of all those I have killed.

And Niall surely made his father proud with how he kept his composure and strength until his end.

I knew one day Seamus would want revenge, another action motivated by emotion that I can’t comprehend. I just didn’t calculate how he would go about it. And this? Stealing our guns?

It’s incredibly stupid.

He had to have known we would’ve found out easily.

But perhaps that’s the point. In revenge one makes their face known if they’re arrogant.

This isn’t Seamus being incredibly stupid.

This is Seamus sending a warning.

He’s coming for us.

The Irish Warrior against The Devil of the East Coast.

“This is only the beginning, Rico,” Dougal tells me with a fond smile on his face. Even as he’s zip tied to a chair and withstood hours of torture he wears this grin upon his face that says he’s won.

The only thing Dougal has won is a quick death and nothing more.

“And there will be a quick end,” I say to him. He reads between the lines and expels another long breath.

“You don’t know Seamus. There is nothing that will stop him. He will finish his quest for revenge by taking the empire Constantine built and ending it with a bullet to his head.” Brave, incredibly brave but also incredibly so fucking stupid.

But there is one thing that will stop a man like Seamus. He may have a thirst for revenge and bloodlust to avenge his son’s death but I can stop those urges.

He’s a true Irish Catholic, a proud father, a family man.

He still has much to lose.

I tap the pad of my finger on my chin. Pretending to ponder I wonder aloud, “Seamus didn’t only have a son, did he?

He also has a daughter.” Dougal’s eyes turn heated as he swallows thickly.

“Ah, yes,” I then say with a smirk pulling my lips, “Imogen. The first born. How old is she now, Dougal? Old enough to suffer the consequences of being born with her father’s blood, is she not? ”

Dougal stiffens in his chair. His jaw clenches as he seethes.

Like I said, Seamus still has so much to lose.

“Seamus sent us a warning and it was very well received. But now the course of action has changed on our end, Dougal. Sending your body back will no longer send the correct message.”

“What are you goin’ to do you sick bastard.”

“I’m going to take Imogen away from her loving father. Will see what means more to him. Revenge or his daughter.”