17. Salvatore
SALVATORE
Ophelia is a dream, and I’m the nightmare.
Her hair sweeps across her face like she is in a perfume advertisement, her eyes sweet, the most real pair of eyes I have ever looked into.
People have secrets, ulterior motives. Greed is a disease in this city, and soon it will take over the world, but I look at Ophelia and see honesty. All she wants is to feel less alone.
“If you don’t make this decision, sweetheart, I have no other option but to make it for you.”
“You’ll just make things worse,” says Ophelia, the wind picking up between us. “How do you expect to change if you refuse help?”
“I’m not interested in changing, Ophelia. I just don’t want this city to become any darker, snuffing out what little light there is left.”
“I can handle myself.”
“I’m sure,” I say, heading toward the exit. “But you cannot handle me.”
And she knows it.
I walk past her, heading back inside. “Come on. It’s cold out here.”
Ophelia considers it for a moment before flashing me a glare, walking inside.
I lead the way, calling an elevator when we make our way back through the corridor.
I sigh, stepping in when the doors slide open. A thick silence drifts between us. Not even a fucking machete could cut the tension.
I glance at her sidelong, my cock stirring in my pants as I zero in on her luscious lips.
I want to kiss her hard. Slam her into the elevator and show her just how fucking much this hurts as I lose the only light in my life, the only thing that has ever felt fucking real.
I can touch money, feel the dollar bills crinkle under my hands and remind myself that I have everything, but it will never be enough, not unless I can have her.
And I can’t.
One day, I’m going to fall, and I will not bring her down with me.
My thoughts branch off as I stare at the doors in front of us, envisioning a world where I let her down, where I see my precious Sunshine lose her life on my account. I will never let that happen.
A scream pierces my ears, the images growing stronger, becoming increasingly vivid.
Giving myself nightmares is the only way I can work up the courage to walk away.
“Did you hear that?” says Ophelia, breaking the silence between us.
“Hear what?”
Ophelia frowns, concentrating on the sound. “I thought I heard a—”
The elevator doors slide open onto hell.
Ophelia shrieks, stumbling back into the wall when she sees blood dripping from a masked figure’s knife. A dead body thumps to the ground.
“Back up to the top,” I tell her, already unsheathing my knife in the elevator.
“You have a…?”
“It’s called a knife,” I say. “Back up to the fucking top, Ophelia,” I command, pressing the button for her since she seems to be paralyzed with fear. “Lock yourself away in the office. Hide under the desk. I’ll be up soon.”
I hop out of the elevator, trying to get a good understanding of the situation before I go in for the attack. Four masked figures have barged in here and ruined the peaceful evening. As far as I can see, five of my employees are lying on the ground, covered in their own blood.
“Ambulance!” shrieks a woman to my left, kneeling over one of the bodies. “Please! Hurry.”
I sheathe my knife under my belt for the time being, approaching the woman on the floor who is using her own clothes to soak up her friend’s blood.
“What the hell happened here?”
“They came out of nowhere.”
“Who?”
“Those people,” she says, pointing to one of the masked men at the far end of the lobby.
“You need to get out of here.” I call for more elevators, thumbing the buttons repeatedly. “Up to the top floor,” I shout, grabbing everyone’s attention.
Thankfully, most people have managed to take shelter, but there are approximately twelve people left in the lobby scattered around, tending to the wounded.
Some people scurry into the elevator, but not all.
“You can’t save him,” I shout at the man leaning over the deceased, tears streaming down his face.
“I can save him.”
“No,” I say. “You can’t, and I refuse to get into an argument over this with you. In the elevator, now, or I’ll drag you by your fucking hair.”
The man flashes me a look before climbing back to his feet, following the others.
For the most part, the damage already seems to have been done. After glancing around the room, making sure the coast is clear, I stalk across the lobby. The masked men have vanished into thin air, but I’m sure they’ll be back when they see me.
They’re here for me, and I’m going to find out why.
I slip my knife, hand locked around the handle as I stride through the corridor, away from the lobby, hunting down my fucking prey.
I roll my eyes, hearing sirens outside.
I turn on my heel, raking a hand through my hair as I head back into the atrium. But before I can get there, a figure emerges, standing in front of me, cutting me off.
“Kill me,” says the masked man in a begging-like tone. “I want to know how it feels to be killed by the almighty Salvatore Moretti.”
Time is ticking. Wheels hit the floor as paramedics wheel stretchers into the building.
Boots thud as multiple police enter. I listen carefully to the sounds, figuring out how much time I have left before they round this corner and find me.
Being exploited as a teenager comes with many benefits.
Renato taught us a wide range of different life skills, ranging from healing our own wounds, all the way to avoiding confrontation with the cops.
I grab the bastard by the shoulder, shoving him into the wall.
I tear off his mask, ready to do damage, when I see an innocent pair of eyes staring back at me…
And it’s like I’m looking straight into a mirror, seeing my seventeen-year-old self.
“Who are you working for?”
“It doesn’t matter,” says the boy. “I’m dead anyway.”
“You can tell me.”
The boy laughs, shaking his head. His adolescent features are lined with anger as he looks over my face.
The boy is half my height, all skin and bone, and yet he shows no fear, tipping his chin up at me as he challenges my authority.
“People like you deserve to be scrounging around at the bottom with the rats.”
My chest tightens. I feel his desperation. The hunger for food and revenge.
All I wanted was the people at the top to pay, but I became the top. The cycle continues through the generations, and there are no real winners.
“I used to be you.”
“A very long time ago, old man,” sneers the boy.
I grab his shoulder and throw him down the corridor, away from the atrium before the first responders see us.
I unlock the janitor closet and launch him inside, stepping in after, securing the lock.
In one swift motion, I release my knife, tearing open the boy’s shirt. A crow tattoo shines in the weak light.
“Fuck,” I step back, smoothing my hand over my chin.
With my guard down, this boy could quite easily kill me.
But his gun is lodged under his belt. In the Crows world, killing people at the very top of society feels like murdering kings and queens.
You work your way up the ranks, and gradually the leader will send you on larger, riskier missions until you’re ready to face your ultimate arch nemesis—the person you want dead most of all.
For me, that was Richard Campbell.
I was never meant to survive that day. Killing your arch nemesis is a suicide mission. You never come out of it alive, but I did. And I lost my friends as a result.
“I don’t understand,” I mutter. “Why aren’t you killing me?”
“Killing Salvatore Moretti won’t look great on my prison sentence,” says the boy. “The police are already here. My life from this day forward will either be bad or terrible,” he says. “And I already had terrible.”
Of course he did. Pain strikes my chest as I look at the failure in front of me. This boy only joined the Crows to save himself, but there is no way out, not even when you leave. Death is the best option for him. The pleading look in his eye suggests he wants me to put him out of his misery.
“What are you waiting for, old man? I killed some of your workers and you’re not going to retaliate? Come on. Show me your true colors. We all know who you really are.”
“And who is that?”
“Selfish.”
“True.” I fold my arms over my chest. “Tell me who you work for, and you have yourself a deal.”
The boy taps his chest. “The Crows. You ever heard of them?”
Pinning the man a look, I shed my suit jacket, undoing the top few buttons of my shirt.
The boy’s face shifts. “How is that even possible?”
“The Crows were around when I was just a boy, no older than yourself. You think you know me? Think again.” I gesture to my chest. “Once that tattoo has been stamped on your body, there is no getting rid of it. You either die in the Crows, or you grow to become the very same person you once hated.”
“It’s not possible.”
“Oh, anything is possible, but defeating the impossible isn’t as rewarding as you might think.” I step forward. “Tell me who is leading you.”
The boy’s jaw trembles, like he’s at war with his own mind. Breaking the Crows code of conduct costs you your life, but the boy said it himself—his life is already over.
“I can stop him if you tell me.”
“The Crows cannot be stopped,” says the boy before reaching for his gun and raising it to his head.
“No!”
The gun goes off before I can intervene, and the boy falls to the floor, dying in a pool of his own blood. I watch it spill from his temple, pain striking through my chest as I fail, not only myself, but generations of young, impressionable boys to come.
I will not stop until I’m wiping this person’s blood off my knife.
I roll my eyes, hearing footsteps pound down the corridor. I slip my knife from my belt, unscrew a bottle of bleach and douse the weapon in the liquid, covering my tracks and eradicating any trace of fingerprints.
Stepping out of the janitor closet, I raise my hands above my head and walk slowly toward the group of armed police barreling my way.
“I was trying to get answers out of him, but he killed himself.”
The officers come to a halt down the hallway.
I kick open the door. “See for yourself. Some bleach was spilled in the process. He was very angry, but can you blame him?”
“Sir?” asks one of the officers, waiting for me to elaborate.
“Some people will always have nothing, so when you have everything, you become a target.”
The officers exchange a look, holding shields in front of their bodies, guns fixated in their hands.
Two of the officers break up, walking past me to inspect the janitor closet. The overwhelming smell of bleach sends me back to when I was a Crow. The chemicals would linger for days.
“We need you to come down to the station,” says one of the officers as his co-workers inspect the damage. “We need a statement from you.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have much to say. I was at the very top of the building when the attack started.”
“What were you doing up there?”
“Mr. Moretti is in no position to speak now,” says one of the other officers. “If he wishes to have his lawyer present—”
“That won’t be necessary. I have nothing to hide.”
Except, I do have stuff to hide.
But I must keep everything swept under the rug. I have a long way to fall. Not only do I destroy my business and the mafia, I destroy Ophelia, and my Sunshine has already been through enough.
If I go down, who will be around to save Ophelia?
Better yet, who will be around to save these boys from their own demons?