Prologue
EZEKIEL
Thirteen Years Ago
They call me The Ox: two hundred and sixty pounds of raw aggression and solid muscle. The name came early, during my formative years working under Josef Austin Marcellus, Sr.
God rest his soul, he was a good man despite his many flaws.
Josef was a mob boss, a term thrown around loosely these days.
Back then, Josef was the real thing; old school and by the book.
He was one of the three founding fathers of the Unity, an organized crime division that worked out of Traverse City, Michigan.
After Josef passed, The Unity all went to shit and the big fish went under.
Only our little band of thieves stuck around.
Joey Junior took over but then he met his end at the hands of some crazy broad that he did the dirty on.
No one knows the details. Most just speculate, and laugh, that he gave her the clap.
After Joey, our group fell on tough times.
Finding a leader is no easy task, especially when you’re looking for someone straight enough to keep the family alive, but dirty enough to do what needs to be done.
When it finally happened, everyone was surprised that it was a woman who took charge. Our old-school way of thinking – that a man was a better fit – was trumped by a twenty-seven-year-old ex-starlet with bigger balls than I had.
Grace Hawthorne looks like the sweetest woman you’d ever meet, but she’s deadlier than a rattlesnake and twice as mean. What’s funniest of all is, she’s my little sister.
After Grace’s rise to power, our organization became a family affair.
We trimmed off the fat, leaving only the strongest of ties.
Our rise brought out other minor factions, all of whom were trying to claim some of the former glory that The Unity had once held.
However, we’re the goddamn kings of the castle, so, why would we share with anyone?
So, why do they call me The Ox? I guess it’s the way I get a job done, without flinching or hesitating, and how I remain stern and stoic through it all. And believe me, a hell of a lot had happened in my tenure as mafia muscle.
***
It’s a warm summer evening; the smell of rain is in the air.
I’m sitting in a 2004 Kia Picanto, a car that was certainly not built to match my proportions.
I feel like a giant in a clown car, but discretion is essential for what I’m about to do and no one will look twice at such a rust-bucket piece of shit.
I’m sitting outside the driveway of Roger and Delilah Camille’s place.
Roger’s been getting lippy lately, and showing his teeth to the family.
I’ve been sent to shut him up. As I understand it, he’s part of an offshoot organization that formed after Grace kicked the bad apples out of our syndicate.
The legitimacy of these claims doesn’t mean all that much to me.
Putting a bullet in Roger and Delilah will shut everyone up and stop whatever they’re trying to start dead in its tracks.
I pull on a pair of black leather gloves, which are resting on the passenger seat.
I know that there’s a gun inside the glove box, left by whoever dropped the car off in the secluded parking lot, where I picked it up.
I know there’s three grand in cash in a duffel bag in the trunk; payment for the job.
I know a lot of things, but the only thing that matters right now is sitting in this car until midnight.
That’s when the Camilles will be sleeping, and that’s when I’ll strike.
At the stroke of midnight, I open the glove box and find a suppressed FNX-45.
I can almost feel the ice-cold metal against my fingertips already.
I inspect it, drawing the slide back, and making sure there is a bullet ready in the chamber.
I check the magazine, flick the safety off, and switch the laser sight on.
I’ve seen the floor plans of the house, and I’ve got my route figured out. I grab a lock pick and cover my face up with the scarf that’s around my neck. I make my way towards the house.
For people stupid enough to get mixed up in the criminal underworld, the Camilles haven’t put up much in the way of security. They’re living the white-picket-fence dream, so it’s easy enough to get into their yard. At my height, I just lift my leg over the fence and I’m on the other side.
I am dressed all in black and I blend in with the shadows, moving from the front yard to the back. There’s little noise out here, apart from rustling leaves and the sound of traffic, far off in the distance.
I manage to pick the back door lock in record time for me; just under a minute and a half. This should be the point where my heart starts racing, right? It doesn’t. My pulse doesn’t even twitch.
I’m surprisingly quiet for my size, and I barely make a noise with every step I take. Even when I get to the bedroom, I make it all the way to their bed without waking them up.
The TV still being on helps, I suppose. I’ve never understood people that can fall asleep with all that light and noise. I need it pitch black and quiet enough to hear my own heartbeat in my ears. To each their own, who am I to judge how a man sleeps on his last night alive?
Delilah Camille is a pretty little thing, with the blanket half-off her body. Her low-cut, baggy top is riding up above her breasts. Roger’s sleeping naked, the blanket barely covering his junk.
I don’t waste any time. One hand clamps over the wife’s mouth while the other keeps the pistol trained on Roger. Her frantic shaking wakes him up immediately.
“What the hell are you doing?” Roger shouts, but as the haze and sleepiness wears off, he sees me.
“Hello, Rog. I hear you’ve been a naughty boy,” I say.
Delilah’s already in tears, shaking her head against my hand. Her muffled words are clear enough to understand; please don’t do this.
“Wh… who are you?” Roger recoils, covering himself further with the blanket. Delilah’s hands wrap around my forearm, but she’d never be able to move it.
“My name is Ezekiel Hawthorne,” I introduce myself as a courtesy.
“Hawthorne? Like the—“
“Yes, like those Hawthornes,” I cut him off. “Now, I’m sorry that it has to be you two, but I don’t make the rules; I only act on them.”
“No, you can’t,” Roger’s dead still, now, his eyes fixed on the barrel of the gun. “We’ve got a daughter.”
“Should’ve thought about her before you made threats against my sister.”
In my line of work, family always comes first. That was true before Grace took power, and it means a whole lot more after.
“We’ll stop, back down, and move away, whatever you want us to do. Just please don’t do this,” Roger was all but on his hands and knees, begging and pleading.
“Sorry, Rog. You know the game,” I shake my head. “Thanks for playing and better luck next time.”
I do what I came here to do before either of them can make another sound. Then I tuck the gun into my waistband and start for the door. But, I think… I’ll be fucked if I leave the girl, even though I want to.
“She’s not your problem,” I reason with myself. “None of this is your problem. Just move on.”
How can you move on from something like this? Fools die every day for far less than the Camilles, but that girl? She will be scarred for life. I’m so close to leaving too, standing with my hand on the backdoor handle, looking through the small windowpane into the garden.
“Fuck,” I groan, spinning on my heels and making my way back into the house.
When I get into the hallway that connects the bedrooms, I see her. A child, no older than five years old, wiping the sand out of her eyes with one hand, and clutching a little stuffed dog with dangling limbs in the other.
“Where’s my momma?” are the first words out of her lips.
“Hey, little girl.” That didn’t sound right. It sounded awkward, like a dad trying to fit in with the cool kids at a house party. Why did I say it like that? What an idiot. My heart’s racing now. It’s beating so hard I feel as if I’m going to collapse.
“Your folks had to go away for a while and asked me to look after you,” I say.
Thank Christ she’s a kid. Anyone with common sense would know that excuse was bullshit. Why am I fumbling over my words? I should’ve left when I had the chance.
“Okay,” she says, not fighting. “Where did they go?”
“Out of town, just for a bit. Everything’s going to be okay,” I say. “Let’s get your things so we can head out, yeah?”
“Okay,” she says, letting out a big yawn.
Why didn’t Grace tell me about the kid, I wonder? Probably because she knew I’d turn into a bumbling idiot if I knew she was there. I’m not good with kids. I have no idea what I’m fucking doing, man.
“I’m Riley; what’s your name?” she asks as I pack some of her clothes into a bag.
“My name is Ezekiel,” I reply, finishing off the packing, and tucking a pink pillow and blanket on top of the bag. “Looks like we’re all set to head out.”
Before I know it, we’re driving and Riley’s asleep in the backseat. Where the hell are we going to go? I call Grace, delivering the message ‘it’s done’, before hanging up. There’s no need to share anymore. If she wanted me to know about Riley, she’d have told me about her.
Now I’m stuck. What a pain in the ass.
A man as big as me, with cuts and scars across my face and body, would look suspicious taking her to a hotel. I don’t quite fit into the idea of dad material. Then it hits me. I should take Riley to my brother. It seems the only logical solution.
My older brother, Monty, is just an average guy with a wife. It’ll look normal for him to have a kid.
When I arrive at Monty’s house, Hayley and Monty are waiting for me outside. They’re dressed in matching white pajamas with baby blue stripes running down them. Hayley looks exhausted, but Monty’s wearing the same bewildered look I probably have on mine.
I give them the rundown of what happened that night, and Hayley makes her way to the backseat where Riley’s sleeping.
“You want us to look after some dead couple’s kid? What the hell, Ezekiel?”
“I don’t want to, Monty. This is an order,” I say. Although the Hawthorne Syndicate is generally family-dominated, we still work under a hierarchy. Although Monty is older than I am, I still outrank him by quite a bit.
“By order?” Monty chuckles. “And you’re telling me that Grace knows about this?”
“You tell her, yeah? If Grace has a problem with it, you tell her to come find me. I won’t let a child be harmed by the actions of this family.”
“By order,” Monty repeats my words, visibly getting angrier. “By fucking order.”
“Monty, it’s fine,” Hayley says, drawing our attention. She’s got Riley clutched in her arms, nestled carefully, so as not to wake her up. “I’ve always wanted a little girl. We’ve never really had any luck with pregnancy. Let’s give it a shot.”
I know she’s just saying that to break the tension, but it’s sweet music to my ears.
“You owe me for this, Zeke.” Monty shrugs.
“There’s three grand in cash in the trunk, and I’ll keep up monthly payments to make sure she’s no financial burden,” I say. “Also, there’s a gun in the glove box. Both it and the car have to disappear. Thanks, Brother.”
I leave before either of them changes their mind.