Prologue
ROCCO
Twenty-One Years Ago
It isn’t a cold and stormy night, though it ought to be; the kind of night where the rain smashes against your chest like bullets from a Tommy gun, thunder rumbles in the distance, and lightning cracks above your head.
It should be the perfect opening to a horror movie, but it’s not. It’s a tepid afternoon, with seagulls squawking overhead and a warm salty breeze filling my lungs.
Everybody dies alone. Don’t be fooled when you’re sitting on your death bed, with your closest family and friends ushering you into the afterlife. The sweet kiss of death takes you, and only you.
It’s a hard lesson to learn at seventeen. It’s harder still with the trembling men at my side. Well, I think there are a few of them, judging by the constant blubbering in my ear.
Ten hours ago, I made a mistake. Now, I’m standing among thieves and bastards, awaiting the completion of my sentence.
There’s a burlap sack over my head, which is fastened around my neck with a thick rope.
My hands are tied behind my back and the cold steel of a . 38 Special is digging into my ribcage.
Ten hours ago, I committed a crime. Now, I stand among the low-life scum of Boston, with death hovering greedily over us all.
Fear has a funny way of playing on a person.
I should be terrified of my predicament.
I should be like the others, who are groveling for their lives and pissing their pants.
It doesn’t help them much. So far, no one’s been spared the hangman’s noose, or – in this case – the icy cold sting of a bullet to the brain.
As I said, I’m not afraid of what’s coming.
I did my dirty deed and this is the consequence.
Still, anxiety mounts because of my inability to move my hands.
Ever since I was a kid, I’ve had the bad habit of chewing my nails and, with tied hands, I can’t do it.
That small thing is causing me more suffering than the threat of the bullet.
People speak all around me. God knows what they’re saying. Their mean, husky Italian voices break into laughter after every gunshot. One by one, they’re ridding themselves of nuisances. Now it’s my turn.
Ten hours ago, I killed a man and death is my sentence, too.
“No, please, Mr. Lombardi, don’t do this. I’ve been good to—“
“You’ve been nothing but a pain in my ass since the day I met you,” Vincent Lombardi cuts the speaker off. “You’re a small man, with a big mouth, and you’ve got my organization into a lotta trouble over the years. Come on, Jimmy, you knew the rules.”
“The rules? The fucking rules? There aren’t any rules.” Anger bubbles behind Jimmy’s fear.
“There’s honor among thieves. You’ve forgotten that.”
They’ve arrived right next to me. I try to swallow, but my throat’s dry and the motion makes me choke.
“Do it,” Vincent says, and someone pulls a trigger. The gunshot makes my ears ring and my skull throb.
They go back to speaking Italian. It’s part of my heritage, but my old man never bothered teaching me a word. So, I’m stuck, listening to them speak, kicking sand as they make their way over to me.
“You’re shitting me?” Vincent says, back in English. “No fucking way, I’m gonna believe this kid killed Rocco Santorini.”
“Saw it with my own eyes, Boss,” someone else says. Probably the bald bruiser who pulled me off the corpse and loaded me into the trunk of his Mercedes Benz.
“Take it off,” Vincent says.
A fist grabs the top of the sack and a handful of my hair, and with one hard pull, my vision is restored.
The first thing I see is Vincent Lombardi standing in front of me. From the corner of my eye, the stacked corpses of his many kills lie across the beach.
“A sight for sore eyes to the blind is awful majestic,” Vincent says. He’s leaning close to me, and I can smell the stale mixture of bourbon and cigars on his breath.
“You’re not begging like the others. Why not?” His greying hair whips back and forth with the breeze.
“Don’t see the point.” My words are laced with a confidence I don’t feel.
“You’re Lorenzo Moretti’s kid, aren’t cha.” It’s a question, but he says it like a statement.
“I am. Roberto Moretti.”
“And you killed my man?”
I did, but I can’t find the strength to admit it.
Vincent squints his eyes and scans my face.
“How’d you go and do that?” he asks. “Rocco was double your size and triple as mean. Or maybe I should ask why?”
Why did I do it? The question hadn’t crossed my mind until it left Vincent’s lips. There isn’t a good answer. I wasn’t angry at him. It wasn’t self-defense. The world just went black and I did it.
I shrug as an answer. Vincent smiles.
“Let’s end this before the cops show up,” a voice comes from behind Vincent. His son, Emilio, moves into my field of vision, sucking on a cigarette. Flecks of blood from the deceased are splattered across his cheeks.
“Cops? Those fat fucks won’t be bothering us.” Vincent rolls his eyes. “No, we’ve got all the time we need and I’m not finished with the kid yet.”
Vincent takes a step back and scans me from head to toe. “Untie him.”
“You’ve gotta be kidd—“ Emilio starts.
“Shut your mouth, boy,” Vincent cuts him off. “The kid dropped Rocco Santorini. That’s not normal, and he might be better to us alive.”
“You’re talking batshit crazy,” Emilio says.
Without warning, Vincent spins so fast sand kicks up around his shoes before his backhand cracks across Emilio’s face. He speaks in Italian under his breath, and then Emilio apologizes.
“You killed my man,” Vincent’s attention returns to me. “Cold blood or not, you owe my family a debt.”
The man behind me replaces his .38 Special with a butterfly knife and slices through the zip-tie binding my wrists.
“So, I’m going to say this once, and you best say yes, sir, thank you, sir, in response.”
I nod.
“You’re a killer at heart, I can see it in your eyes, and it just so happens, I need a new one. Would you like a job?”
Did he seriously just offer me a role as a mafia hitman?
“Don’t have all day, kid. Are you in or are you going to join the others?” Vincent tilts his head towards the dead.
“Yes, sir, thank you, sir,” I repeat his words.
“Wonderful. Then get out of here. I’ll be in touch.”
I spin on my heels and start running.
“One more thing,” Vincent shouts, before I get too far away. “I’m not good with names and don’t care for yours. You’d best start getting used to being called Rocco.”
Rocco. Rocco Moretti.
An easy sacrifice for another chance at a full life.