Chapter 3
Alexander
The sudden silence was jarring, the cutaway from the small but powerful brass band trailing behind the procession a stark reminder of why the family had been gathered on a gloomy day. The band’s slow, mournful hymns had done nothing to improve my mood or the thoughts of retaliation.
There was no doubt Vitelli Russo had ordered the hit on my father.
Soon, he would learn what pain truly felt like.
As required for the jazz funeral as demanded by my mother and grandmother, everyone participating in the several-hour event was dressed in somber attire, the pitch-black clothing fully embracing the ache everyone in our family felt.
There would be a celebration of life following the proceedings, all those invited changing into more festive attire. The same band would descend on my parents’ home, providing upbeat music as everyone drank and gorged on lavish foods.
While maintaining traditions was important, I had no tolerance for pretense. A man had been murdered, gunned down in cold blood, and no celebration or Hoodoo as still practiced by my grandmother would bring my father back from the dead.
Now we were finally standing in front of the tomb purchased several generations before, a location where my father would remain for a year and a day, the tradition popular in New Orleans.
The walk through the ancient cemetery had taken a full thirty minutes and with every moment and every step taken, my anger had increased.
Soon, the rage would be out of control.
The protocol was in place even so soon after my father’s death. I stood in front with Sinclair to my left, Montgomery then Jaxon, the powerful slain Don’s sons all together. All other family members and guards hidden in the crowd were positioned behind us. Including my mother and sister.
This was the way of our father’s mafia and his father before him. While there was no formal ceremony, I’d already been crowned the Don.
Given the escalation of the war, the Russos would soon learn the price of destroying a legacy would be fraught with agony unlike anything they’d ever experienced before.
While I’d been advised by almost everyone that since Russo had yet to lay claim to the horrible act, I should be careful in laying blame until absolute confirmation, in my gut I knew Russo was responsible.
The timing had been too perfect.
As soon as the priest took his position I swept the perimeter of the cemetery, studying the faces of everyone in the crowd. Maybe I was hopeful Russo would show his ugly face. After all, there were several important members of society who’d come to pay their respects.
Maybe they were merely gawking, enjoying the loss of power within such an influential family.
My brothers, sister, and I shifted toward our stoic mother and I had a direct view of her lovely face and haunted eyes as she tried desperately to cling to what little comfort her children could provide.
My uncles and aunts flanked the massive stone fixture, both men hiding their fury much better than I’d managed since learning the horrific news.
Emmeline had taken our father’s death the hardest, the sound of her racking sobs like a dagger driven through my jugular.
Given my mother and father had been staunch Catholics, as soon as everyone partaking in the funeral found a place surrounding the vault, the priest began to speak.
As required, I remained unmoving, yet the light breeze tickling the skin on my face was nothing more than pinpricks of anxiety. The event was newsworthy, another annoyance that fueled my anger.
We were surrounded by men in dark suits, Capos and madmen, all carrying concealed weapons, keeping the perimeter protected.
A necessary evil. On this gloomy day, their presence reminded me that this life was similar to a prison.
While we’d established the rules, that didn’t change the danger or the number of deaths in any given year.
Sinclair placed his hand on my shoulder. He knew me far too well in that I was at the point of losing patience, eager to confront Russo. His sympathetic look mirrored everyone else. Maybe the reactions should be comforting.
They weren’t.
When the priest finally finished, there was moment of silence, a prayer, and the sign of the cross made.
Soon, my father’s body would be loaded into the tomb, shut off from his family.
At least that’s the way I continued to think about it.
Both my other brothers were looking to me for guidance, a way of moving forward.
I was now the head of the family, a position not to be taken lightly.
Yet accepting and embracing how many lives depended on my actions and decisions still seemed impossible.
Slowly, the crowd began to disperse, only a few of my mother and father’s closest friends remaining alongside the family.
As tears slowly rolled down my mother’s face, I shoved the anger aside and gathered her into my arms. The last thing she needed was to be forced to deal with my incessant desire for revenge.
My mother was the strongest woman I knew, the love of her family the backbone that had allowed every sibling to thrive.
I used to think she was invincible. Today, she seemed frail, as if she’d aged ten years in the last few days.
I held her close while my uncles moved further away, both eyeing me cautiously.
While it had always been known I was the heir apparent to the powerful empire, they also were well aware my reputation as a ruthless monster could prove damaging. I could only imagine the pep talk I was about to receive.
“Are you okay, Mama?” I asked. “Do you want Emmeline to take you home?”
My mother pulled away, cupping both sides of my face with her hands, her eyes searching mine. “You are such a good boy.”
A good boy. I was thirty-six years old, but in her eyes, I’d still always be her baby. “Not always.”
“Yes, you are. You’re going to make a great leader, my son. Your father would be so proud.” She eyed me carefully, studying the bruises on my face. I certainly didn’t have the mark of a leader given my split lip and the cut above my forehead.
She reached out, the concern in her eyes followed by an attempt to caress the bruises. I refused to allow her, taking her hand instead and kissing her knuckles.
In the aftermath of my father’s death, not only had I nearly torn the city apart seeking confirmation Russo was responsible, but I’d also spent hours in the boxing ring in hopes of ridding the excess rage.
Nothing had worked.
While my father and I hadn’t always gotten along, he was a man I held the highest respect for.
Kissing her knuckles was something I used to do as a little boy.
It had been something I’d seen my father do and had wanted to mimic him.
At least in doing so, I was rewarded with a slight smile and some light flashing in her saddened eyes.
“Come on, Mama. Let me take you home. We have guests arriving soon and you need some rest.” My sister lifted her gaze toward me, her expression holding the same questions we all had.
Why?
To take out the leader of any syndicate was bold and almost unheard of.
“Thanks, Em,” I told her and unbuttoned my jacket as I scanned the perimeter of the cemetery. I wouldn’t put it past our enemies to try to use this moment to finish what they’d started outside a popular restaurant in the middle of broad daylight.
My grandmother approached, something curled in her hand. She was very much the matriarch of our family, harboring ancient customs held within our French Creole ancestry. She’d yet to realize the old ways had all but been forgotten.
“Que l’obscurité soit ta lumière.”
While my French was somewhat rusty, I knew the expression well.
Let the darkness be your light.
The saying was more about her belief in dark spirits and their ability to guide true believers from falling prey to the tricks played by demons. She’d yet to accept at least the male members of the Prince family were often called the Princes of Darkness for a reason.
We were merciless, powerful, and the kind of men who most feared.
Grandma opened my hand, placing something in my palm then curling her fingers around mine.
A wise woman, she often didn’t need to say anything to get her point across.
When she walked away, I was stuck by how resilient she was at her advanced age.
She’d lived a long and vibrant life, unlike most men in our family.
Turning, I laughed softly to myself and peered at what she’d given me. A fleur de lis. The symbolism was mixed, to some representing French royalty and light, and to others darkness and slavery a century or more before.
“What did she give you?” Montgomery asked, my younger brother surprisingly the quietest after learning the news.
I showed him and realized my uncles were waiting for a short but pointed gathering before heading back to the house.
“Wow. She anointed you as French royalty.”
“We’re all from the same blood, brother.” I glanced into his eyes, seeing more strength in them than I’d felt in myself. Images of my father’s bullet-ridden body had been impossible to move from the forefront of my mind.
“Where the hell did you go last night?” He studied my face, shaking his head as he always did when discovering I’d gone off some deep end.
“Interrogating an informant who wasn’t very cooperative.”
“Did you fucking leave him alive to walk another day or should I dispatch our cleanup group crew with multiple bags to cart away the ruins of your fury?”
Huffing, I raked my hand through my hair. “He’s still breathing.”
“You need to curtail your anger, brother. You know how you get when you suddenly drop into a black hole.”
He was right, although I wasn’t certain I gave a shit. A black hole. That was one way of putting my lack of patience and anger management issues. “We need to determine how we’re going to annihilate Russo.”