Revenge on the Mafia (The shadows of Cosa Nostra Chronicles #4)

Prologue

MARBELLA, SPAIN.

JUAN

They say you know when death knocks on your door.

In Juan’s case, it was the heavy footsteps that announced his impending demise.

Polished shoes bought with blood money tainted the white tiles in his entrance hall, the very hall that had seen his girls running through it barefoot and happy.

The textured stucco walls that had breathed of innocence and joy shook as the men stormed towards his office.

Unannounced. Unwelcome. Bringing with them the stench of bad intentions and heartbreak.

Outside, the day was bright. The sun blasted heat at forty degrees Celsius.

The sky was clear blue, not a cloud in sight.

Just five minutes before, a house sparrow had chirped on the olive tree outside his window, as unaware of the danger as his little girl seated next to him with her legs folded underneath her and one hand tucked under her thigh.

She was far too self-conscious about her body.

He hadn’t known it before, but apparently eighteen was the height of doubt and awkwardness.

Eyes closed, forehead scrunched in concentration, she tapped a beat on his desk.

When she practiced a rhythm for her recitals, her awkwardness slipped off her.

Replaced with inner courage and discipline.

He wanted to pause this moment and bury it in a chest under lock and key.

When she was still untouched by the darkness that was about to encroach upon her life.

Anger berated him for the malicious strike they were going to leave in her life.

But it was what it was, and he didn’t have the luxury of time.

Doors slammed open and shut. The stench of cigarettes had already invaded the air in his office.

It was a matter of seconds before they stormed into the last room at the end of the hallway.

Panic crawled in his chest. He shoved it away. No somos cobardes. We are not cowards.

He pushed off his chair, silently, but his movements were jarring, grabbing the attention of his sunshine.

“Papá, ?qué pasa?”

“Shh.” He held up his finger to his lips while opening the sliding door of the cupboard next to his desk. He didn’t have the time to explain what was happening. “Get inside here, mi solecita.”

Her eyes rounded. “I’m way too big f—”

“Now,” he snapped and regretted his tone instantly. “Please, do as I say.”

She was brewing for an argument, and time wasn’t on their side.

But thankfully she got off the chair and hesitantly made her way to him.

When she was close to the cupboard, he gave her a gentle shove.

She grunted. He forced himself to ignore it.

Her head banged against the shelves. Her arms scraped against the sides.

She was twisted and folded into a space that wasn’t made for a teenager.

When she came out… if she came out, she was going to be bruised.

Her discomfort wasn’t a priority anymore. Survival was.

His pulse raced at an unusual speed. She didn't know what was happening, but even then, her face was beginning to color with fear.

“?Qué pasa, Papá?” Her words dripped with uncertainty.

His hands trembled when he tipped her chin up. “You love me?”

She scowled. “That’s not cool to ask.”

He meant to chuckle, but it came out as a sob. “Then you’ll be quiet. You understand me? No matter what happens, you stay inside and you. Be. Quiet.”

She stared at him as if he’d lost his mind.

“What have I taught you?”

“Homework first before TikTok.”

“Si no puedes encontrar una estrella, busca lo suficientemente lejos hasta que la encuentres.”

If you can't find a star, look far enough until you do.

Her forehead scrunched in confusion. He didn’t have time to explain.

Grabbing the worn door, he slid it shut and locked it from the outside, shoving the key under the split in the cupboard.

The slats in the cupboard were open, and he peeped through them at her big, round, brown eyes, staring back at him with trust. Trust that nothing bad will happen to her.

I’ll protect you, mi solecita. As best as I can.

“Recuerda, mi solecita, no somos cobardes.” He flipped the slats closed.

Behind him, the door burst open. The stale tobacco stench permeated his orderly office, and two men stalked into the room.

His heart sank when he noticed the young man standing behind them.

Why did they have to involve him? Juan’s troubled gaze slid to the man heading the threesome, commanding the room.

The Don. Thick body draped in gold chains.

Index and middle fingers stained yellow as he blew smoke from his cigarette.

His stance and his eyes spoke of only one thing. Death.

Juan Vales had washed the Don’s money for years.

Cocaine from Colombia. Clubs along the coast. Real estate that hid the blood money.

Numbers had made the Don rich and Juan disposable.

He had never had a choice in the matter.

But he had always known that one day his death would come at the Don’s hands.

Yet he’d never thought it would be in the presence of his daughter.

He had only one question for the Don.

“Why?”

His spiteful gaze ran over Juan. Blowing thick smoke his way from his cigarette, he took his time answering.

The Don knew he had the upper hand, and that kind of power given to a man with malicious intentions made him into a monster that even the devil wouldn’t cross.

“You’re a fucking thief. You think you can get away after stealing from me. ”

Only a fool would steal from the Don. He was no fool, and the Don knew it.

Juan moved away from the cupboard to the front of his desk.

He counted his blessings that his wife, who suffered bravely with schizophrenia and youngest daughter were not home.

He’d kept his eldest to prepare her for the recital.

He’d called her irresponsible and lazy. Regret filled his chest at his mistake.

With his fingers curled around the desk, his chest facing the firing squad, he prayed that his little girl would be spared. “Do it then.”

The Don cocked his head. “What? No argument from the great maestro?”

The Don had already made up his mind. Any answer of Juan’s would be squandered.

The Don’s lips curled into a hatred-filled smirk.

“Even more evidence of your theft.” He picked up the framed picture of Juan’s family on the console next to the door.

Juan’s nails dug into the wood. The Don blew smoke toward his family’s untainted picture.

“You should beg, at least. I might change my mind.”

Juan shook his head. He knew better.

The Don threw the frame onto the floor. Juan was relieved that it was out of his hands. “All right, then. Your choice.”

He yanked the boy behind him and pushed him to the front, shoving a gun into his hand. “Show the man what happens when you steal from me.”

A bead of sweat formed on his forehead. Juan held back the urge to comfort him. He was blessed with daughters. The boy was the son he had never had. How cruel life was. Juan’s death would destroy the boy as well as his daughter.

In Juan’s eyes, he was still a boy, but he was fast growing into the man he would become one day. The way he held the weapon against his thigh, pointing towards the floor, it might as well have been leaden. His eyes met Juan’s. The boy’s words filled with conviction.

“He’s not a thief.” His voice didn’t command obedience. The stamina, the range, the clarity would one day demand it, even from his father. But it would not be today. Today, it shook. Emotion threaded through every word.

The Don circled the boy. He dropped the cigarette on the wooden floor.

Instead of crushing it, he left it to burn against the planks Juan had laid out, on his hands and knees, for four Sundays in a row.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a weapon that glittered in the sunlight.

The boy winced, and Juan knew it was a knife pressed to his spine. “Are you disobeying me, Son?”

His tone was cold. Dead. The hand holding the gun shook.

He breathed down his son’s neck. “It’s time to show your fucking loyalty.” When his lips were right next to the boy’s ear, he roared, making him startle. “It’s a fucking order. Now!”

Juan’s breathing shallowed. His death was a certainty. There was nothing he could do to change fate. But the path of the young man and his daughter’s life he could change. He must change.

The Don gripped the boy’s hand and aimed it at Juan. “If I tell you to shoot, you fucking shoot.”

The young man’s hand fisted around the gun.

His jaw tensed, and his decision crossed his face.

No, Juan mouthed. He wasn’t ready yet. He was twenty-one.

It wasn’t the right time for him to step out of his father’s shadow.

Juan’s fingers took a life of their own.

Over and over, he traced two letters on his desk, AV.

The boy followed the movement of his fingers, and when Juan’s gaze flicked just for a second toward the cupboard, he followed it obediently. His face paled.

“Te perdono,” Juan encouraged him. He forgave him.

The boy swallowed thickly. His father watched closely behind his shoulder.

With a stiff nod, he lifted his hand and aimed the weapon at Juan.

Juan’s life flashed past him. Memories of his wife.

Brave and loving. “You make the voices nicer.” His two girls, laughing and playing.

“Papá. Papá. You’re the best in the whole wide world, Papá.

” The boy, in his study, for months on end.

Learning the numbers with him. “You’re learning so fast.” The boy’s eyes trustful and eager.

Blue, like the ocean outside. “It’s because of you.

Sometimes I wish you were my father.” I wish the same.

The shot rang like thunder. He fell onto the desk, his breath halting. The scent of burned gunpowder filled the room, his heart pounding like a caged animal. Why is it beating? He turned, and behind him the wall was splintered, a bullet molded into it. Mierda. He had missed. He never missed.

He turned around to see the gun clattering to the floor. He drew a ragged breath. The Don would not forget this.

“Fottuto stronzo.” The Don shoved the boy to the side, and the next instant a sharp pain sliced into Juan’s neck.

He staggered. His breathing shallowed. Slowly, he touched the side of his neck.

His fingers traced cold metal. Warmth spilled where it jabbed into his skin, and when he looked down, his white shirt was staining red.

A muffled cry.

Mierda. No. His little girl.

“Who the fuck is here?” the Don yelled. “You told me no one was home.”

The third man said something.

With all of Juan’s strength, he shoved the desk back, creating noise, burying his daughter’s pain.

His knees buckled, and he dropped to the floor.

Music notes floated around him like angels before falling to the floor.

White sheets. Black notes. Red stains. He was cold.

So cold. What did it feel like to be warm?

The sound of the alarm pierced the room. Why was it going off? His vision lost focus.

“What the fuck,” someone yelled. Moving feet.

Away. Away from him. Gray blobs danced before his eyes.

Growing bigger and bigger. Changing his view.

Covering it. He tried to move his head. Maybe he did, or maybe it was a nightmare.

He could see the slatted cupboard again, but this time, the slats were open, and he looked right into brown eyes, no longer innocent. Darkened with terror. No!

“Papá?”

There was so much he wanted to tell her.

He struggled to form words. I can’t make it to your recital.

“Papá?”

He’d forgotten to tell her he loved her, too.

You are the best thing that happened to me.

“Papá?”

You’re brave. I’m so proud of you.

“Papá!”

We are not cowards. No somos cobardes.

“PAPá!”

Te quiero, mi solecita.

I love you, my sunshine.

Everything darkened. It went pitch-black. Screaming. Heart-wrenching cries. The cold was all that was left. Then it went quiet. Deadly quiet.

Te quiero, mi solecita.