Sandro (Tampa Mafia World #1)

Chapter 1

Alessandro

Here we fucking go.

Blood and adrenaline hum through my veins. The heavy, strong beat of my heart thumps in my chest like a war drum. The rage–layers and layers of it built up inside me over the twenty-eight years I’ve been alive—is a fiery beast, uncaged, rearing its head and roaring.

The Beast was born when I was sixteen and my mother forced me to take a life for the first time.

Knowledge is power, they say. But this kind of knowledge is like when Eve bit into that juicy fucking apple.

It’s a sword slash to the throat of innocence, an awakening to the battle of good and evil in your own soul, and a brutal lesson in the permanence of death.

My victim was one of our own soldiers who’d been caught selling the locations of our warehouses. Slitting someone’s throat is harder than you think. Both mentally and physically.

While I went numb and disconnected, the Beast rose, first in my imagination and then solidified with every kill after that, its claws and teeth shaped by madness and turmoil.

It has the reins now and will do what is necessary.

Good for me, but not so good for the stupratore—stripped naked and bound to the round wooden target in the basement of The Showroom, a mafia-owned strip club in downtown New York City.

It’s cold and damp down here, but my body is on fire from the inside.

I can tell by the way my armed soldiers by the door keep watching me—they see the wild inferno rising inside me, the bloodlust creeping into my expression.

My vision blurs with a red mist. My muscles quiver with anticipation as I pick up my favorite throwing knife from the table.

It’s heavy steel and as long as my forearm.

Good for deep penetration. I wrap my fist around it in a hammer grip, the dark script of my hand tattoo flexing: Memento Mori. Remember that you will die.

It reminds me to live.

I turn to face the predator, roll my wide shoulders as he begs for his life.

“Please, Alessandro,” he whines through a swollen, busted nose. “I got some bad coke. I was out of my mind... I’m s-sorry.”

My forearms flex. A ferocious rage pulls my lips back, and I grit my teeth.

“You tried to force your tiny prick into one of our dancers without her consent. There is no forgiveness for that. And no mercy.” With a smooth sweep of my arm, the knife sails through the air and sinks next to his liver with a thunk and a scream. The scream turns into a sob.

Pussy.

“Please…”

A tiny bit of the rage is satiated as I watch his blood drip onto the plastic sheet spread out below his body. I am no avenger of wrongs, no white knight. I don’t feel anything for the woman he tried to rape. Unfortunately, my soul is too empty for such emotions as empathy or compassion.

Fury is the only flavor of emotion that runs through me.

The fury is rooted deep, a seed buried in my psyche long ago that was fed over the years by many things.

The ideas my psychotic mother planted, the sense of helplessness I’ve had to live with knowing my life is not my own.

When free will is suppressed, that energy mutates, transforms into a monster that will always choose war. It’s fascinating alchemy.

I’ll admit, I like the power that comes with taking a life.

Not because I feel like I’m playing God, but because it brings the universe closer to balance.

It’s simple math, really. There’s so much evil, so much darkness, greed, and violence in the world.

Subtracting some of that darkness is giving the light more room to shine.

Then maybe one day I’ll be able to see it again.

That light I once felt…

I shake my head, bringing myself out of my thoughts.

“Are you pleading for your life codardo? You should be pleading for a quick death. Don’t worry.

” I pick up a second throwing knife, balance it in my palm.

“I know how to avoid your organs and blood vessels while we play. You won’t bleed out until I’m ready for you to die. ”

I chuck the second knife, watching it slam into him, hitting my mark an inch from the first knife, still not striking anything vital to life. The dual thin rivers of blood running down his pale flesh are like a work of art.

His sputtering cries become moans and his head drops.

I stride over to him and grip him by his greasy hair, lifting his head. “Don’t you fucking dare pass out on me.” With a snarl, I return to the table and find the smelling salts and a Ka-Bar knife.

“Wake the fuck up, Leon,” I whisper roughly, waving the smelling salts beneath his nose.

He stirs. His bloodshot eyes blink open and then fill with terror. Despite knowing he can’t get away, he struggles in the leather binds. “Plea—”

“Fuck!” I bark, unable to hear one more goddamn please from this waste of human flesh. Keeping our eyes locked, I reach up and slash the carotid artery open on his neck. A spray of warm blood hits my chest and face. His pupils blow out with fear. “It’s quicker than you deserve.”

It only takes a few moments for his eyes to empty of life, his struggle to cease.

Well, that was unsatisfying. But then again, each rotten life I take, each soul I liberate from a body that didn’t deserve to walk this earth, is like shoving a demon back into hell where it belongs.

I should get a medal. The Beast is a fucking demon slayer, cleansing the earth for the pure of heart.

Like her…

Stop.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I reach for a towel on the table and then check the display. My father.

“Yeah?” I swipe the towel over my face and neck, the coppery scent of blood in my nostrils. The Beast still huffing and clawing in my chest, not happy playtime was so short.

“The Commission has called a meeting at the tower. You are to attend. Thirty minutes.” He hangs up.

I stare at the phone in annoyance and a touch of trepidation. After motioning for the soldiers to clean up, I dial another number. “Get Gunnar then pick me up. And I’ll need a new suit.”

***

I slide out of the black Escalade onto the bustling New York sidewalk and button my Armani jacket. The biting wind immediately chills the sweat on the back of my neck. Not much makes me nervous, but the Commission—which consists of the five New York clan heads—insisting I attend their meeting does.

Since my father Giovi LaRocca is head of our clan, he usually attends these meetings alone. He’d made me—his oldest son at twenty-eight—his underboss two years ago, but that still wasn’t worthy of an invite at the big boys’ table. Until now.

I squint up at the mirrored high-rise glistening against the cold, gray January sky, feeling uneasy about my fate. Something is about to change, and I’d bet my life it’s not going to be in a good way.

A gruff voice cuts through the traffic noise. “Ready, Sandro?”

Taking a deep breath, I give a slight nod to Gunnar, who’s standing at my side in a similar black suit, his expression also tight with trepidation.

Gunnar Lund is a six-foot-five blond, blue-eyed tank, my enforcer and best friend. Being a Swede, he isn’t a made man, but he saved my life when I was fourteen, so my father made sure everyone knew he was protected anyway. He’s one of the few men I trust with my life.

We’re quiet on the elevator ride up to the top floor. The tense silence trails us down the gleaming marble hallways as we follow the secretary to the back meeting room with double oak doors. Two muscle-headed soldiers with Ruger Mini-14 rifles slung over their shoulders eye us as we approach.

Gunnar tenses beside me. I’m not worried. I know he’s armed, too, and fast for a giant.

The secretary opens one of the double doors and motions for us to enter.

I don’t miss the way her doe-eyes skate up my six-four, muscular frame and then hold eye contact with an inviting smile. I wish I could feel something when women do this, but there’s only one woman who’s ever stirred my shriveled black heart. One I will never have.

One I will never deserve.

The first thing I notice is my father. He’s leaning back in the chair, his dark figure in stark contrast to the wall of glass windows displaying the gray city behind him. A cappuccino cup is perched in one hand and a knowing smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth.

This gives me pause. I expected him to be solemn. Worried. Maybe this won’t be as bad as I thought.

“Alessandro, welcome. Come, have a seat.” Joey Amato waves a hand glinting with gold rings to the empty seat at the end of the table. His dark eyes are a bit more serious, the bodyguard standing behind him also keeping a serious gaze locked on me.

There is respect but not trust. And for good reason. In our world, power changes hands swiftly, usually in a hail of bullets and blood.

I glance around the table at the other three New York bosses as I take a seat. They are all studying me like a microscopic specimen. I don’t like it.

The secretary has followed us in and quietly brings me a cappuccino, sets it in front of me, and then disappears back through the doors.

I fold my hands and rest them on the table, meet each Don’s eye, raise a brow at my father, and wait for someone to tell me what the hell is going on here.

Carlo Moretti is on my right. He’s a big guy with a face like a bulldog and the temper of a wounded bear. He leans forward, squints at me, and motions with a sausage finger to his neck. “You have a little something…”

Gunnar leans forward above me, snatches a napkin from the table and whispers, “Blood, you missed some.”

I wipe at my neck, coming away with some of the predator’s splattered blood.

My father chuckles. “Jesus, Sandro.”

I shrug, tossing the crumpled napkin back on the table.