ALESSIO
Consciousness returns one ache at a time. First my head, which feels like somebody drove a railroad spike through my skull. Then my ribs. Definitely cracked. My wrists are third in line. Zip ties hold them against steel. Industrial grade.
I like zip ties better than metal. Plastic can break.
Steel cuffs are annoying. I force my eyes open only to stare at one bare bulb hanging from the ceiling, swaying ever so slightly from the arctic temperatures blasting from the A/C.
The room smells of diesel, damp concrete, and old motor oil.
Somewhere nearby, water drips in a slow, steady rhythm.
The bare bones tell me I'm inside some kind of warehouse. My ankles are tied to a chair's legs. My wrists behind the backrest. They secured my chest too. Whoever tied me up knew what they were doing.
I flex my still responsive fingers when the steel door opens.
One man walks in. I notice his expensive Italian loafers first. My eyes trail upward over a tailored charcoal suit, a white shirt with no tie.
Dark hair, styled back, and he sticks to the shadows as if he doesn't want me to see his face.
Which arouses my curiosity, because why go through all this trouble to get me here and then play coy?
He doesn't rush. Doesn't posture. He simply walks to a scarred wooden table, uncorks a bottle of whiskey, and pours himself a generous glass.
He raises it to his lips and takes a long sip, then turns towards me, deliberately keeping his head half-lowered, still making it impossible to discern his features.
I have no doubt as to who he is, or at least, what he calls himself.
"El Recaudador, I presume," I wager.
He turns slightly. The light catches the left side of it. A dark crimson birthmark stretches from his temple down toward his jaw. Recognition punches every bit as hard as the blow Flea landed earlier.
No.
Fuck. That's impossible. But that birthmark... I know that birthmark. Not because we were friends. Because it was impossible not to notice.
"Cesar..." The name leaves my mouth before I can stop it.
A slow smile spreads across his face. "So, you do remember."
"I watched you die."
"No."
He takes a sip of whiskey. "You watched a house burn."
Memories spill in. Memories of a night where Massimo, Gabe, Damiano, Enzo, Bello, and I left a bloodbath behind. "Gabe stabbed you."
"He did." His tone is almost conversational. "Excellent technique by the way. A bit inexperienced, but we were all ten years younger, yes?"
His fingers absently brush the left side of his chest. "The blade missed my heart by less than an inch."
"No one survives that."
"I did." He isn’t bragging. It's just a statement.
Silence settles between us. Ten years. Ten fucking years.
Massimo.
Damiano.
Gabe.
Enzo.
We all believed him dead. Now things are starting to make sense.
I laugh. "You waited a long time to collect."
"I did." He repeats with a smirk. "I'm almost regretting that it's all coming to an end now.
All that planning…" he tsks and shakes his head.
"It'll be like a Christmas hangover. You know, when you look forward to all those gifts and dishes for weeks, and then poof," he throws his hands in the air, "in a blink of an eye, it's all over. "
He does look almost regretful. "I just hope this time nobody forgets to get me everything I asked for. That's the worst. When you're looking for that one special gift… and it's not there."
I shake my head. "I don't. Christmas was just another drunken day in my happy childhood."
"Ah yeah," he raises the glass at me. "I forgot you were the one raised underprivileged."
I chuckle. "That's one word for it."
The memory crashes into me so hard it almost knocks the air from my lungs.
Ten years ago…
Massimo still walked with a limp from where he had been run over by a car, twice. That accident should have killed him. Stubborn bastard refused to die even then.
Gabe brought him to Enzo, who called some quack who kept Massimo alive and patched him back together, and when I say patched, I mean it.
Massimo’s needed multiple surgeries over the last ten years to make up for the shit work that doctor did.
Bello was the one who insisted on not taking him to a hospital.
He told us that Vittorio Manetti's sons had been behind the assassination attempt because they were jealous of Massimo and worried their old man would give Massimo the role as next Capo dei capi instead of one of them.
We believed every word; we had no reason not to.
So several months later, once Massimo was able to walk—barely—the six of us went.
Massimo.
Gabe.
Enzo.
Bello.
Damiano.
Me.
I was barely more than a rookie trying to prove I belonged.
Massimo and Gabe had been born into this world.
Enzo and Bello had clawed their way up through it.
Damiano... hell, Damiano should've been sitting in some Ivy League lecture hall learning corporate law instead of dealing dope with me and carrying an assault rifle through a mansion in the middle of the night.
Life has a twisted sense of humor. We knew the guards' rotations. Every camera. Every blind spot. It wasn't a battle. It was an execution.
The guards never even saw us coming. Thirty-nine men died before sunrise. Each of us had a target. Mine was Umberto. Gabe's was Cesar. Bello was supposed to make sure they were all dead—after he took Nicoletta out of the house. Massimo had been crystal clear. "She doesn't get touched."
She was ten. Just a little girl. Vittorio's youngest child and only daughter. Bello was supposed to lock her in the toolshed behind the estate until we were gone, while he set the house on fire.
We left. Believing she'd alone survived.
My head snaps up. Nicoletta!
Nicci.
No...
No.
It can't... except... it can. A cold wave washes over me. "Oh..." The word barely leaves my mouth. "Oh, fuck."
Cesar smiles. It's not a triumphant smile. Not like you'd expect on a man who waited ten years to dish out revenge. It's the smile of a patient one. Like a teacher watching a student finally solve a problem.
"You've figured it out."
My stomach twists so violently, I think I might actually throw up.
"Nicci," I whisper, the woman Damiano mentioned who came with his kid. "Is Nicoletta."
He raises his glass. "My baby sister."
Jesus Christ. Damiano. The idiot. The reckless idiot. He's trusting the daughter of the man we executed. The little girl we thought we'd saved. The woman who's been sleeping under his roof. The woman who has been watching his three-year-old son. My blood runs cold.
"She's in on it." It's not a question.
Cesar nods once. "Every." Beat. "Single." Beat. "Detail."
I close my eyes for the briefest second. Damiano. You poor bastard. Then another realization slams into me. Harder than the first. "You've been grooming her."
Cesar doesn't even pretend to be offended. "I've been raising my sister."
He swirls the whiskey. "The world insists on calling it grooming."
"And sending her after Damiano?"
His smile returns. "Revenge is a patient man's game."
"You've spent ten years planning this."
"I've spent ten years waiting." He corrects me. "Planning was the easy part."
He strolls around my chair, hands clasped behind his back. "I watched your Brotherhood build an empire."
His voice never rises. Never cracks. "I wondered how long it would take before one of you finally looked in the wrong direction." He stops in front of me again. "I had really high hopes one of you would turn on Massimo. You or Damiano. Gabe? I never really thought he would."
He stops in front of me, looks down. "Tell me, how did it feel when you found out you murdered the wrong people?"
Another flashback hits me. All of us in the large conference room overlooking the strip.
Finding out that one of Massimo's most trusted men played us all.
Pointed us at Massimo's uncle and his sons, convinced us they'd ordered the hit.
We handled it the only way men like us do.
Quick. Permanent. Wrong. And now the ghosts of that lie are collecting what they're owed.
I thought that was the worst truth we'd ever uncover.
Seems like I was wrong again.
But we’d also discussed something else. "It didn't matter who ordered the hit on Massimo. You would have done something similar soon. You and your brothers were lazy, spoiled, entitled brats who had no idea how to run an empire like the one your father had."
Cesar's smile is that of a man reminiscing about his favorite part in life. He lights a big, fat Cuban cigar. "Touche. You're right about that."
I know I'm right. His admission, however, surprises me.
"On both accounts. We were spoiled, and we had no idea how to run my father's business. But thanks to you." He blows the smoke straight into my face. "I've learned."
He steps away. "In a way, I should actually be grateful to you and your brethren. I had to learn the hard way how to claw my way up. But I did. And guess what?"
He puts a hand on each one of the chair's arms, caging me in while staring down. "I'm pretty damn good at it."
I laugh right into his face. "What? Selling women and children? Congratulations. You're excellent at human trafficking."
His fist hits my cheek, fast and hard. Hard enough that I taste blood, which I spit right next to his feet. Finally, I got him rattled enough to worm my way under his snaky, cold skin. "The truth hurts, doesn't it?"
I spit another wad of blood. "You became everything Vittorio would've despised."
"You know nothing about my father."
"I know enough."
"No."
His eyes become ice. "You know Massimo's version." He leans forward. "I know what it felt like to watch my entire family slaughtered."
Neither of us speaks. Finally, he straightens. "It doesn't matter. We're well beyond justice."
"I agree."
His smile returns. "I'm merely collecting debts."
He nods toward one of the men standing against the wall. "It's time."
The guard steps forward, slamming his fist into my ribs. Pain explodes through my side. Another catches my jaw. My head snaps sideways. Blood fills my mouth. Again. Again. Again. I refuse to make a sound.
The guard steps back. Cesar studies me. "Still proud. I expected nothing less from an ignorant little street rat like you."
He gestures toward another man holding up a phone. "Smile for the camera."
I stare at him. "Go fuck yourself."
A nod. The first guard drives another punch into my stomach. Air leaves my lungs. A second grabs my hair, jerking my head upright. "Smile."
I bare my teeth. Not because he told me to. Because if this bastard thinks he can break me... he's even dumber than Vittorio was. The flash goes off. Cesar glances at the picture. Satisfied. "Perfect."
He types something. Hits send. "I imagine your brothers will appreciate knowing you're alive."
He slips the phone into his pocket. Then turns toward the door. "Don't kill him." He pauses without looking back. "Not yet."
The steel door clangs shut behind him. Silence.
Only two guards remain. One scrolling through his phone.
The other nursing a cigarette. Good. I flex my wrists again.
The zip tie bites deeper into my skin. Plastic.
Not steel. I smile. They think the hard part was kidnapping me. They're about to discover...
the hard part is keeping me.