Five Years Ago
Lucio
I ’m finally initiated into the Camorra and able to participate in important shit like my older brother. My fingers still ache from the ritual, from gripping the blade too tight.
I haven’t even had time to wrap my head around what it means—being in this thing for real—before Eli drags me out to the Rotten Apple for my first “proper” meeting. He walks ahead of me, phone pressed to his ear, voice low and sharp like he’s hiding something.
Like I give a fuck. He’s got a stick so far up his ass, it’s a miracle he can walk straight.
He didn’t want me here tonight. Said I’m too green. Too reckless. Said Pops only gave me this one because he’s sentimental about firsts.
Too bad. I’m here, and I’m not leaving.
“Hurry the fuck up, Lucio. I don’t have all night to wait for your slow ass,” Eli snaps, pocketing his phone and turning to glare at me like I’m the problem.
“You’re talking like you’re miles ahead, asshole. It’s two steps,” I mutter as I shoulder past him, brushing against his arm just to piss him off.
The bass from inside thuds through the pavement, pulsing up my legs like a second heartbeat.
When the door swings open, the heat and noise swallow me whole.
Music, shouting, laughter, screaming. The scent of sweat, perfume, liquor, and blood.
Some girls are dancing on the tables, heels kicking over empty shot glasses, completely fucking hammered.
Eli’s nostrils flare like he just walked into a fucking brothel.
“Get them off the fucking tables!” he barks at the bouncer near the entrance. “And if they don’t come down willingly, toss them.”
The bouncer nods and moves.
We push through the crowd, past the bar. I spot a bottle of Belvedere out the corner of my eye and slow my pace.
Eli doesn’t even look at me. “Try it and I’ll tell Pops you’re relapsing.”
I flip him off behind his back, but don’t stop. The last thing I need is a lecture from our father about discipline and image .
The second floor is quieter. Dimmer. Velvet ropes and heavy bass muffled behind thick, soundproof walls. The VIP lounge smells like leather, cigars, and expensive cologne. Two men from the Outfit are already seated, hands resting near their holsters, eyes tracking every move we make.
They look nervous. Good.
We’ve been at war with them since before I could crawl, and now they’re in our territory acting like we’re the ones who should be afraid. The only reason they’re breathing is because Pops wants a fucking meeting.
Eli offers his hand. “Gentlemen.”
“Gentlemen,” one replies smoothly, standing.
The guy in the blue suit—blond, twitchy, fake smile—turns to me and extends his hand. I just stare at it.
“I don’t shake hands,” I say, tilting my head. “Especially not with rats.”
His face stiffens, and Eli elbows me. I flash him a grin and flop onto one of the plush leather chairs, draping my arm across the back.
Eli clears his throat and buttons his jacket like he’s trying to reassert control. “Let’s get to it. You said you had the conditions?”
The taller of the two Outfit men nods, reaching into his coat. “Meetings to take place on Outfit territory. No weapons. Only two guards.”
Eli scoffs, leaning forward. “What, should we show up in body bags too? Not happening. Neutral ground. Both Capos are unarmed. Guards stay in the cars.”
The blond one shifts. “That won’t do. Our Capo’s safety has to be guaranteed ? —”
“Don’t act like anyone in the Outfit would cry if Moretti caught a stray,” I cut in. “You all hate his guts.”
Blondie’s hand slides toward his belt. “Watch your fucking mouth, kid.”
“Touch that gun,” Eli growls, “and I’ll decorate this room with your teeth.”
The tension reaches a boiling point all at once. Guns are drawn. Instinct kicks in. Eli lunges, knocking the taller guy’s wrist sideways. The gun fires harmlessly into the ceiling.
I go for the blond, but he’s quicker. The shot grazes my bicep, hot pain searing through muscle.
Fuck.
Blood blooms through my shirt, but I don’t stop. I wrench the gun from his hand, twist it up, and pistol-whip him across the jaw. He goes down hard, and I put a bullet in his skull to make it permanent.
Eli’s already dropped the other. Both men lie bleeding into the Persian rug.
“Nice rug,” I mutter, wincing as the adrenaline fades and pain creeps in.
Eli’s already on the phone. “Cleanup crew to the Rotten Apple club, top floor.” He hangs up and glances at me.
“Tell Pops the deal went to shit. We might have a war on our hands.” He steps over the corpses like they’re trash and grabs the doorknob, pausing only to say, “And get that arm bandaged. Idiot.”
By the time I pull up to the townhouse, my arm’s wrapped in a blood-soaked handkerchief I found in the glove box. It’s not much, but it’s enough to stop me from bleeding all over the leather seats.
The place is quiet. Too quiet.
I open the door and hear the soft murmur of a movie. Ma and Mara. The sound of Reese Witherspoon’s voice is unmistakable.
Legally fucking Blonde . Again.
I step into the living room and clear my throat.
Ma looks over; her face goes pale. “Lucio!”
Mara shifts under the blanket beside her, peeking up with wide eyes.
“I’m fine,” I say, lifting my good hand. “Just a disagreement with business partners.”
Ma pushes the blanket off. “Sit. Now.”
“Where’s Pops?”
“He can wait. You’re bleeding.” She turns to Mara. “Get the first aid kit. Under the sink.”
Mara scowls but obeys. I sit down with a groan.
Ma unties the handkerchief with practiced hands, and her jaw tightens. “Gunshot?”
“Grazed.”
She doesn’t look relieved. “Doesn’t matter. Could’ve been your chest. Or your head.”
Mara returns, arms full of supplies. Ma takes them, then waves her off.
“Bed. Now.”
“But Ma ? —”
“You have cello practice tomorrow. Go.”
Mara huffs and stomps off.
I rip off the ruined shirt, and Ma clucks her tongue.
“You’re your father’s son, all right.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You shouldn’t.”
The antiseptic stings like hell. I hiss, biting my tongue. Ma doesn’t slow down.
“You’re too young for this, Lucio.”
“Seventeen’s not a kid.”
“You’re still my son.”
I glance at her face—drawn tight, shadows under her eyes.
“You worry too much,” I mutter, leaning back.
“And you don’t worry enough.” Her voice is so quiet, I almost miss it. She wraps the bandage tight, her hands shaking just a little. “This life... it doesn’t give second chances.”
I look away.
She touches my jaw, turning my face back toward her. “Don’t let them take your soul.”
I smirk. “Pretty sure that ship’s sailed.”
Ma doesn’t laugh.
Pops is waiting in his study. I knock once, and his voice rumbles through the door.
“Come in.”
He’s behind his desk, reading glasses perched on his nose, papers everywhere. He looks up when I enter, eyes narrowing.
“Lose the shirt, gain a scar. That’s one way to commemorate your second meeting.”
“The deal went south,” I say simply. “Outfit pulled guns. We responded. Two dead.”
Pops exhales and takes his glasses off. “Eli?”
“Unharmed.”
“And you?”
“Fine. Just a graze.”
He nods slowly. “Cleanup?”
“Already handled.”
Silence stretches. He studies me like I’m a report he’s not sure whether to file or burn.
“You’re starting to see it now, aren’t you?” he finally says.
“See what?”
“This life. What it costs.”
I don’t answer.
He leans back, his voice quiet. “You either lead it, or it eats you.”
And that’s the end of it. He waves me out, already turning back to his paperwork. I shut the door behind me and head upstairs, the words ringing in my ears.
You either lead it, or it eats you .