Veil of Vengeance (Veil of Power #1)

Prologue

PROLOGUE

EMILIANO

3 1/2 months earlier

R omiro lets out an exasperated huff for the third time in as many minutes, grating on my last nerves.

“If you’re that hot, just roll down the damn window,” I say, my patience wearing thin. Shooting me a smirk, his fingers run through his tousled blonde curls.

“While I’m flattered that you think I’m h—” he begins, but I cut him off sharply.

“That's not what I said, you fuckface.” I shift my attention back to the desolate road ahead, the stores lining the street already shuttered for the night. Nobody in their right mind would be out at this hour if they value their lives.

“What does the Capo want from you?” Romiro asks, his voice edged with curiosity.

“How the fuck would I know?” I sigh in frustration.

“He is your Dad, after all, you asshole.” He makes an indistinct noise in the back of his throat before responding with a hint of sarcasm.

“Just because he’s my Pop doesn’t mean he’ll fucking share a damn thing with me.” His irritation is evident as he wipes the sweat from his face.

“Why did he have to choose fucking Ohio, of all places?” he grumbles. I can’t help but chuckle at his complaints. Romiro's irritability flares, a clear sign that the sweltering heat is getting to him.

“We’re here now, Rom. Just hang in there; there's a working air conditioner inside,” I reassure him, as he slaps the broken car air conditioner. The car comes to a stop in front of The Sweet Cinnamon, its illuminated letters flickering. My gaze drifts across the boarded-up stores lining the street beside the strip club. Once the doors close with a solid thud, we both step out and stand in front of the car's hood.

“I don’t get why it’s called ‘The Sweet Cinnamon.’ That’s a stupid fucking name,” Romiro complains. I agree, it is a stupid name. However, there was a unique story behind it—the club had been named after a former stripper who had once worked for my Nonno. Romiro remains blissfully unaware of this fact as he kicks a can along the pavement while we approach the graffitied metal door. Raising my hand, I knock firmly. The discolored metal panel swings back, revealing a pair of piercing gray eyes that bore into us before allowing the door to open fully.

“Hey, guys. The boss is in his office upstairs, waiting for you. Dominico is in one of the back rooms,” Silvio informs us. I give Silvio a tap on the shoulder as I pass by him, entering the dimly lit club. Old men fill the tables scattered around the stage, their presence leaving the once-purple carpet matted with dirt. The subdued lighting and sensual music pulsating through the speakers create an ambiance thick with intrigue. In the shadowy corners of the room, seedy-looking men leer at the stripper performing. As we pass the dimly lit stage, the stripper playfully winks at Romiro, the harsh red lighting casting shadows that make her seem older than her years. Determined to stay focused, I press on, leaving Romiro to engage with her as he winks back, lingering at the edge of the T-shaped stage. He’s like a dog waiting for a fucking bone. Glancing back at him, I raise an eyebrow.

“You coming, or…?” I ask, my tone laden with impatience. The stripper gracefully descends the pole, her eyes fixed on Romiro as she crawls toward him sensually. He offers his signature smirk, and she responds by licking her ruby-painted lips.

“Oh, he’ll be coming, for sure,” she purrs with a suggestive double entendre. A nauseating twist churns in my stomach at her words.

“Nah, bro, you go ahead. I’ll be right here if you need me,” Romiro replies, giving a nonchalant shrug. I nod and continue through the club. Surprisingly, it isn’t as crowded as I had anticipated, which suggests that most of our security is likely deployed at our other club across town. As I make my way to the back hallway, the ambient lighting bathes the area in a cool, soothing blue hue. Framed photographs signed by major celebrities, who had visited the club during the sixties, adorn the walls.

I take a moment to roll the tension out of my shoulders before heading upstairs. Moving forward, the plush dark carpet muffles my footsteps. My Pop's office, with its imposing floor-to-ceiling black-accented doors, remains closed, but I can hear muffled voices from within. The walls of the hallway are a muted gray, and the harsh white lighting above irritates my eyes. Summoning my resolve, I open the door to the office, paying little attention to the club manager who stands at the edge of my Pop’s desk. Dim lighting accentuates the somber atmosphere of the room, the dark walls only adding to the overall gloomy ambiance. I approach my Pop's desk, where he sits with a proud smile gracing his lips as his eyes remain fixed on me.

“Figlio, why didn’t you have Silvio tell me you’re here?” His delivery is light, but there is a hint of something deeper in his light blue eyes as he rises from his seat behind the desk. He steps over to me and gives my shoulder a reassuring pat. Then, he turns his attention to Felix.

“Go on, Felix, you can leave,” my Pop instructs. Felix’s gaze shifts briefly to me before he nods at my Pop. The door closes with a subtle click, leaving just my Pop and me in the room. We settle into the chairs facing his desk.

“What is it you wanted, Pop?” I ask once we’re both seated, the air charged with anticipation.

“I’m considering stepping down soon. It’s about time you became Capo,” my Pop says, his words delivered with a sense of inevitability. I saw this coming for the past couple of months. He has aged, grown more lenient than he’d like to admit. I wait for the other shoe to drop, as it often does with my Pop.

“But…” he continues, and I brace myself for what comes next.

“I want you to get married before that.” Jaw clenching, my teeth grind together. My Pop's old-fashioned beliefs are holding back the Camorra, and I don’t have the fucking time to cater to a woman’s whims. I lean back in my chair, releasing a deep breath.

“Who did you have in mind?” I ask, my curiosity tinged with caution. He wears a shit-eating grin, as if he has me right where he wants me.

“I was thinking about Stefano Gambi’s niece,” he replies. My lips curl involuntarily at the mention of the Gambi family head, the man who has relentlessly tried to undermine our drug operations in New York. My Pop’s laughter fills the room, a twisted sound that matches his character all too well. He may be an ally who supplies some of our weapons, but he is a devil in disguise. The Gambi family has been one of the most notorious illegal firearm traders since World War one.

“No,” I declare firmly, unwilling to entertain the idea any further. His eyes narrow, but before he can protest, the sudden commotion downstairs cuts our conversation short. The intercom buzzes, and Silvio’s voice crackles through.

“Boss, we’re under attack! They shot Dominico, and he’s losing a lot of blood. Tommaso is dead.” Heart stuttering, a sense of dread washes over me. Fuck, Dad’s Consigliere is dead. Dad storms around the table and stabs the button for the intercom behind his chair.

“Who the fuck is attacking us?” His face twists into a snarl and he pulls a gun from his suit pants. Reacting swiftly, I rise to my feet, draw my own weapon, and head for the doors.

“It's The Outfit, damn it. Romiro, get the fuck down!” The intercom buzzes once more, and Dad moves past me, making his way toward the staircase. I keep pace, my steps echoing loudly as we descend the stairs. When Dad reaches the bottom, the unmistakable sound of a gunshot rings out, and he collapses to the ground with a heavy thud.

A man in a ski mask stands menacingly over Dad's lifeless body, and I aim my gun at him just as he makes a move to shoot. Without hesitation, I fire, striking him in the knees. He screams out in agony, dropping his weapon. Swiftly, I search through the closet near the stairs and find some rope, which I use to bind him securely before knocking him out. Afterward, I reach for Dad's neck, checking for a pulse, but there is none. I close his lifeless eyes and take a moment to clear my thoughts. My hands are soaked with both my Pop's blood and the fucker’s who shot him. I run a bloody hand through my hair. I don’t know how the fuck I’m going to tell Ma, or even my younger siblings. Lucio and Matteo will probably take it better than Mara; she’ll be fucking devastated. Matteo has always been the stronger one between him and Mara, even if they are twins.

This situation is fucking messy, and I need to stay on guard. Moving down the dimly lit hallway, I make my way into the main room, only to be met with a horrifying sight. Dead bodies are strewn about, with most clustered around the stage. The stripper who had been dancing earlier now lay lifeless in a pool of blood, a stark contrast to the sensual atmosphere that once filled the room. The smell of death hangs heavy in the air, and a haunting silence prevails before the sudden eruption of gunshots echoes from the back rooms.

I run in that direction, gun raised, weaving through fallen chairs and tables as I approach the back rooms. Peering inside cautiously, I find Romiro and Dom positioned by the back door, desperately firing at a car speeding out of the parking lot. The lifeless body of a bouncer lay on the floor, surrounded by dark pools of blood. Dominico is holding a blood-soaked rag to his forearm, trying to return fire. His back slides down the wall, struggling to stay on his feet. I step over the fallen bouncer and reach for Dom, determined to get him to safety and to figure out who orchestrated this violent attack.

“Keep it together, cugino. Rom, we need to get this fuckface to the hospital,” I say to Romiro, and he gives me a grim nod, still processing how his night got fucked up.

“Glad you care so much, Eli.” Dom’s voice is strained, his eyes reflecting the pain he’s in. Romiro holsters his gun and grabs one of Dom’s arms.

“What about Capo? Where is he?” Dom groans.

“He’s standing right in front of you. I am the Capo of the Camorra. Alberto Folonari is dead,” I say, my voice heavy with grief. Dom inhales sharply, followed by a muttered curse, before losing consciousness. Silvio rushes in and joins Romiro in helping Dominico, urgency weighing heavily on all of us.

“Silvio, make sure Dom gets to one of our hospitals, and send some of our guys to clean up this shit,” I order, my tone conveying the gravity of the situation. Silvio nods, supporting Dominico with one of his arms over his shoulder.

“We’ve got two of the attackers alive; they're tied up in the back,” he informs me.

“Good, that makes three of them. Romiro, I want you to take them to one of our warehouses,” I instruct Romiro, who responds with a twisted grin before heading out the door with Dominico and Silvio. As I turn my attention back to the unfolding chaos, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I retrieve it and see the caller ID: Costa. The sigh on the other end of the line tells me that I probably won’t like what he has to say next.

“Spit it out,” I demand with irritation as Costa delivers his report.

“One of your clubs in Manhattan got attacked.”

I clench my teeth, my fingers scraping down my stubbled jaw.

“Who?” I ask. My gaze scans the room as I try to assess the extent of the damage.

“Angel’s Hell,” Costa replies. Those fucking bastards. I’d warned my Pop about them, suspecting they were working with the Outfit.

“It’s the fucking Outfit. They’d broken the unspoken peace we’ve had for the past couple of years,” I respond, frustration and anger simmering beneath the surface. I need to know the extent of our losses tonight, and I’m not about to let this aggression go unanswered.

“How many dead?” I demand, my voice tight with concern. Costa sighs in frustration before delivering the grim news.

“Sixty-five are dead. Around forty-five were our men.” Fucking fuck. With the call still ongoing, I close and lock the back door securely before stepping into the main club space. The air is heavy with the metallic scent of blood, a chilling reminder of the ruthless attack.

“I’m going to rip the fucking Outfit bastards to shreds,” I seethe, my resolve solidifying. “The Capo’s dead. The ceremony will happen today.”

“That’s not possible.” Costa’s response comes instantly, full of disbelief. I narrow my eyes as I crouch down, spotting a small platinum ring with an emerald tucked away in the corner of the room.

“I don’t fucking care what’s possible. Get everyone in New York by the time I get there,” I bark into the phone, leaving no room for arguments. Without waiting, I end the call, sliding my phone into the pocket of my suit jacket. A soulless smile curls on my lips as my gaze settles on the name engraved on the edge of the ring— Giuseppe Moretti . Little Moretti boy, you've fucked with the wrong family. And I'm going to crush you like the rat you are.

* * *

My gaze sweeps around the open warehouse, full to the brim with Camorra soldiers, captains, and underbosses. The air is thick with tension, and my echoing steps seem to amplify the collective unease. From the back of the warehouse, I slowly make my way toward the front, acutely aware of every soldier's gaze boring into my back. At the front, my two brothers stand side by side, with Lucio to the right of Romiro, and Matteo to his left. I reach the front, opting to stand before them without stepping up onto the podium. My piercing gaze scans the room, settling on my uncles, their expressions grim probably at the prospect of a young Capo giving them orders. Clearing my throat, I begin, my voice strong and unwavering,

“The Outfit has attacked two of our clubs—one in Manhattan, and the other in Ohio. Our Capo is dead.” I observe as some soldiers shift uncomfortably, tension mounting in the room. My voice remains loud and confident as I continue.

“We have lost many loyal soldiers in these brutal attacks.” I let the weight of my words sink in before delivering my solemn promise, “I, Emiliano Folonari, swear that no Camorrista’s blood will go unavenged. We will seek retribution for the Outfit’s sins, and they will pay for what they have done, tenfold.” The crowd erupts into cheers and applause. Once they calm down, I move toward the table on my right, where my family dagger rests. I pick up the gold handle of the dagger, feeling the engravings dig into my skin as I return to where I am standing. Following tradition, it should have been Dominico stepping forward, but in his absence, Romiro took his place. He halts in front of me and extends a small ceramic bowl. My great, great Nonno brought it over to America when they had migrated from Italy over a hundred years ago.

“Do you, Emiliano Folonari, swear that you will place the Camorra above all else as Capo dei Capi?” Romiro intones, holding the bowl steady.

I place my palm over my heart, responding in Italian, as tradition dictates, “Lo giuro.”

Romiro continues. “The blood you spill from this palm will bind every Camorrista to you as your family and will bind you to them as their Capo. This blood means we are one family. You live by the Camorra and die by the Camorra.” As I press the cool metal of the dagger into my palm, blood wells, forming beads that drip down into the ceramic bowl.

“Entro vivo ed esco morto,” I declare solemnly, sealing the vow with the final drop of blood. I enter alive and I will have to leave dead. I then smear the blood on the white handkerchief that Lucio hands me. It’s time for revenge, and we will start with the traitor who betrayed our location.