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Prologue
Luca
The average human's blood takes thirty seconds to clot once outside the body. It starts to coagulate, becoming thick and clumpy. The smell is distantly metallic, and the more of it, the more pungent that rusty iron smell becomes.
If a person's throat is slit, it only takes about five to fifteen seconds to bleed to death, that is if you cut through the carotid artery and jugular vein. It doesn't have time to clot, making death quick and relatively painless.
But I want my victims to suffer. So, I chose to inflict a deep enough wound that will cause significant bleeding but not kill them straight away. It's a skill I have mastered over time. That ability to draw out someone's inevitable end. It gives them roughly five minutes extra time to reflect on their crimes and to feel the punishing pain of each labored breath as their body slowly starves themselves of oxygen and life.
I can smell their fear just moments before my blade slides right through the skin like butter. The pain doesn't register straight away. There is a surge of endorphins rushing through them in response to the trauma. Their eyes widen with panic. They bulge with fear trying to stop the bleeding with their hands. Soon, they become too weak to hold themselves up and fall to the floor. Some go down gracefully; others tumble over as if their legs suddenly give way on them.
The gurgling noises start as they try to suck in air but spit out blood instead. Then there is a moment just before their heart stops that their body relaxes like they have accepted their fate and know to fight on would be futile. For a mere few seconds, they look peaceful.
I envy them at that moment because I know when my time comes to meet my maker, I will never have that peace. I am a cold-blooded killer. I deserve none.
My stomach has become accustomed to the blood and gore of death. My conscience now numb to the act of delivering it.
I am Luca Valsetti. Chosen to be my family's enforcer. Responsible for their security, reaper of their revenge. I take the souls of the men that betray our syndicate and deliver their end with duty and pride. Vengeance runs through my veins.
When I am given the order to kill, there is no way out for them. They can run, they can hide, they can fall to their knees and beg for forgiveness, but in the end, they all suffer for their sins.
I give no leniency.
I make no exceptions.
I am the Merciless King.
One
Scarlet
I almost don't recognize myself. My long auburn hair that usually falls freely in a mess of curls is now blonde and slicked back into a tight bun. A sweatshirt and jeans have been traded for a white blouse, and a black A-line skirt. My make-up is heavier than I'd typically wear, highlighting the brown contact lenses that hide my hazel eyes. I look every bit the waitress I need to portray and nothing like my true self. Straightening my nametag that's pinned to my blouse, I take one last look to make sure the little camera attached to the bottom of it is still hidden.
You've got this, Scarlet, I say to myself, trying to drown out the sound of my rationality screaming, get the hell out of here, Scarlet. You're going to get yourself killed.
Drawing in a deep breath, I smooth out my sweaty palms on my skirt and leave the restroom.
As I peak around one of the stone pillars, I make a quick scan of the room. The wedding guests have begun to arrive and are busy taking their seats. In every corner of the terrace, there is an armed security guard, but that was expected. This is, after all, a Valsetti wedding.
The quaint little Italian vineyard has been transformed into a majestic backdrop for the wedding of the year. A spectacular array of pastel flowers work in harmony with the vintage wine barrels and antique furnishing. It looks like something out of a fairytale storybook.
I recognize many of the guests. Most are wealthy businessmen predominating both in New York and Italy. Some include socialites, politicians, and fashion designers, as well as members of the Valsetti family syndicate.
I have followed the Valsetti family closely over the last twelve months. I worked as a new grad assistant for Peter Radcliff, one of the top journalists for the New York Times. While I was researching the death of one of New York's notorious mobsters, Juna Kastrati, for Peter, I stumbled upon chilling and incriminating information on the Valsetti family. The Kastrati family is well known for their heavy influence in the underworld and practically owned New York before the Valsetti Bravata exterminated them.
Peter warned me, but I was so stupid! I should have stopped digging, but the more I uncovered, the more I wanted to expose them. Being a rookie in the business, I wanted to earn my stripes, prove my worth to the company, and become the investigative reporter I had dreamed about. I didn’t realize the danger I was putting not only myself in, but Peter also until it was too late. I should never have taken the risks I did to get the story. I was in a dark place in my life, and it made me careless.
I had recently lost my younger brother, Logan. He was all I had left of my family, and he was gone now too. I had nothing left to lose, so I was selfish and pursued a dangerous path that I am sure will now lead me to my own death.
The hardest part about losing my brother was the mystery behind his death. The police said he was a thug and was killed on the streets as a result. It didn't make any sense to me. My brother wasn't a criminal. His case was dismissed, saying he died due to gang-related crimes.
Logan and I were close growing up. We had no other siblings. But when my parents died three years ago, he grew distant. I thought it was just his way of grieving. I never imagined he would turn to the streets.
We had a good upbringing. My parents were the typical middle-class New Yorkers. We lived in a small apartment on the Lower East Side of Manhattan with our poodle named Frank. Dad was an advertising executive, and Mom, a schoolteacher. We were just an average family, and then it all fell to pieces in one single moment.
I’d just turned twenty-one. It was my grad year at Northwestern University, Illinois, where I was studying for a journalism degree. Logan had just finished school and was working as a shop hand at a hardware factory. My parents were in Hawaii for their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. They went on a helicopter tour of the island. The authorities were unsure whether a bird flew into the window or the pilot had a medical episode, but the aircraft crashed into the ocean.
After my parent's funeral, Logan assured me he would be fine and insisted I return and finish my degree. He was close to turning twenty, so he was of legal age to be on his own and more than capable of looking after himself. The fifteen-hour car trip meant that I would only be able to come home for holidays, but I called him every couple of days.
