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The Boss stood in the corner of the empty room, near a shattered window with a single board nailed over it. Moonlight filtered inside, giving Carmine barely enough light to see. Salvatore appeared disheveled, his right arm bandaged sloppily in a blue sling. He took a few steps in their direction, his movements rigid like he could no longer bend his left knee.
“About time,” his raspy voice called, his eyes trained on Carmine as the other man strolled to the window to gaze out.
“I apologize for being late, but you know how he can be,” Corrado said behind Carmine, blocking the only exit.
“Yes, I know exactly how he can be.” Salvatore’s voice seethed with anger. “He doesn’t listen. You tell him to do something and he ignores it. He seems to think he knows better than everyone else, like he’s above us all and doesn’t have to fall in line.”
“Well, he certainly is his father’s son,” Corrado said.
Carmine sensed something in his uncle’s voice, amusement with a hint of sarcasm. He started to turn around to look at him, to get a read on his mood, but Corrado grabbed the back of his neck roughly, keeping him in position.
Rage flashed in Salvatore’s expression at the mention of Vincent. He angrily spit on the floor with disgust, like just the thought of him made him sick.
Carmine shook, his eyes darting around the room. The sins of the father were about to be paid for by the son. His brain worked a million miles a minute as he tried to think of some way out. He was unarmed and outnumbered, everyone in the room more experienced than him.
“Looking for a way to escape?” Salvatore asked, slowly approaching. “Pity for you, there isn’t one.”
Corrado violently shoved him toward the ground, forcing him on his knees in the middle of the room. He let go of the back of his neck and withdrew his gun.
“Please don’t do this!” Carmine pleaded, the words tumbling from his mouth. “I swear, just . . . fuck! This isn’t necessary!”
Before he could say any more, Corrado shoved the muzzle of his gun against the back of Carmine’s skull. He closed his eyes, tears burning their way to the surface as he bowed his head in desperation.
If there’s a fucking God, He won’t let me die today.
“How dare you tell me what’s necessary!” Salvatore yelled. “This is what I was talking about! You think you know better than everyone! I gave you a simple order, and you had every opportunity to do it, but you disobeyed me! Vincent never would’ve hurt you, and now, because you betrayed me, my men are dead! Your father got what he deserved, and frankly so did your mother! Your entire family is a disgrace!”
Carmine fought back a sob, his body shaking violently at those words. His world was imploding and there was a gun pointed at the back of his head.
Corrado was a perfect shot. He never missed his target.
His uncle, his own fucking family . . .
“Please,” Carmine whispered. “Please don’t fucking do this.”
As soon as those words passed his lips, something slammed hard into the back of Carmine’s head. He fell forward onto his hands and knees, splinters of wood from the floorboards digging into his palms.
He knew he couldn’t give up. He couldn’t go down without a fight. He wouldn’t win, but he wasn’t a coward. He wouldn’t just stand there and let them steal his life. Maybe a month ago he would have, or even yesterday, but not now. Not today.
“Good-bye.”
The lone word slipping from Corrado’s lips set Carmine in motion. He dropped flat against the floor and rolled as a deafening bang sounded, the gunshot echoing in the room. He braced himself for a scorching bullet to tear into his flesh, but he felt nothing. No blood. No pain.
Adrenaline or sheer fucking luck?
Carmine forced himself to his feet and turned for the door when something across the room captured his attention. The man at the window dropped with a thump to the floor, blood pouring from a wound dead center in his forehead. Salvatore turned in horror as Corrado knocked Carmine to the floor again on his hands and knees. As he scurried away, Carmine watched in shock as Corrado used the distraction to swiftly reach into Salvatore’s waistband with his left hand and pull a pistol from it.
Salvatore turned back around, his eyes wide when he saw both guns now pointed at his head. “What are you doing?”
“Following orders,” Corrado said calmly. “When I initiated, I took an oath. I swore to Antonio DeMarco that I would be a man of honor, a man who always put the organization first. They may just be words to some, but they have meaning to me. La Cosa Nostra or death. That’s what I swore. I choose La Cosa Nostra and always have. It’s a real pity you chose death, sir.”
Corrado lowered his gun and fired two shots, bullets ripping through both of Salvatore’s knees. He let out a blood-curdling scream as he collapsed. Corrado stood stoically as Salvatore desperately tried to pull himself away, his legs gushing blood and soaking his gray pants.
“Do you know what happens to rats, Carmine?” Corrado asked. “What we do to vermin, the disloyal and dishonorable?”
“Yes,” he responded weakly, his voice shaking. It was an urban legend within the organization, a story everyone whispered about but had no proof it ever happened. “Rats for the rats.”
Corrado took the few steps toward Salvatore, thrusting his foot out and kicking him square in the nose. Carmine flinched as Salvatore cried out, trying to shield himself as Corrado kicked him a few times in quick succession. The brutality in his uncle’s movements terrified him, anger and passion erupting from him. He did it again and again until Salvatore’s face poured blood like a leaky faucet.
