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Revenge.
“Francesco?” he wheezes.
“I’m here,Papà.”
“Closer, closer.” His great head flops to the side as he struggles for air.
Lurching forward, I catch his flailing hand in mine, interlocking our fingers like we used to do when I was a small boy. His skin is much cooler than I remembered. His grip, weaker and less sure of itself.
“Antonio made the call,” I mumble. “There’s a medic on the way.”
The bullets shredded his lungs. Antonio told me so himself. Maybe even his heart, too. By the time we’d dragged him all the way to the safehouse, his insides were drowning in blood.
“The meeting was a trap, Francesco. A trap! They were all waiting for us, thebastardi!” His voice rises briefly before he’s coughing and spluttering again.
Most of my father’s men died tonight, including my older brother, Matteo. After that, the black ricochet of betrayal spread right to my family’s front door. I tried to warnmammaon the way here, but the call kept ringing out. That’s when I knew that she and my little sister, Vittoria, were dead as well.
I shut my eyes to keep my pain in check. That’s when I see her. She’s dancing across the tiles at the bottom of the stairs, the way she does when she thinks no one's looking.
Danced.
She wants to be a ballerina.
Wanted.
“Francesco!”
My eyes fly open again. Antonio is frowning at me from across the table. He’s my father’ssotto capo.His underboss. The man who helped him turn London’s firstCosa Nostracoscainto one of the biggest players in the city. Now, he’s a gambler on the losing team, pressing towels to my father’s chest to try and stem the flow of blood as more than just hiscapolies dying in front of him.
“It’s no good,amico,” he grunts, sweat glazing his brow. He slows his efforts and glances at the clock above the sink.
“Keep trying,” I beg.
I’m not ready to let him go yet.
“Figlio mio…” My father summons what little strength he has left to squeeze my hand. “This was never a ceasefire for O’Sullivan. It was a massacre.” He grimaces, his face creasing up with fresh agony. “The Irish cut a deal with the Russians, maybe even with the British too. I was wrong to think that the Red Compass could coexist in peace. To abrutto figlio di puttana bastardomobster like O’Sullivan, the needle will only ever point his way.”
“Tell me what to do,” I say quietly.
“You know what to do. For your mother…Matteo, Vittoria. Avenging our deaths is your life’s path now.”
I nod, accepting my destiny. Feeling the weight of it crushing down on me.
My father has schooled me in this world from the day I was born. I know all the rules and rulers of this city. I know how London was divided into four criminal territories twenty years ago: North. South. East. West.Bratva. Mafia. British. Irish.And then nicknamed ‘The Red Compass’ from all the blood we spilled between us.
Over time, my father grew sick of the war. Sick of the needless slaughter. He was trying to unite us, to bring about an order to the chaos…
His ambition was cut down in bullets exactly one hour ago. It seems the other criminal organisations don’t share his views.
“Be as liberal with your vengeance as you are with your love,figlio mio. Don’t waste it.” My father drops my hand and stares up at the ceiling. “Take my body back to Sicily. Lay me to rest with my wife, daughter, and son. Join us when the time is right.”
He means when the Irish flag lies burning.
The room falls silent. All his words have been spoken. The pauses between each inhale and exhale grow longer and longer like the shadows on the pavement at dinnertime.
I find myself holding my own breath as I wait for his final one.
Hating it.
