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I nod once, not looking back at him. The fucker really needs a lesson in who he’s speaking to. I don’t need silly little reminders like that. I’m a fucking Santoro. The next in line to be the boss of the Italian mafia.
I’m so angry as I head up the stairs to the first floor, thinking of all the ways I can humiliate Luigi once I’m in charge, that I don’t notice the huge guy standing on the landing.
Snarling, he lunges towards me, knocking the knife out of my hand before I can tighten my grip. Fuck. What a rookie mistake. I dodge the fist flying my way and roll to the ground, moving the fight away from the stairs and closer to the blade glinting on the carpet-covered floor in the pale moonlight. The fucker grunts in displeasure. He’s huge. Like a Hulk on steroids. The vein in his neck is popping while he grins at me as I scramble backwards and away from him. He thinks he’s got this fight won already, clearly having more muscles than brains. I may still be a kid, but I have a lifetime of training with the best of the best. I’ve learned to use my age and physique to my advantage, especially with fools like him who rely only on their physical strength.
He takes a step forward, his fists clenched, ready to rain down on me. But I’m not worried. He has yet to make a noise or raise an alarm, so it’s me against him.
As he chuckles grimly and rushes at me, I move my hands up over my head as if trying to shield myself, but using the momentum to twist in the last moment, hooking my legs around his and throwing him off balance. I reach for my knife as Hulk tumbles to the ground with a grunt, hisface connecting with the soft carpet. Within seconds, I’m on top of him, lifting his head by the hair and sliding my blade across his neck. The Hulk twitches underneath me as dark liquid gushes out from his wound, staining the plush cream carpet.
Once again, I manage to avoid the spray of blood, but this was close. Too close for my comfort. I look down, the darkness in the hallway making the stain look almost black. It will be a bitch to get out, but that’s not my concern. Holding my breath, I wipe the blade of my knife on the dead man’s shirt and get up.
My heart pumping in my chest from the thrill of being able to put my skills to real use, I make my way through the empty corridor, checking every room I pass. Unfortunately, they’re all empty. I wouldn’t mind another fight to get the adrenaline going before this is all over, but it seems that’s not in the cards for me right now. My only goal is to make sure no one leaves alive.
The dark mahogany door of the master bedroom looms over me as I stand in front of it. I push the door handle down and crack it open, wondering if Alessandro knows tonight is the night he will take his last breath.
I contemplate if he has spent the last week living in terror. Or waiting for the inevitable. How wouldIspend my last week if I knew I had a death sentence? Not locked in my mansion, a prisoner to my own fear, that’s for sure.
On light feet, I step to the bed where the man I came here to kill is snoring. I deliberate waking him, giving him a chance to fight, to say his last words. But as quickly as the thought crosses my mind, I discard it. He’s a ruthless killer who deserves whatever death is dealt to him.
With a twisted smile, I press my blade to his neck. His eyes open, landing on mine instantly. His hand flies to mywrist, gripping it as I slide the knife across his skin, watching it part.
“I may beSaint, but I’m not your saviour,” I say. “You should thank your lucky stars, because you deserve nothing less than a slow and painful death.”
He opens his mouth, gasping for breath, or maybe trying to say something as I watch the life drain out of him and spill across his chest and pillow. His eyes leave mine and settle on a piece of furniture off to the side until, finally, they go blank.
“Was it all worth it?” I taunt the corpse.
He doesn’t reply, not that I expected him to, but I can’t help feeling that it was all his own fault.
Carusso’s descent into madness was a tragic tale of love gone wrong. His obsession with his beautiful, younger wife was well known. And even though many believed he was one of the few mafia men who married for love instead of peace, the marriage he fought so hard for was his undoing. He fell prey to a woman, like the fool that he was. I guess it was inevitable that when shit went south, he’d go off the rails.
Love is nothing more than an illusion only fools believe in, a trap to ensnare the unsuspecting.
At fourteen, I already knew it would never be in the cards for me. My future was predetermined, my fate sealed the moment I was born. The first son of a powerful mafia Don, Massimo Santoro. Not that I minded. I’ve seen firsthand the destruction love can do to a person. I’ve watched my own mother hope and pray for my father’s affection, only to be met with betrayal and heartbreak. But that’s the life of a Don. A Don marries to sire an heir, to keep the lineage strong, and to keep the peace. After that, he does what he wants.
Papa never hurt her, not physically. But I saw the pain onher face when he’d come back from a ‘meeting’ dishevelled and smelling of cheap perfume.
She never said a thing, though.
Not even on her deathbed after a year-long battle with cancer.
Even then, she believed.
“Promise me you’ll marry for love,Dante,” she asked me in her weak voice. I’d have promised her anything if it meant one more day with her.
But no matter the promise I made, I was never getting married for love. And I was definitely never falling in love. Love is a weakness.
I’ll never put a woman through what my mama had to endure. Even if love wasn’t on the table for me, I could promise my future wife faithfulness and companionship.
My eyes focus back on the still body in front of me and the ever-growing pool of blood beneath it. As quiet and quick as slicing somebody’s throat open is, it’s messy. And I don’t do well with the mess. I like control. Plus, all the blood makes me want to vomit. I fucking hate blood. Unclenching Carusso’s fingers from around my wrist, I wipe my knife on his pillow, then make my way to his en-suite.
I sneer at the splatters of red on my face. I fucking hate red. Blood is my worst nightmare. Not only does the smell disgust me, but it’s also red. The same red Papa’s mistresses like to smear on their lips. The same red he’d come home with on his shirt collar. Not caring that his wife or his sons could see it.
“Good job, Saint.” Luigi walks in behind me, studying me in the mirror as I wash my face. “I’ll do another sweep, make sure no one is left alive, and call in the cleaning crew.”
“I’ll do it,” I say coldly, watching him step from foot to foot in the mirror. I can see the unease pouring off of him. “What is it?”
“It’s okay to feel shit about your first kill...”
