Prologue
Dimitri
While cracking my knuckles, I peer out a window spanning one wall of my suite. Cabs honk, commuters pepper the sidewalks clouded by ominous skyscrapers blocking out the sun, and pompous pricks in Tom Ford suits weave in and out of buildings similar to the one I’m stationed in, unaware their existence doesn’t depend on the digits in their bank accounts or the nine-to-five investment banking job their daddies secured them straight out of college. It’s wholly dependent on the men who built this city from the ground up.
I don’t care what you say, New York was built by the Cartel. The Italians, the Greeks, hell, even the Albanians had a hand in making this what it is. Blood, sweat, and tears went into every skyscraper—literally. More bodies are buried under the buildings surrounding my hotel than my hotel caters for guests each night.
Before the assassination of the boss of all bosses in 1973, every inch of this godforsaken town was the territory of the Italian Cartel. If you worked here, we ran your union. If you lived here, you were living in an apartment built by my ancestors.
If you ran drugs here without permission, you were a dead man.
Nothing happened here without the Lucianos, Gambinos, and Petrettis knowing about it. They were the governors of this realm and feared more than they were respected. It was the golden era to be a member of a criminal association, a time I’d give anything to go back to.
Alas, all good things must come to an end.
If that ending had been because of criminal prosecution, I would have a different viewpoint of my family’s demise. Regretfully, that isn’t close to the truth. The three families mentioned above operated as one unit. The Lucianos controlled Queens, Staten Island, Brooklyn, and Long Island. The Gambinos influenced the Bronx, New Jersey, and Connecticut regions, and the Petrettis had a stronghold on Manhattan, New York City, Westchester County, and parts of Florida.
Between 1889 and 1953, these sanctions were untouchable. Law couldn’t catch them, rivals couldn’t compete with them, and money, drugs, and guns were in abundance.
It all went downhill when Bria Petretti and Eleonora Gambino birthed sons only a month apart.
If they had followed in their fathers’ footsteps by forging a mutually respected relationship, my grandfather, Giulio Petretti, III, and his best mate, Benito Gambino, were set to become the next boss of all bosses. They worked hard for their greater families, and the Lucianos didn’t have a suitable candidate, so originating a dual-leadership was the fairest option.
However, as I said earlier, all good things must come to an end.
My father, Col, and Benito’s son, Matteo, didn’t have the comradery their fathers had. They hated each other. Women, wayward drug shipments, even the sizes of their cocks were constantly bickered about. They didn’t want to be the boss of the bosses. They wanted to be the boss—point-blank. And that’s precisely what happened when one of my father’s coked-up friends decided he needed some extra coin he wasn’t willing to work for.
Theft never ends well in this industry. If you cross the Cartel, you die. Can’t explain it any simpler than that. Regardless, your family, friends, and children are supposed to go unharmed.
My father couldn’t let bygones be bygones. He was only sixteen when Leone was taken out to The Hole, a grisly dumping ground regularly used back in the day, but he massacred the people he believed responsible for his death like the repercussions of his actions wouldn’t have blow on effects for decades to come.
He should have been dead. The penalty for killing a son of a prominent family member always results in the death of both the person responsible and the hierarchy of his realm. However, my grandfather fell on the knife on the agreement his son would be spared.
His negotiations were unheard of at the time. I doubt they would have been considered if it weren’t for the friendship he had with Giulio. My father forgot centuries-long relations in an instant. Giulio couldn’t. He didn’t want to kill his best friend, but he had no choice. He had lost a son. His death needed to be avenged.
The story of my family’s demise grows weary from that point. Some say my father was removed from all Cartel activities and left to fend for himself. Others say he was gifted the Florida chapter with the hopes he’d eventually straighten his life out and resurrect our family name from the grave.
I say they should have killed him instead of my grandfather. That would mean I wouldn’t be here, but then I also wouldn’t be twiddling my thumbs in a hotel room, waiting for word on if the ransom I paid for my pregnant wife has been received. My family name is tainted with so much disrespect, my rivals think I’m a schmuck to be messed with.
That is also far from the truth.
Rimi Castro, leader of a subsidiary criminal entity that branched off the Gambinos two decades ago, was smart when he requested a third-party drop off the 3.8 million-dollar ransom he demanded for the safe return of Audrey. I would have tortured him until he told me where she is, then I would have killed every member of his crew to show him I’m nothing like my father.
You don’t mess with me and expect to live. I have all the markings of my father. I’m a merciless, heartless motherfucker who kills before thinking. Audrey chipped away some of the decay the past ten months, but it will never be entirely gone. You can untwist the ugliest wreck, however no amount of straightening will smother scars hidden deep within. They’re more hideous than the ones our bodies wear and take longer than a lifetime to fix.
I learned that the hard way almost a decade ago.
Rimi will learn it tonight.
I still can’t understand how he got the upper hand on me. I’m cautious about everything I do, untrusting of anyone, most notably those who share my lineage. My marriage is unknown, the baby growing in my wife’s stomach hasn’t been publicly acknowledged even with our daughter being due in a little over four weeks. I don’t even live in the same state as my wife for fuck’s sake, yet, she still got snared by a life someone as pure as her should have never been invited into.
I’ll be sure to fix the injustice once she and our daughter are returned safely. It won’t be just the Castros feeling the sting of my wrath, though. It’ll be the industry as a whole. An unspoken rule was broken earlier this week.
Famiglia prima di tutto. Family first of all.
Audrey may be excluded from that motto, but our daughter most certainly isn’t. She’s mafia royalty and will be protected accordingly.
When the beep of an electronic lock sounds through my ears, I spin to face the entryway of my room. The knot in my gut takes on a new meaning when Clover enters the opulent space with the ransom bag he left with. It’s noticeably slimmer, but still, why wouldn’t Rimi’s men take it with them?
I scoff when Clover pushes out, “They checked the bundles for bugs.” His voice is rough with an Arabian accent. He isn’t called Clover because he shines luck down on anyone who locates him in a patch of weeds, it’s because you’ll be wishing for a lucky charm when he enters your life. The chances of escaping him are similar odds to finding a four-leaf clover in a patch of an overworked field. Basically nonexistent. If he doesn’t kill you before you spot the clover tattoo on his cheek, you’ll beg for a weapon to kill yourself.
Mercy isn’t something Clover often gives. It’s why I sent him to do the drop. If I couldn’t do it, he was the next best choice. Clover is a hired hitman. He has worked for my family on many occasions, and usually gets the job done without the slightest bow to his brow.