Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

NICO

Present Day

A methodical twist and turn. A pattern. A clear goal.

It's simple, smart. Most people spend their entire lives making things so complicated that they begin to lose track of the means to get what it is they truly need.

But I'm not most people. I've never been most people. There's always a clear path to victory. And more often than not, I'm walking that path. And if the path doesn't exist, I make sure to carve it out. I'll stop at nothing to get what I want.

Not just what I want though, what I'm owed.

I step out of the car, my eyes going over the stillness in the area. We've only just arrived at the docks to get ready to accept a shipment. There are three vans behind my car, filled to the brim with my men. They begin to get down one by one, and I can tell by the determination in their expression that they're prepared for any eventuality. Which is good because there's an uneasy feeling brewing in my gut.

Something's wrong.

My senior guard, Vladimir, moves to stand at my side. He's built like a giant, with stacks of muscles. He has been my right-hand man for several years. I know for a fact he would offer his life for mine in an instant. Most of my men would. Loyalty like theirs can't be bought. It's earned.

"Take some of our best men to the other side of the marina. Be on the lookout," I order.

Vlad looks sideways at me. "Expecting trouble, sir?"

The shipment gets here in twenty minutes. We arrived early to scope out the location and ensure that the deal went off without a hitch. We're on high alert because the shipment is from one of our allies who's been kicking up trouble these past few days. If anything goes wrong, he might take it as an opportunity to declare an open war. And the Don really won't like that.

"I always am," I murmur. "Just go, Vlad."

He hesitates for only a second before walking backward and relaying my orders. A minute later, some of the men disperse following Vlad. Once he's gone, another one of my closest guards steps forward.

"Tell Khalil to keep the car running," I say to Danny. "Actually, tell all the men to keep their cars running."

Danny grins like a little girl on Christmas morning. He pulls out his gun from his holster, his hands twitching.

"Who are we killing, boss?" he questions.

"No one if the bastards don't show themselves."

"But if they do, we get to kill them?"

"You can shoot as many as you want," I assure him with a nod.

His eyes gleam at the prospect. Danny's always felt at home in the middle of violence. He's a killing machine with a sort of bloodlust that would make most people uncomfortable. But I consider him an asset. As long as I can control him.

Danny has only just stepped away when there's suddenly the screeching of tires in the distance. Everyone immediately goes on high alert. Soon enough, three black cars appear. I hear Danny yell for the men to take cover as a stream of bullets are fired in our direction.

My men manage to hide behind their cars in time and soon they're firing their own weapons. I jump behind a large red container to get a better read on the situation. There are only about ten men, which is surprising to me. I'm here with nearly three times that many. I can't help but wonder who sent them on this suicide mission.

One of my men gets hit in the arm, but before one of the fuckers finishes him off, I shoot him in the head, saving my man's life. That, unfortunately, gives away my location. I run for another container, trying to get a clear shot, but with so many of my men on the battlefield, it's better to just watch rather than risk hitting them.

The intruders hold their own, thanks to their bulletproof vests, but ten minutes later, most of them are dead. I step out from behind the container once the fighting stops, strolling casually toward the center of the area, where one of the fuckers is being restrained on his knees.

Danny gets a punch in that leaves him bleeding from the mouth, before stepping aside for me to look at him. He has dirty blonde hair and a long, thin scar running across the side of his face. He looks to be in his mid-thirties. He has tan skin. I've never seen him before.

"Who sent you?" I ask.

He glares at me, brown eyes resolute and without fear. It's a little admirable, I'll admit, since everyone else he came here with is dead on the ground.

"Answer the boss, cazzo !" Danny spits, stepping forward like he's going to hit him again.

I raise a hand to stop his approach. "It's all right, Danny. I can handle him," I state. My voice is smooth, my tone low as I speak to the man. "Although I'm sure you would prefer it if I left you to Danny. You do know who I am, right?" I ask.

I notice a muscle twitching in his jaw. But I have to give it to him. His expression remains the same. He's seemingly fearless. I plan to remedy that soon enough.

"They refer to me as the Butcher, which, if you ask me, is a ludicrous nickname, but do you know why they call me that?" I'm not expecting a reply, so I carry on. "It's because by the time I'm done torturing a man, his body parts are in so many different pieces, he's unrecognizable."

As expected, the man on his knees before me starts to shake. His entire body trembles both at my words and the even tone in my voice. He knows I'm fucking serious. I've built a reputation in this city. And he'd be foolish to cross me.

"Relax," I say soothingly. "I'm not a fan of that form of torture. It takes too long, and it's too messy. You have to really piss me off for me to do that to you. You haven't done anything. Just tell me who sent you, and I'll bestow mercy upon you. My offer has a time limit, though. Speak before I count to three. One…"

I haven't even said two before he's yelling, "I have a message! I have a message for the Don!" he shouts, lowering his head.

I cock my head to the side. "Speak. I'll ensure he receives it."

He swallows before replying. "We were sent by Santiago," he states, causing me to arch an eyebrow.

I guess that answers my question about how they knew when to ambush us. Santiago's men were meant to accompany the shipment, but they're still not here, which means they're not coming. He sent these stupid excuses for assassins instead.

"We have an alliance with Santiago," I say slowly.

Santiago is in charge of one of the biggest drug cartels in the country. The alliance with him was hard-won and hard-earned a couple of years ago. I took it upon myself to make the deal with him back then. I knew he was getting antsy, I just didn't think he'd be so foolish as to attack us.

"Not anymore. A few days ago, one of our men was murdered and dropped in front of a warehouse with the word ‘Maranzano' carved into his face. The alliance is over. Santiago wants revenge. And he'll stop at nothing to get it," the man says. His tone is getting more assertive.

I roll my eyes. "He's an idiot if he thinks that's reason enough to start a war."

"That was his message, Ramirez. Take it or leave it," Santiago's man says on a snarl.

"I think I'll just take your life," I state.

His eyes widen, and he opens his mouth to speak. Before he can get any words out though, I lift my gun and shoot him in the forehead. I feel nothing as he falls to the ground.

"That was more mercy than he deserved, boss," Danny says, a note of disappointment in his voice.

"Maybe. But we've got bigger problems. Santiago's a rabid dog that needs to be put down."

The only problem is, this is the worst possible time to attack Santiago's outfit. And I get the feeling he knows it.

When people think about the mafia, I'm sure they imagine a lot of crime, murder, drug dealing, and gang wars. And sure, that's all part of a normal day in the life. But there's also an organized element to the mafia as well. You could compare a mafia organization to a company. There's a hierarchy, an established leadership. There's even a board.

Made men. You could call us the kings of the underworld. We run the Italian mafia in Chicago. The five of us, the best of us, have a seat at the table headed by the Don. We're currently at his mansion located on the outskirts of Chicago. The mansion is more of a compound with a series of other houses connected to it, and it is heavily guarded and downright impenetrable. The current Don lives here, as did the Don before him. It's ground zero. The headquarters of the outfit.

Five men might have a seat at the table, but there are only four of us here at present. I sit on Valerio's left at the meeting table, taking intermittent sips from my glass of whiskey. The Don is in his sixties and is ill. He had a heart attack a couple of weeks ago. Since then, he's been trying hard to hide that he's sick. Weakness is frowned upon in our world, after all.

But he can't hide it forever. Already, he's starting to look frail. His face is saggy, his eyes hollow. It's odd seeing a man that used to stand so tall, be so quiet and seemingly beaten. He hasn't said a word the entire night. Then again, neither have I. The both of us have simply observed as the rest of the men discussed the outfit's affairs.

The other three kings occupy seats at the table. Adrian Rossi is the youngest one here. He's Italian, but he barely even has an accent, having never lived in Italy. He only recently inherited his father's position. He subsequently had to prove his worth before he was allowed a seat at the table. I'm still trying to determine his angle. On the outside, he's seemingly normal, or as normal as one can be in our world. But I've heard some rumors about his talent for murder. And strategy as well. He also controls most of the money that funds the organization's activities. That much money in the hands of any man makes him dangerous.

The other two men are from the Don's time. Old men who worked their way up with him—fought at his side. The first of them is Marco Vitelli. A man even older than the Don with thinning brown hair and dull black eyes. He's not much of a threat, but he has several good men at his command—the most men out of anyone at this table. If there was ever an internal war, Marco would be the man to have at one's side. Men win wars, not money.

Lastly, there is Sebastian. No one knows his last name or where he came from. He's worked hard all his life to erase any traces of his family. He's the underboss. The Don's right-hand man, and his closest friend, so to speak. And he absolutely fucking hates me.

From what I've been able to glean, the reason he hates me is simple. I'm the outside man, the only man at the table without a drop of Italian blood. And yet, the Don trusts me. Valerio sometimes takes my advice over that of his closest friend, and Sebastian can't stand that fact. He's an asset to the outfit, though. Mostly because he will kill anyone and everyone who stands in his way. Murder is his favorite means of communication. He's built up a reputation for himself in the city. No one dares cross him. And he's also fiercely loyal. To Valerio and the outfit.

"The Irish are currently not worth our time. After their last leader passed away, they've been disorganized, sloppy. What use would it be to go after them?" Marco questions, fixing Adrian with a cool stare.

They've been at it all evening, weighing the pros and cons of launching an attack against the Irish Mob.

"A group of them broke into one of our clubs last week and smashed the place. I say we squash them like bugs," Adrian retorts, green eyes gleaming at the prospect.

"It would not be hard to take care of them," Sebastian adds, because, of course, he's always on the side of murder.

It's his solution to everything. I manage not to roll my eyes as they continue their argument. Until the Don raises a hand to stop them. They all stop talking as soon as he clears his throat.

"Nicolas, what do you think we should do about the Irish?" Valerio questions.

Everyone's eyes swing towards me. I don't miss the rage in Sebastian's brown ones. I wait a few moments before I speak. I toss out my suggestion casually.

"I say we make peace with them. The Irish are currently weak, beaten with no sense of direction. There's no point antagonizing them when we can forge an alliance now. They will eventually regroup and grow stronger, and it would be better if they weren't coming at us for revenge when they do."

They all take that in quietly. Adrian's the first to speak.

"Always so diplomatic, Ramirez," he states with a smirk.

One of us has to be.

"Adrian and Sebastian will work on forging an alliance with the Irish," Valerio announces without a second thought.

No one at the table is surprised he went with my suggestion. Sebastian, however, is positively furious, which is dumb. You'd think he'd be used to the Don taking my advice by now.

"Shouldn't the person bringing the idea up be responsible for executing it?" he asks the Don.

Valerio looks sideways at him, expression icy. "You and Adrian will take care of it," he repeats, leaving no room for argument.

"Of course, sir," Sebastian states, lowering his head in acquiescence.

A loyal lapdog, as always.

But of course, he's not done with me yet. His brown eyes meet mine sharply.

"When were you planning on informing us about what occurred at the docks a week ago, Ramirez?" he questions.

"When I felt like it," I reply nonchalantly.

His expression darkens. "You fucker…"

I cut him off, "Relax, Sebastian. I already briefed the Don on the situation."

"Care to share with the rest of us?" Adrian asks, twirling a lighter in his hands.

"Well, since you asked nicely."

I tell them all about what happened and Santiago's carefully delivered threats.

"He went through all that, sent those men to their deaths, just to inform us that he's declaring war?" Marco asks with a frown.

Adrian leans back in his chair. "He has a flair for the dramatic."

"And an appetite for blood, it seems. Who carved ‘Maranzano' into the dead man's face?"

Our Don looks unsettled by that particular tidbit of the story. His last name being used as a trigger for a war isn't something to be taken lightly.

"I've been looking into it, and I'm pretty sure Santiago did it himself," I state.

The men raise their eyebrows.

"He killed his own man?" Adrian asks, slightly amused.

"I have reason to believe so, yes. Like Marco said, he seems to have an appetite for blood, or death. He needed a good reason to start a fight, so he created one on his own. He's a psychopath. One that should have never become the head of the cartel. He needs to be taken care of, and quickly."

"He controls the largest cartel in the city. It won't be easy to get rid of him," Marco points out.

I shrug. "I'm up for the challenge. As long as you provide me with some men."

Marco nods in acceptance.

"Nico and Marco will take care of Santiago. Sebastian and Adrian will handle the Irish. Now that all of that is settled," Valerio gets to his feet, signaling the end of the meeting, "I expect progress reports from each of you in two weeks. We'll have another meeting then."

The Don leaves, followed by his loyal lap dog, Sebastian. It doesn't take too long before Marco walks out the door as well, leaving only Adrian and I. He flicks open a lighter in his hand before closing it again. He does it one more time before looking up at me.

"It would probably be in your best interests to stop baiting ol' Seb," he says, lips tilted in a smirk.

"I don't need advice from you."

"Sure, but it's free, so just take it."

I cross my arms over my chest, observing him for a moment. He's relatively new to the game and has yet to show all of his cards, which makes me antsy. Right now, Adrian is unpredictable. And if there's anything I hate, it's unpredictability.

"You want to figure me out," Adrian says perceptively. "No need to try so hard, Ramirez. I'm on your side. In fact, I want to be your ally."

"I don't need allies."

"The Don is dying, isn't he?" he asks, and the question is so unexpected that I arch an eyebrow. "Don't look at me like that. It's pretty obvious."

"The Don's health doesn't concern you."

"His health concerns the entire outfit," Adrian retorts. "Who takes charge once he's gone?"

My jaw clenches. "His heir."

"He doesn't have an heir."

"Doesn't he?" I ask, my tone light, conveying none of my emotions.

Valerio has made no move to hide his wish that I will take over the position of Don once he's gone. But in our world, things aren't simply handed to you—you fight for them. And in my case, I'll have to fight even harder than most.

"I can help you," Adrian states.

I hate that word, ‘help'. It only comes into play at the sign of weakness. I'm not fucking weak.

"And I'm supposed to believe you don't want the throne for yourself?"

He shrugs. "Maybe I'm better suited to the sidelines instead of leadership."

Bullshit. Every man wants power.

"Or maybe I do want it," he says honestly. "The question is, what am I going to do to get it? With Valerio close to his death, how many made men do you think are asking themselves that? It's intriguing, isn't it? How quickly the balance of power could shift."

I refuse to let him see that his words affect me. But they do strike a chord within me. They harden my resolve to do whatever it takes to secure my position. I fucking earned the right to sit on that throne.

Fifteen years working in the outfit. I have done everything to gain Valerio's trust. No one deserves it more than me.

"It's not about what you're owed, Ramirez," Adrian says, and I hate that he's somehow seeing into my head. There's a dangerous glint in his eyes. "Maybe I'll snag a princess and take the throne for myself."

That fucking does it. My hands ball into fists.

"What did you just say?" I ask in a deceptively calm tone.

"I said I would snag myself a princess. It'd be the quickest way to establish myself in the outfit. But the princesses are missing, aren't they? In hiding. How long do you think that's going to last?"

That motherfucker. He's baiting me.

"Are you asking me if I know where they are?" I say, forcing a bored tone into my voice.

"I know you know where they are," he returns. "You have an arsenal at your disposal, Ramirez. Use it."

And with those words, he gets to his feet. I watch him leave, realizing for the first time that he's more dangerous than he lets on. He could pose problems for me in the future. Oddly enough, he gained a modicum of respect from me simply because he's potentially so dangerous. At the very least, I know he's not stupid.

Despite that though, his words have left me uneasy. My thoughts stray towards the Maranzano princesses. No one has seen them in years. Not since they left the mafia world, swearing never to return.

But it seems they're about to be brought back into it against their will. And that does not bode well for me at all. Especially considering the last thing Aurora Maranzano said to me was that she hoped I would drop dead in a ditch.

She hates me. And she hates everything I stand for. The feeling is decidedly mutual. I could live the rest of my life without having to see her again.

But I'm not deluded enough to think that'll be possible. There's a war coming, and I have a feeling she's going to be right in the middle of it.