After my messed up first job, I only got to watch from the sidelines, deemed too young to be a real part of the Outfit. I was fourteen, eager to please Dante and my Father, but failing.
After Alfonso had left me in Bratva territory, I should have died. The Russians would have beaten me to death, and if not them, someone else would have.
I had no clue how to survive on the street, or on my own. But Remo knew. He had been born a fighter. It was in his blood, and he showed me how to fight, how to survive, how to kill.
He let me live in the shabby apartment he shared with his three brothers. He put food on our table with money he won in the fighting cages and I paid him back with loyalty and the fierce determination to become the soldier he needed at his side to help him kill the fuckers who were laying claim on the territory that was rightfully his.
When we arrived in Reno, part of the Camorra territory, almost four months later, I wasn’t the pampered Outfit boy anymore. Remo and Nino had beaten it out of me in training fights, had taught me how to fight dirty. But most of all Remo had showed me my worth. I didn’t need the Outfit, didn’t need a position handed to me on a silver platter. Remo and I, we had to fight for what we wanted. There it was: a purpose and someone who saw my worth when no one else could.
When we first set foot on Camorra ground, they were still in turmoil since their Capo had been killed by a man called Growl. There wasn’t a new Capo yet but many fighting over the position.
Remo, Nino and I spent the next months fighting in Reno, earning money, and eventually winning every fight until even the newest Capo in Las Vegas started to pay attention. Together we went there, and killed everyone who was against Remo. And when he finally took over as Capo, I became his Enforcer, a rank I hadn’t inherited; a rank I’d paid in blood and scars for. A rank I was proud of, and would defend till my death, just like I would defend Remo.
The tattoo on my forearm marking me as a Made Man of the Las Vegas Camorra went deeper than skin-deep. Nothing and nobody would ever make me break the oath I’d given to my Capo.
I drew in a deep breath. The smell of tar and burnt rubber hung in the air. Familiar. Exhilarating. The flashy lights of Las Vegas burnt in the distance. A sight I’d grown used to. Home.
In these parts of town, just off Sierra Vista Drive, the glamour of the Strip was far away. Violence was the common tongue around here. My favorite language.
A long row of racing cars lined the parking lot of the closed Boulevard Mall. It was the starting point of the illegal street race going down tonight. Some of the drivers nodded a greeting in my direction, others pretended not to notice me. Most of them still had debts to pay, but tonight I hadn’t come for them. They didn’t have to worry.
I headed toward Cane, one of the organizers of the race. He hadn’t yet paid what he owed and it was a sum that couldn’t be ignored, even though he was a profitable asset.
Most of the money we made with illegal street races came from bets. We had a camera team that filmed the races and put them in a locked forum on the Darknet; everyone with a code word could watch. This part of the business was pretty new. Remo had established the races when he seized power. Remo didn’t hang onto the old fashioned rules that bound the Outfit and the Famiglia; rules that made them slow to adapt. He was always on the lookout for new ways to make the Camorra more money, and he was successful.
A few engines roared up, saturating the air with gasoline vapors. The start was only a couple of minutes away. But I hadn’t come to watch the race. I was here on business.
I spotted my target next to our bookie Griffin – a short guy, almost wider than he was tall. Cane’s pockmarked face twisted when he saw me coming his way. He looked like he considered running. “Cane,” I said pleasantly as I stopped before him. “Remo is missing some money.”
He took a step back and raised his hands. “I will pay him soon. I promise.”
I promise. I swear. Tomorrow. Please. Words I’d heard too often.
“Hm,” I murmured. “Soon wasn’t your due date.”
Griffin shut off his iPad and excused himself. He was only interested in the financial aspects of our business. The dirty work drove him off.