I held my ribs. The pain had gotten worse. I’d tried to get money with pickpocketing today. Chose the wrong guy and been beaten up. I didn’t know how to survive on the street. I wasn’t sure I wanted to keep trying.
What was I going to do? No Outfit. No future. No honor.
I sank down on the ground of the parking lot in plain view of the Bratva graffiti. I lied back. The door opened, men got out and walked away. Bratva territory.
I was so fucking tired.
It wouldn’t be slow. The pain in my limbs and hopelessness kept me in place. I stared up at the night sky and began reciting the oath I’d memorized months ago in preparation for the day of my induction. The Italian words flowed out of my mouth, filled me with loss and despair. I repeated the oath over and over again. It had been my destiny to become a Made Man.
There were voices to my right. Male voices in a foreign language.
Suddenly a black-haired guy stared down at me. He was bruised, not as badly as me, and dressed in fight shorts. “They say there’s a crazy Italian fucker outside sprouting Omertá. I guess they meant you.”
I fell silent. He’d said ‘Omertá’ like I would say it, like it meant something. He was covered in scars. Only a few years older. Eighteen perhaps.
“Talking that kind of shit in this area means you got a death wish or are batshit crazy. Probably both.”
“That oath was my life,” I said.
He shrugged, then looked over his shoulder before turning back with a twisted smile. “Now it’s going to be your death.”
I sat up. Three Men in fight shorts, bodies covered in tattoos of wolves and Kalashnikovs, heads clean-shaven stepped out of a door beside the Bratva graffiti.
I considered lying back and letting them finish what Alfonso couldn’t.
“What family?” The black-haired guy asked.
“Outfit,” I replied, even as the word ripped a hole in my heart.
He nodded. “Suppose they got rid of you. Not the balls to do what it takes to be a Made Man?”
Who was he? “I got what it takes,” I hissed. “But my father wants me dead.”
“Then prove it. And now get the fuck up from the ground and fight.” He narrowed his eyes when I didn’t move. “Get. The. Fuck. Up.”
And I did, even though my world spun and I had to hold my ribs. His black eyes took in my injuries. “Suppose I will have to do most of the fighting. Got any weapons?”
I pulled my Karambit knife from the holster around my calf.
“I hope you can handle that thing.”
Then the Russians were upon us. The guy began some martial arts shit that kept two of the Russians busy. The third headed my way. I swiped my knife at him and missed. He landed a few hits that had my chest screaming with agony, and I dropped to my knees. My bruised body had no chance against a trained fighter like him. His fists rained down on me, hard, fast, merciless. Pain.
Black-haired guy lunged at my attacker, ramming his knee into his stomach. The Russian fell forward, and I raised my knife, which buried itself in his abdomen. Blood trickled down my fingers and I released the handle as if burnt as the Russian toppled to his side, dead.
I stared at my knife sticking out of his belly. Black-haired guy pulled it out, cleaned the blade on the dead man’s shorts, then held it out to me. “First kill?” My fingers shook as I took it, then nodded.
“There will be more.”
The two other Russians were dead as well. Their necks had been broken. He held out his hand, which I took, and pulled me to my feet. “We should leave. More Russian fuckers will be here soon. Come on.”
He led me toward a beaten up truck. “Noticed you slinking around the parking lot the last two nights when I was here to fight.”
“Why did you help me?”
There was that twisted smile again. “Because I like to fight and kill. Because I hate the fucking Bratva. Because my family wants me dead too. But most importantly, because I need loyal soldiers who will help me take back what’s mine.”
“Who are you?”
“Remo Falcone. And I will be Capo of the Camorra soon.” He opened the door to the truck and was halfway in when he added. “You can help or you can wait for the Bratva to get you.”
I got in. Not because of the Bratva.
Because Remo had shown me a new purpose, a new destiny.
A new family.
Chapter Two
The window of the Greyhound bus felt sticky hot, or perhaps it was my face. The infant in the row behind me had stopped wailing ten minutes ago – after almost two hours. I peeled back my cheek from the glass, feeling sluggish and tired. After hours, squeezed into the stuffy seat, I couldn’t wait to get out. Las Vegas’ posh suburbs rolled past with their immaculate greens, always sufficiently watered by sprinklers. Surrounded by desert, that was probably the ultimate sign for having money. Elaborate Christmas decorations adorned the porches and fronts of freshly painted houses.