Prologue
Romeo
Twenty years earlier
A brisk wind kicked the dry, fallen leaves into mini tempests, camouflaging the secret trip to the quarry. Narciso “The Skull” Rossi, the head of the Rossi family and most feared man on the East Coast of America, loved the quarry, and so did his sons. Far from their mother’s prying and judgmental eyes, the quarry offered the perfect place to teach them life’s most important lessons.
How to hit on a girl.
How to command a room’s presence.
How to earn respect from those around you.
How to kill a man who betrays you.
Romeo Rossi, at thirteen years old, was the eldest brother of the six Rossi children. A rule enforcer and a natural-born leader, he occasionally liked to push the envelope.
So when their father went to Tuscany to visit the family home and conduct business overseas, he went to the quarry. Didn’t need the prying eyes of his younger siblings to tattle to Mama that Romeo was smoking again.
His father would only roll his eyes and tell him to roll his own damn smokes, but his mother despised the habit—no doubt because it reminded her of her husband’s own three-pack-a-day habit—and would punish him severely for such an infraction.
It wasn’t fear of punishment that drove Romeo to the quarry, though. In a bustling family of eight, privacy was a precious, rare commodity. And Romeo liked to be alone.
Leaning his back against a tree, Romeo reached into his pocket and drew out the pack of cigarettes. Putting one between his lips, he was returning the pack just as the sound of crunching leaves and twigs told him he’d been followed. His spine stiffened, his hand still on his back pocket. The lone, unlit cigarette still dangled from his lips.
He did a mental inventory of the weapons he had on his person. Rossi family boys never left home without a weapon, even when going to school or church or on a date. Especially a date.
Switchblade in his pocket, thin razor blade in his wallet, brand-new brass knuckles nestled in the hidden pocket of his jeans. Nothing too flashy, but they’d come in handy if push came to shove.
And the lighter. The lighter could be used if necessary as well.
Never one to cower and wait, Romeo’s temper flared. “Who’s there?”
No answer.
He flicked the blade open, relishing the reassuring heft of it in his palm and primed his senses, but before he could detect another sound, a loud crash sounded behind him. He swung, blade instinctively tucked by his side to hide it in case it was a cop.
“For fuck’s sake, Tavi.” Ottavio Rossi, Romeo’s younger brother and the second eldest brother in the Rossi family, gave Romeo a sheepish grin. Almost as tall as Romeo, Ottavio inherited the Rossi family height but unlike Romeo, had his mother’s lithe frame. With a shock of chestnut-brown hair he wore shorter than the others, combined with a thin pair of wire-rimmed glasses, he looked almost as old as Romeo, though he was three years younger.
“Sorry, Rome,” he said with a sheepish shrug. “Followed the little brats here.” He reached behind him and dragged tiny three-year-old Marialena and five-year-old Mario in front of him.
“I not a brat!” Marialena said, her pretty eyes flashing at both of them.
Mario stomped his foot. “Stop calling me that or I’ll tell Mama you’re smoking again.”
Ottavio rolled his eyes, and Romeo glared.
“You two—”
“Three,” came an amused voice to Ottavio’s right, and Orlando stepped into the light. “Sorry. I didn’t know you guys were here.”
“Jesus,” Romeo groaned. “I came here to be alone, not tagged along by the whole damn family.”
“Not the whole family,” Orlando corrected. “And I could say the same. I came here to read, not to babysit.” He rolled his eyes at Marialena, and tucked his worn paperback into his back pocket.