Caruso;
Smoke thick enough to choke fills the air, swirling in dark grey curls around my brooded form lounged on an armchair.
Sitting before the window, the curtains drawn close, bathing the entire room in darkness, only a slight slit permits a string of light crawling in as I sit with my fingers on my lips, taking a long, intoxicating drag of my joint.
My head lolls, landing on the backrest. I release a slow exhale of smoke, it slips from between my lips to merge with the rest hanging in the air.
A knock echoes once.
"Come in." I rasp out.
Michaelo's foot thuds before stopping in the middle of the room. "Boss,"
"Any news?" Irritated, I manage to suppress the anger spiraling in my head.
"Nothing yet, boss. But Fernandez hasn't left his estate since after that night."
That's clue enough. Either he has too much confidence in his hiding skills, or he's completely oblivious to who exactly he's dealing with.
I choose to go with the latter; he's a lazy bastard that can't keep up with monitoring his captive.
"I hacked the street security footage, and it showed that after taking her, he headed straight for the Rossi's Estate." Michaelo adds.
The fact that he hasn't left in three days reveals a lot. And it isn't some wild guess.
It means the bastard is keeping her hostage in his house.
Fucking fuck.
Crackling noises distract my thoughts as Michaelo speaks into his radio. "Don't let anyone else find out, I'll get back to you in a minute."
Then he steps closer. "Boss, the men at the gate report a messenger claiming to be sent by Fernandez Rossi. He said he holds something for the Don, and it's meant to be confidential." He tells me.
Confidential huh.
I'd ordered Michaelo to keep tabs on the main entrance and around the mansion. News regarding anything should reach me first before getting to anyone else…not even my brother, the Underboss.
"Intercept it," I deadpan the order.
"Yes, boss." His marching strides echo and dull as he leaves, shutting the door behind him.
Since I'd been born into this life of secrets and danger, I've always known there was enmity between the Rossis and us.
I haven't even cared to know what it's about. If I did, then there's a long line to start having interest in, because the Rossis are not the only Cosa Nostra faction that has bad blood with us.
Michaelo returns in ten minutes, a paper in his hands. He hands it to me wordlessly.
A simple note is scrawled on it. My gaze burns into it.
Flicking my joint into my liquor and watching it sizzle out, I stick out an arm.
The clinking sound ripples through the silence as Michaelo drops the keys in my hand. "Boss, are you sure you want to drive in this…state?"
Safety my foot. He somehow manages to know that I'm not levelheaded as of now. Fuck, I don't think I've been since that night. That night she let me touch her.
I don't answer. I stand, grab my gun lazing on the drum table and tuck it into the waistband of my jeans.
Striding past him, he follows behind me.
Michaelo settles into the passenger seat, fixing his seatbelt as I ignite the engine. It roars loud, mirroring my fury.
"Information on the dispute between us and the Rossis. Now." With barely contained rage, I grind out.
"It's been brewing for ages now." He starts, eyes on the road as the men at the gate draw open on either side.
They bow as I speed out.
"It's said that the feud began because your father killed a member of their family years ago before their father died. But that's all there is." He exhales stiffly. "Apart from that, the rest is vague. That's all I know."
It's always father. A muscle in my jaw ticks violently, threatening to snap under the pressure building inside me.
I channel the malevolent rush into the brakes as I press harder, the tires screeching against the asphalt.
"Boss." Michaelo calls out in a neutral warning, but I hear the unease seeping from his tone.
I push harder, having him thrown back into his seat. Blaring honks and cars swerving out of my lane plunge the entire road into chaos.
"The cops will be here anytime soon," Michaelo alerts me.
"Fuck the cops." I spit.
I'm mentally fucked at this point. Because I don't even know what's driving me to this extent.
It's her. It's fucking her. No matter how I try to deny and evade the thoughts, it claws back like a sick itch, leaving me unhinged like a fucking addict.
We arrive at the location that was scribbled on the—now crumbled—paper in fifteen minutes…what was supposed to take forty.
Michaelo is the first to alight, jumping down as soon as I hit park.
"There's no one here." He mutters after scanning the empty vicinity.
Ahead, my gaze catches on a clearing—a group of men armed to the teeth gathered.
My brows furrow. Fernandez doesn't carry that quantity of men.
My suspicion is confirmed when a man strolls forward, the men trailing behind him, their hands resting on their weapons.
The man doesn't look familiar, though from his stance and build, I can tell a member of the Cosa Nostra when I see one.
He looks like a younger version of Fernandez—undoubtedly.
I move forward, Michaelo behind me as I meet him halfway.
He throws a look of contempt in my direction, his dark eyes skimming behind me.
And once he's done, his face twists. "You aren't the Don, are you now?"
Bold bastard.
"And you aren't Fernandez, are you now?"
My head tilts to the side, the violence from earlier clawing to break free.
The younger man eyes me for a while. We exchange heated eye contact.
When he sees I won't concede, "I'm Flores, Fernandez's brother." he says.
"You don't have to introduce yourself. Your reputation precedes you." He mutters, his lip curling with open disdain.
"I wasn't intending to." I tell him, irritation spiking as I roll my shoulders once.
"You can discuss with me. Fernandez won't be here."
My head still inclined, I assess him with one short glance. He looks like a fucking college kid.
But I know not to underestimate. That's how I got here myself…people underestimating me, till I carved out their fear like their custom-made nightmare and dropped it in their fucking hands.
"Let's get to the point, shall we?" I deadpan flatly.
He releases an airy chuckle, but there's no humor in it. "Depends what the point is…as is, I can't tell you anything. Only your father." The malice in his eyes when he speaks of my father couldn't be more clear.
"What did he take from your brother?"
"Ah, so you don't know about it." He drawls, a sharp, mocking smile cutting across his face.
Michaelo senses I'm about to detonate any second now. He mutters softly behind me, "Calm down."
"I've heard rumors about you, you know. Caruso Giordano." He risks a step forward, slow and deliberate. "People say you'll end up just like your father," He pauses, eyes darkening, "Self-centered, greedy and ruthless. You already got the ruthless tag though." He risks another step closer, chin lifting in challenge.
"Get to the fucking point." A god-damned growl rips from my chest.
Flores—whatever the fuck his name is—sneers, dragging the moment out just to spite me.
The motherfucker doesn't know he's gambling with his useless life.
A flicker of pain flashes across his eyes, but it's gone in a second. He says, "Your father murdered my mother in cold blood, which led to the death of my father." He grits, anger radiating through his form in waves. "Just for something he wanted." His hands curling into fists.
"An eye for an eye, Caruso." He tells me. "As for what he took, you should ask your scum of a father. Because this war isn't going to end till it buries one of us." Taking a step back, he adds, "As you already know…war has started."
He turns, his men paving a path for his retreat. But he pauses in his tracks, looks over his shoulder at me,
"By the way…Celeste, she's doing fine." A crude smile tugs at his mouth, "I can't guarantee for how long though. She's one hell of an arroga—"
That does it.
I don't know when I grab my gun, but I sure as hell do when my bullets slice through the air.
A war, huh?
Why not go all out.