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RAFFAELE

B lood spreads across the tiled floor, filling in the cracks along the marble from every stray bullet and crowbar that didn’t quite meet their target. It spreads like a spiderweb between each mark of damage, soaking up every stray splatter and spray that decorates the floor until there’s nothing but a sea of red. Crimson stains the cupboards, from the low-down drawers up to the high cabinets keeping crystal glasses safe from wandering hands.

A butcher’s knife lies an inch away from broken fingers that strained to reach it right until the very last drop of life bled from them. Several guns lay abandoned between the bodies creating mountains around the new red sea in the kitchen.

I watch it spread until the blood approaches the soles of my leather shoes. Only then do I sidestep the river trying to stain me further and snatch up a bright green apple from the shattered remains of a glass bowl on the countertop. Oddly, this particular apple is free from any of the blood spatter that made it across the kitchen counters, but I buff it against my shirt all the same while walking out of the kitchen and into the large lounge.

“Please,” whimpers a voice to my left.

I halt immediately.

“P–Please, I’ll do anything. I’ll do anything. What is it you want?”

The man begging for his life was shot thrice in the chest and had been slumped against the wall unit when I entered the kitchen. It seems my reappearance interrupted his attempt at crawling to freedom, and now he weakly begs for his life as if he didn’t just do a great disservice to the family he worked for by not dying quietly where he’d been left.

I slowly buff the apple once more, then turn it over in my hands to ensure it truly is free from any kind of blood and gore. Footsteps thunder above me, followed by a yell and several gunshots. A last heavy thump makes the bleeding man to my left flinch, and he throws himself forward with a whimper of pain. I glimpse the strap of body armor under his shirt.

“Please, Raffaele, whatever it is you want, I c–can get it for you. You want money? The–the safe combination? You want the jewelry? Safety deposit boxes? Anything you want, I can get it in a flash, I swear, I swear! Just please, please don’t kill me!”

I take a slow, careful bite of the apple. Sweet juice bursts across my tongue while I devour the flesh and slowly remove my handgun from its holster.

“Please,” the man weeps, and his hands clutch at my ankle.

“How long have you worked here?” I ask, taking another languid bite of the apple.

“F–F–Four years.”

“And in those four years, did you ever step in to protect Mrs. Amante or her children?”

The man looks up at me, his eyes swimming with tears. “I?—”

“Did you ever step in when her husband beat her or threatened to sell her kids to the Russians?”

“Mr. Amante is a… he’s a?—”

“Did you feel any remorse when she sent her kids overseas for safety and then took her own life jumping off the high-rise downtown?”

“You don’t understand ?—”

“Thought not.” I aim my gun between his teary eyes and pull the trigger before any other excuses or lies can tumble from his mouth. He dies instantly, although a splatter of blood and brain matter splashes up my leg.

“Great,” I mutter, holstering my weapon. “My fucking shoes. Asshole.” Kicking the body away, I take another bite of my apple just as the sliding door to the lounge opens.

My Underboss, Vito, steps inside with a look of disgust crossing his face and walks toward me, pausing to shoot one of the twitching bodies that are strewn across the dinner table.

“Did you find it?” I ask, taking another bite.

Vito holds up a black pen drive. “All of it. The deeds to the boutiques are on here. Paper copies are downtown, but I already have someone picking them up.”

“Good.” I glance around the room and my stomach curls. “I’m done. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

Merciful is not a word anyone will ever use to describe me. When news gets out that the Amante family is dead, the blame will fall squarely on my shoulders where it belongs. People will think I slaughtered them for their business and that not a soul was left alive. I’m happy to let them think that.

No one will look deeper, so no one will know that Mrs. Amante came to me asking for help while I was overseas. No one will know that I came back to America too late to help her and that I was the one who collected her body from the morgue. No one will know that her two children are now hidden away from the world, safe and sound under my protection, and that what happened here tonight is the least that Mr. Amante deserved.

This will be just another stop on my rampage, and I have no desire to correct anyone who claims such a thing. It’s no one else’s business.

“You good?” Vito side-eyes me as we stride out of the Amante manor and head toward the line of black cars we arrived in.

“Mmhmm.” A final bite and I toss the apple core into one of the destroyed flower beds that line the path. “I want the address of every single boutique and I want them cleared out. No one left. Then we’ll relaunch under our name. What do you even sell at a boutique, anyway?”

“Fuck knows,” Vito replies. “Clothes, maybe? Either way, it looks like they just used it as a money laundering front.”

“Huh.”

“One more thing.” Vito nudges his shoulder into me as we walk. “I got a call while you were busy in there.”

“About what?”

“Pascal Castiglioni. He agreed to your terms.”

Gravel skids under my shoes as I come to a stop. “You’re shitting me.”

“Nope. He sounded oddly eager, if I’m honest.”

“Shit.” I breathe deeply, letting the cool night air slice into my lungs alongside the scent of the pine trees swaying nearby. “I just wanted to watch that fucker squirm. Didn’t think he’d agree to sell his own daughter.”

“Adelina Castiglioni,” I murmur to myself, reclining back in my deep leather chair and crossing my legs up on my desk.

A fire crackles to my right, sending colorful streaks and shadows dancing over the bookcases holding more books and novels than I’ll ever read. They’re a legacy from my father’s years in power, but the knowledge held in those books won’t help me now. Not unless someone tries to use Roman war tactics. The air is filled with flowery notes from the luxury logs crackling amid the flames, and a glass of Scotch warms in my hand while I flip through the file Vito curated for me.

Adelina Castiglioni. Twenty-five years old and the only daughter of Pascal Castiglioni. Her mother died when she was ten years old, cause unknown. Her family dabbles in construction, but their main dealings involve luxury vehicles and counterfeit luxury goods. Not exactly big fish in the grand scheme of things, but Pascal knows a threat when he sees one. They’re the kind of family that gets swallowed up by organizations as large as mine, and it seems Pascal saw that in his future. When he reached out to me, I decided to toy with him before doing exactly that.

I certainly didn’t expect him to agree to give me his only daughter and heir to save his family name and what little value he holds.

On the next page, several pictures slide down the paper, and I catch them with a press of my fingertips. My heart skips faintly.

Adelina is beautiful. Striking, ocean-blue eyes gaze up at me from a family photo and several social media posts. Her oval face is framed by thick auburn curls that burn like fire in the sunlight of one picture. Her smile is large and wide, with a perfect row of teeth and plush lips that make her look like she’s smiling for all the people incapable of doing so.

Does she know that her father has given her up? Did she agree?

The next page details how she spends her time volunteering at several hospitals across the city, but she favors one in particular. She leads a few arts and crafts sessions and spends a lot of time painting with the children and for her own pleasure. Her socials are filled with recordings of her work, as well as timelapses of how she paints. I look her up on my phone and find her within a few seconds, then let one of the videos play while I continue to read.

She briefly studied nursing in college but it didn’t last, although the reasoning is unknown. Perhaps she realized her passion was creation rather than nursing, although her time spent at hospitals is endearing. It seems the one she favors is the hospital where her mother spent her last few months. She must feel some kind of connection to that place.

The last page is the most surprising. Adelina was set to marry Carlos Giordana, and that name sticks out to me like a beacon. I slaughtered the Giordanas a week ago, maybe a little longer, due to their theft of several drug shipments. I recovered my shipments and caught them red-handed, and I have only one rule for the smaller families that work for me.

Don’t steal my shit.

They didn’t take me seriously, so I made sure that history will forget the name Giordana.

“Interesting,” I murmur aloud, returning to the page with her pictures as the Instagram video comes to an end.

So, my new wife is an artist with a penchant for helping sick children and she was due to marry a man who stole from me.

Isn’t this an interesting twist?

“Vito?” I dial his number, and he answers instantly.

“Sir?”

“Call Pascal. Tell him the deal is set.”

“Understood. Anything else?”

I close the file after taking out the picture where Adelina’s hair looks like it’s on fire. “Tell him we’ll be married in May, so I’ll need her dress size.”

“You’re planning the wedding, sir?”

“Of course I am.” I chuckle softly. “How else will I welcome my new bride?”