Page 4 of Hateful Vows

THREE

DANTE

T he air smells of nauseating frankincense and my fast-decaying father as my men and I carry his casket through the nave towards the altar of the grandiose church we’re having the service in.

Light filters through the stained glass windows, illuminating scenes of Christianity I forgot long ago in hues of blue, purple and orange.

One of them illustrates Jesus carrying the Cross and the symbol almost makes me snort.

When we reach the transept, we kneel to deposit the casket onto a raised platform. The open lid, as per my mother’s request, offers a sinister view. Even after the wake, I almost recoil at seeing my father’s gaunt cheeks and cakey mortuary makeup, incense barely covering the stench of rot.

“Try not to fall asleep during the sermon, sciocco ,” my best friend and Consigliere Tino whispers in my ears, before taking a seat next to my mother and Lorenzo, my underboss.

My lips tip up at the memory of when we were young.

Tino, my twin Gio and I would often fall asleep on the pews before the very priest officiating today would wake us up by pulling on our ears until we cried.

Then my little cousin Lucie was born and her wails almost made it impossible to do that.

My eyes find hers, and she gives me a subtle nod. Having people I love around me makes the whole charade bearable.

We all listen to the priest drone on and on about life and death and sins and what the fuck not. I yawn and my mother elbows me in the gut, whispering about respect and God watching.

I cough to cover the laugh bubbling in my throat.

I’ve always found it hilarious how most of the men come to this lavish cathedral every Sunday and repent for their sins when not five minutes later, they easily take the lives of those we call enemies.

Obviously, my mother doesn’t share my sense of humour, her face covered with large designer sunglasses even though we’re inside.

I know under them, her mascara is probably running and she’d never be caught being less than perfect.

With her condition, it’s rare to see her outside the four walls of her mansion anymore.

“Your men are watching, Dante.”

The admonishment is all I need to sober up.

It’s not only my men and capos I’ve known since I was a kid.

It’s the representatives of every European branch of the Cosa Nostra, watching and waiting to pay their respect.

Ever since my father’s assassination four days ago, I’ve become Head of the Ventura Family, responsible for the London Branch of the Sicilian criminal organisation.

It’s a role I never intended to have. One I never wanted.

But the Ventura first-born, my twin brother, died when we were just fourteen.

In a fire at our local church, as it happened. We buried charred bones and the remnants of the bright orange Dragon Ball-Z tee-shirt he wore underneath his Sunday clothes. He would sleep with the damn thing. It was his favourite.

My mother never recovered, her heart breaking along with her mind. My father didn’t do nearly enough to find the culprits who started the fire. I never forgave him for that.

Needless to say it was the last time I stepped a foot at Sunday church. I was never particularly religious or God-fearing. Losing the best part of me at such a formative age cemented the idea that I’d rather live life to the fullest than obey man-made rules.

My attention comes back to the priest as he gestures for me to come to the pulpit to honour my father. I look over at the crowd, the sudden weight of my new position settling on my brow like a heavy crown.

My speech is short. None of the men and women in the church want to hear if I loved him; they want to know if I will avenge him. Though our relationship was strained, one thing we pride ourselves on, us Ventura, is loyalty. It’s in our family motto. The words are etched with ink on my chest.

“ Lealtà, dovere, coraggio . Loyalty, duty, courage. My father lived and breathed those words for fifty-seven years. He was sometimes harsh, often inflexible, but that loyalty pulsed in his veins like it does in mine.”

That’s the understatement of the century. My father was set in his ways, merciless and short-tempered. He often chose tradition over innovation, making us clash frequently. But this speech is about respect and honour. Even if I will do everything to change us, make us better.

“Under his leadership, we flourished, experienced relative peace and diversified our activities. I intend to keep that legacy alive, foster that peace with new alliances. And bring necessary changes to keep growing and prosper. His death won’t go unpunished.

” I pause for effect, murmurs of agreement spreading through the crowd.

“I will chase his murderer to the end of this world and end them the only way they deserve.”

It’s an easy promise to make. Even if I have to pave my way to Hell in order to have my revenge.

I’ll do it for my mother who will remember the bastard Italian boy she fell in love with decades ago.

I’ll do it even if he didn’t have enough balls to go after the people who took Gio from us.

Because I’ll never be anything like him.

Tino is the first to come up to me and kiss my cheeks. Three times as a sign of respect and acceptance as his new leader. My underboss Lorenzo follows. Then every capo in the church and their families. I brace and wait for each and every person to proceed with the ritual.

My tailored Armani suit feels too tight and my cheeks almost raw by the time we’re done.

The last person before me is the official representative from Sicily.

Even if we all work independently on our own territories, a percentage of our earnings still goes to the Motherland.

They don’t get involved unless we’re bracing for war.

The man is lean, around my age, and carries himself with an air of authority, but he kisses my cheeks with reverence, satisfaction shining in his brown eyes.

“ Benvenuto , Signore Ventura,” he says then clasps a golden cross set with precious red rubies. It used to be locked around my father’s neck and won’t leave mine until the day I die. My cross to bear. For the good of everyone in this place.

I look up to the vaulted ceiling as if Gio could see me from wherever he is. I wish he’d be here instead of me. I dismiss the thought and return to my grieving mother before we move to the adjacent cemetery and the ground swallows my father’s remains.

I ’m lost in thoughts, looking at the freshly turned soil in the damp cemetery, when Tino approaches.

“Someone’s here to see you,” he says under his breath, and I nod, allowing the visitor to talk.

“Mr Ventura, I…” the kid starts. I look over my shoulder.

The scrawny boy must be no older than thirteen.

He looks familiar but with how many capos my father had, it’s hard to tell whose son he is.

He straightens and rolls his shoulders back, fakely boosting his confidence and I almost laugh.

Even Tino lifts an eyebrow. “I have information for you. But… I’d like payment. ”

Bold. I like it.

I turn around and take a step towards the kid. He steps back with my approach, bumping into Tino. It’s a miracle he doesn’t whimper in fear.

“Who’s your father, kid?” I ask.

“Amor Venti, sir.”

“Don’t drop your eyes. You came here for payment, earn it.

Look at me, tell me what you want,” I instruct, eager to see if this kid has a backbone and can be of use.

He’s around the age at which my father started letting me in on our business.

This child doesn’t deserve it; he should be out playing with his friends, getting into mischief, but that’s not my choice to make. “What’s your name?”

“Francisco Venti, sir. And I’ve heard rumours about your father’s murder. I want one thousand and one hundred pounds for that information.”

Tino whistles and I chuckle, which makes Francisco’s skin turn white as a sheet.

“That’s oddly specific. I’ll bite, Francisco Venti. Did your father send you?”

“No, sir.”

“Have you started your initiation?”

“No, sir,” Francisco says with a drop of his shoulders. “I’m a second son.”

I hum low in my throat. Only first-born sons are initiated into our system at the age of thirteen, every other child after that sent to private boarding schools and universities for networking, or trained to kill. Part of our outdated systems I intend to change.

This kid is eager to be just like me, I can see it in how he keeps rolling his shoulders to stave off the fear. He doesn’t know what he’s in for.

“Alright. I’ll give you the money you want. Tell me what you know,” I tell him.

“I heard my brother talking to his friends at your father’s wake.

They all received an anonymous text about getting money for assassinating the king.

Some of them complained that the killer got to your father before they could.

My brother and cousin Fabrizio beat them up bloody for that.

We’re loyal, Mr Ventura, we would never do that.

But the texts are making the rounds through everyone's first born sons above the age of sixteen.”

Tino and I stare at each other while the kid continues his loyalty prayer between us, vowing his blood and that of his family to the Venturas. I’m not listening anymore. The edges of my vision turn red with rage, hot fury spreading across my skin.

“We have a snake,” Tino breathes like saying it out loud will make it more real than it already is. If the kids got the text, there’s no way their parents wouldn’t know anything about it.

“Francisco, shut the fuck up,” I snap and he does.

“Lesson number one, kid, get the prize before you spill.” He blanches but that lesson will be hard learnt.

Better he get it from me. “Have your father and brother report to the Ventura mansion in one hour. Come with, too, and don’t fucking be late. ”