Page 1 of The Wicked

Prologue

He was called “The Wicked” for many reasons.

Some were accurate, while some were drawn from mere hearsay. Some said he was the psychopath who murdered his entire family, others said he was a man who wiped out the bloodline of anyone who died with a bullet from his gun. Those who claimed to admire him would call him a tyrant, one who would do anything for power and the preservation of status, one who would betray his people if the result proved to favor his goals.

He wasn’t loyal.

He trusted no one.

He was a man, made of assumptions and truths blended to create an abominable image—but the man couldn’t be bothered about how the world perceived him.

They feared and respected him for all the reasons they hated him, and if he was being completely honest with himself, that was all that mattered.

The air was still and the smell of Cuban cigars slightly fogged the large office, courtesy of Elio Marino, whose cigar was locked between his lips while he relaxed in the visitor’s chair. His eyes were half open, thick lashes casting shadows on his cheekbones; his suit jacket was long discarded, leaving him with his black button-up and well-knotted black tie, a uniform his father had locked into his personality long before he even held a gun.“White doesn’t suit you, son, why do you think I never wear anything with brightcolors? You don’t want to be stained with the sinner’s blood and let it show, do you?”his father had told him when he turned seven, and he’d worn only black since that day.

Elio’s focus had not shifted since both he and Casmiro, his underboss, had stepped into the man’s home—Basilio, a longtime Caporegime associate of the syndicate, who kept glancing in Elio’s direction with fear in his eyes; The Wicked just gave Basilio the look he’d seen him give to people who were now six feet under.

“We didn’t see them,” Basilio said, forcing down a swallow. “They were like shadows. No footsteps were heard, but our soldiers fell noiselessly.”

Casmiro’s jaw clenched. “The security cameras?” he asked.

“Tampered with. We don’t know how. My guys are working on getting back control—”

“You’re still locked out?” Casmiro exclaimed in disbelief.

“Whoever these people are, they know what they’re doing,” Basilio said with a nervous smile, as though there was something amusing in the matter. He glanced at Elio, and his smile dimmed slowly.

The Wicked never smiled. He saw no use for it.

He could still remember it as clear as day, dragged to one of his father’s many business meetings. He had dared to laugh when one of their associates made a joke. Nine-year-old Elio received the beating of his life when they returned home. He still had scars to show for it. They stung mentally each time he saw something potentially funny to smile at.

Basilio here, obviously, never got that kind of training.

“Six billion, Basilio,” Casmiro said, “do you understand?” He stared pointedly at the man. “That’s six billion… burnt like it was nothing. Revenue from the Marino Vault House underyourcare.”

Basilio swallowed. “I know. One of the soldiers gave us very important information. These people call themselves ‘Street.’ Wearen’t the first ones to get hit like this. They take a little and burn the rest. It started about three months ago.”

“I don’t fucking care who they are, or when it started. They can fuck with other families, but not Marino.NeverMarino. How the fuck did they get under your noses?”

Basilio shrugged with uncertainty. “It’s still a mystery. I would blame it on the Nazaris, but this operation was different. It was… perfect. Like a blink—and money gone—Vault House burnt—men dead.”

Elio could feel Casmiro’s anger from beside him but said nothing. He kept staring at Basilio, whose gaze kept skittering away from him. The man was probably wondering why he was so quiet—well, Elio had other business to take care of, and if it weren’t for Casmiro’s insistence, he would have been dining with the dignitaries of Turin, thinking of new ways to sink his teeth further into the government.

All this felt like child’s play, and the last thing Elio wanted was to deal with children.

Elio’s tattooed fingers, gracefully ornamented with rings, lowered the cigar he had just taken a smooth pull on. He blew out a streak of smoke.

Casmiro straightened. “What makes you think the Nazaris have something to do with this? I don’t think anyone would be foolish enough to start a war with us.”

Frustration pulled down Basilio’s brows. “Okay, then I say we take it to them; we make them pay for this hit.”

“And what if you’re wrong.”

“No, believe me—I’m on to something—”

Elio drew his gun. There was a loud bang and the smell of spent gunpowder, mixed with the thick metallic stench of fresh blood, filled the air.

Basilio’s lifeless head dropped to the table with a dull thud, causing a small oval puddle on the desk.