Page 2 of Vicious Behaviors (The Next Vicious Generation #3)

Marcello

Twelve years later

Dom throws the priest’s body onto the loading tray like one would slap down a slab of meat in a butcher’s shop.

“Fucker’s heavier than he looks,” Dom mutters with a grimace as he brushes his hands off after laying the body flat on his back on the cold steel stretcher.

I don’t dare utter a response. Not because I don’t have anything to say, but because speaking out right now might earn me my father’s wrath—and I’m not talking about Dom’s.

My father, Vincent, gives a small nod to the crematory operator for him to begin.

Unbothered by what we’re about to do, he starts the cremation chamber as if it were just another day at the office.

Then again, there’s no reason for him to be fazed by all of this.

It’s not like he hasn’t done this sort of thing for our family before.

In fact, apathetic men like him are a dime a dozen in our world, since this isn’t the only funeral home my father owns.

Funeral homes, especially with cremation services, are a smart investment for the Outfit. Perfect fronts for laundering money, and when necessary, for making bodies disappear. That kind of utility matters to the syndicate, especially in times of war.

Though to be fair, we haven’t been at war in over twenty years.

Not officially, anyway. Everyone in Chicago and along the eastern border knows who’s in charge.

But even in peace, things go sideways. People die.

Mistakes get made. And right now, that’s exactly what Father McDonagh is.

A mistake. One that needs to be corrected and erased. Permanently.

Wrapped in the same altar sheet he once prayed over, the priest’s body slowly glides into the furnace. Once it’s fully inside, Dom slams the door shut and orders the operator to do his thing.

“Turn up the heat,” Vincent commands, not even a minute into the process. “We don’t have all day.”

After the operator obeys, my father dismisses him with a silent wave, leaving us alone to watch as Father McDonagh’s body is consumed by flames until all that’s left of him is soot and ash.

As we watch the fire begin to lick at the priest’s flesh and bones, I can feel my father’s sharp and assessing gaze fixed on me. I don’t risk looking at him. Instead, I keep my sight locked on the small chamber window, pretending it holds something worth studying.

If I meet my father’s stare, I’ll only end up disappointing him more than I already have.

I know what he’s searching for. What he expects to find behind my eyes.

Remorse. Guilt. Maybe even fear for my soul’s damnation.

But all I feel is calm. A strange, quiet calm that settles in my chest, relaxing every muscle, soothingly.

It feels dangerously close to peace. I know the feeling is rare and fleeting, like smoke that slips through your fingers the moment you notice it.

But right now, it’s mine. Entirely, unquestionably mine.

And I cling to it, because peace doesn’t come easy. Not for someone like me.

Maybe I should be frightened that killing a man of God has brought me such relief. But I’m not. Not one bit.

It’s not like the man burning inside that infernal furnace ever liked me. The one time I truly confessed to Father McDonagh and laid bare every sin, he told me I had the devil inside me.

I was only ten years old at the time.

I came to him for guidance… for absolution.

And all he gave me in return was condemnation.

Hypocrite.

He nearly killed Father Torres tonight. And if I hadn’t stepped in, he would’ve gone after my brother, Enzo, too.

So much for being a man of faith. Of pious righteousness.

The kind of rage I saw, so visible in his eyes with every strike and brutal blow, wasn’t born from nothing. It didn’t come from nowhere. No.

Father McDonagh may have condemned me for what I was, but the devil resided in his soul, too. Just not the same one that haunts me. The one that torments all my days and nights.

I shake my head, not ready to let that monster crawl to the surface.

Sometimes, even thinking about him feels like summoning him into existence.

And that can’t happen. Not now, when my father is eyeing me so, craving to see contrition on my part.

The monster has its uses, but now is not the time for them.

So I force my mind to go quiet, to erase all trace of him from my thoughts, breathing slowly, and focusing only on each inhale and exhale. Just one of the few tricks I’ve learned to keep him at bay over the years.

Though, to be honest, if he really wants out, there’s not much that can stop him—a fact I’ve learned to live with.

I don’t always know when he’ll push through, but there’s one trigger that never fails.

He always takes full control when my family is in danger.

That’s the trade I’ve made. And I’ve accepted it.

Even made my peace with it. Because at the end of the day, all I have is my family.

And I’d do anything for them. Even kill a priest. I’d lay down my life if it meant keeping them safe.

However, this… this feels different. As if my soul should be burning right alongside Father McDonagh. Because even after all I’ve seen and done, I still believe in God. Which means I believe in hell, too. And I know, when my time comes, that’s exactly where I’m headed.

Father McDonagh was almost right in his assessment of me all those years ago. The devil doesn’t just exist. He doesn’t just live inside me. He is me.

Sensing my darkening mood, Dom places a hand on my shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze. It’s meant to be comforting, but it lands heavy, crushing my chest into a pulp.

“You did what you had to,” he says quietly. “He went after Father Torres. And from what Lucky said, he would’ve gone after Enzo next. You saved them both. That’s what matters.”

I nod and then glance toward Vincent, searching for some flicker of agreement. But, as always, he gives nothing away. Just that cold, unreadable stare. The calculating, impervious stare of a Capo dei Capi.

“Boss—”

“Don’t, Marcello,” he cuts in sharply. “Not now. Not when you’ve put us all at risk.”

“Vince,” Dom tries to defend, but is swiftly silenced by my father’s arctic stare.

“I don’t want to hear it.” Vincent shakes his head. “I don’t want to hear excuses or justifications. Because that pile of ash in the oven wasn’t a mafioso . He was a man of the cloth. A revered priest within the community. His sudden disappearance is going to raise more than a few red flags.”

My head dips, heavy and low, as if I were ten years old again, bracing for another of his long-winded reprimands.

“For the foreseeable future, our family must be more cautious than ever. We can’t afford even a whisper of suspicion. Especially not from you, Marcello. If we’re lucky, this will pass. If not…”

He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t have to. We all know what happens ‘if not.’ What will happen to me if I get caught. And that’s a nightmare neither my father nor I want to come into fruition.

Vincent turns around to walk off, not bothering to stay for the final disposal of the priest’s remains, but freezes mid-step when all our phones ding at once.

I pull my phone out from my pocket, my chest constricting when I see a notification from the cryptic messaging app Enzo and Lucky built when they were just thirteen. It’s the same one we still use to handle business when words are too dangerous to be said out loud.

I click on the app, my blood instantly coming to a boil at the message there.

Lucky: Help! Frankie and Stella have been kidnapped. Hurry!

Below it, a tracker link showing their location.

I look up and see my father’s nostrils flare, eyes still glued to his screen.

“Can I have one day… just one damn day where my children don’t get themselves into trouble?” he grumbles.

He’s out the door before anyone can answer, with Dom and me right on his heels.

We pile into the car, Dom preferring to be behind the wheel while I ride shotgun. My father sits in the back, already barking commands to his men on the phone, telling them to meet us at the location on the tracker.

“It looks like they’re heading toward the old, abandoned military airfield,” I say, staring at the GPS tracker on the screen.

Dom slams his foot on the gas, coaxing me to grip the dashboard as the tires screech against the pavement.

However, my dad’s reckless driving isn’t cause for concern. Not when I have bigger problems on the horizon. Because at this very moment, I can feel it… the monster inside me awakening. He’s stirring. Pacing. Hungry.

‘Someone has Stella.’

I know.

‘She loves us. She’s one of the few who still does.’

I know.

‘And Lucky? He’d throw himself in front of a bullet for Frankie.’

I know.

‘Which means she’s important to us, too. She’s family.’

I know that.

‘You know??? You know! What are we going to do? That’s what I want to know?!’

My jaw clenches so tight my back molars ache. My fists curl into my lap as the monster’s voice slithers into my thoughts again, smooth and terrifyingly eager this time.

‘You know what we have to do. There’s only one thing to do. Kill whoever is trying to steal them from us.’

It’s that smug, thrilled tone that gets me every time.

The beast inside me doesn’t care about Stella.

Or Lucky. Or even Frankie. He doesn’t care about love or family.

All he cares about… is blood. The sweet, metallic scent of copper in the air.

Its warmth soaking through his fingers and skin.

The euphoria of watching someone bleed out at his feet as the light drains from their eyes.

That’s what he lives for. The begging for leniency and mercy.

The frantic sounds of chaos. The stench of death.

And now that my siblings’ lives are on the line, he’s clawing at my insides—biting, howling, desperate to come out.