Prologue - The Murder
EMILY.
Domenico Salvatore, the underworld Italian godfather, is dead!
My parents and I were on our way to pay our last respects to the Italian godfather in Italy.
“Father, what I do not understand is why I should be going to pay respect to the Italian mob. There are your sons at home—heir to the outfit, Kristoff and Wyatt. Why didn’t you take them?” I was furious.
As a teenager, I had always wanted a life outside the underworld (mafia). I dreamed of becoming America’s superstar after relocating there, escaping my father’s Russian mafia. I wanted a cozy life as a celebrity, to end up with true love and have my own babies at my retirement. But my father always dragged me into mafia politics, and I felt powerless to defy him.
“Kristoff has the outfit to take care of, and Wyatt has to help him with it,” my father responded in a voice that sent chills down my spine.
“Then what’s the use of taking me to the Italian outfit?” I stressed my words, visibly angry.
“It’s necessary that you visit the Italian outfit, my dear. You have to see how things are done over there, and maybe you could help with running the outfit,” my mother shrugged.
“On what grounds!” I screamed.
“Watch it, Emily,” my father warned with a sharp glare, and my shoulders dropped in fear.
How could I be going to Italy with no idea of when we’d be back in Russia, especially with auditions to catch up on? That was what annoyed me the most.
“Domenico had a daughter,” my father began, his voice low. “A daughter he swore to protect and give a life outside the underworld. The Brazilians and the Americans are currently searching for her, and when they do, all Domenico had worked for will be drained. They just need her...”
“How does this connect to taking me to Italy?” I was cautious of my tone this time.
We were already on the streets of Italy in our dark SUV. Going to Italy today was a secret only our outfit and the Italian mob knew about, so we were sure of our safety from other enemy outfits and left without security.
“Because she is missing!” my father shouted, coughing painfully. He soaked his white handkerchief with thick blood from his throat and wiped his mouth clean. My mother handed him a bottle of water and turned to me, “Can you stop interrupting him, please?”
I sighed and looked away. Father’s sickness was getting worse, and he wasn’t even interested in taking care of himself. I felt my skin; it was rough under my palms, the paint still there, and my breasts were tightly bound with bandages.
The only way I kept myself protected from the lascivious men of the Russian outfits was by distorting my appearance. At least no one would want a flat-chested woman or a dark-skinned ugly girl. Father hated it, but he couldn’t deny my reasoning.
“Italy will go down if the outfit doesn’t provide an heir, or worse, will suffer an overthrow from other powerful countries. I’m afraid Brazil will not let this slide. That is why the Italian outfit reached out to us, the Russians, for help, as we are the only outfit with a daughter of the same age...”
“So you want me to stand in as Domenico’s daughter?” I was shocked, beginning to read meaning into all this. My father wanted to use me to keep the Italian outfit in place. This was nothing more than exposing me to danger; what if other outfits found out? How would the conspiracy be treated?
“Not until you are able to produce another heir, or better still, you can choose a suitor from another outfit—a trustworthy husband to help you run the outfit until your child is well-groomed by the outfit to take over leadership. And you’re going to remove your costume before we get to Domenico’s house. No made man is going to touch you there without your permission. You’re going to become their godmother...”
“This is bullshit! I am going to be traded now? I told you I wanted a life outside the underworld...”
“My hands are tied, Emily. You still have to take over the outfit in the future after you’ve secured the Italian outfit. You can still come back if you wish to...”
“Father, I am not going to get my hands dirty with the activities and politics of the underworld. The outfit can find a new leader, a new godfather from their trusted made men. Why must it be his fucking missing daughter?”
“Language, Emily,” my mother reminded me.
“Because it was part of Domenico’s will, and the last thing Italy will do is go against his words. He has his secret men to carry out his will the way he wants, even before his death. And no more objections, Emily,” my father replied.
“But father...”
The car suddenly screeched to a halt, forcefully pushing us forwards and back again. We looked ahead to find a black car before us, with masked men stationed like assassins. The same was the case behind us as well.
My chest rose and fell in fear as what I feared most was about to happen—an attack from enemy outfits. That was the only logical answer.
“Who are these people?” my father asked no one in particular.
I scanned the men. They didn’t look familiar at all. I knew there were four countries in the underworld: America, Russia, Italy, and Brazil. The richest and most powerful of them all was the American mafia outfit.
Even after the American outfit was nearly destroyed by the Russians years ago, they still waxed strong. It was the only reason the American outfit went by the policy KILL THE RUSSIANS, because of the assassination done years back. But my father said it was all a blatant conspiracy and would soon be proved.
Before my parents and I could absorb the fact that we were being double-crossed, a bullet rammed into our driver’s head. I gasped in shock as the explosion rang in my ears. I watched helplessly as my parents were dragged out of the car.
“May we, ma’am?” The other masked man at my side of the car ushered me out and tied my hands behind me, rubbing my wrists raw.
“Whatever outfit you belong to, we are a harmless outfit from Russia, and we are only here to pay condolences to Dome...”
The next bullet was released into my father’s skull, right at the back of his head. He dropped to the floor with a loud thud, his blood splattering on the ground.
“No!”
I whimpered as I stared at my father’s body. My mother screamed in despair, but before she could cry longer, a knife went through her chest.
The first stab didn’t kill her at once. The man continued stabbing her multiple times as blood flew into the air like tiny drops of rain.
Her blood touched my face...
I cried and screamed for them to stop. I wanted to rush toward her and help, but I was held back by strong arms, and my lips were quickly sealed. My mother’s screams, which later turned to muffled groans, painfully filled my ears and caused me more tears.
Just as a blindfold was about to seal my eyes shut, I caught one gory sight of the tattoo on the murderer’s neck. It was faint at first, but I memorized the image. It was a bat, faintly tattooed on the murderer’s neck.
