Prologue
~ August 30th, 2016 ~
Cassio. An Italian name meaning a man empty. Hollow from his vanity—his worthlessness. Aurelio gave it to him, the man reigning the chair. Come boy; the boss said. Cassio remembered it vividly—as did the boy hiding within him. How could they forget being ripped apart by the very savagery adopting them?
The tender bruising caught on his ribcage clenched with each inhale, forcing him to suppress a wince in every fucking breath. Straighten up, boy; the boss ridiculed. No son of mine will be a càgna over a little roughening. His vision thinned at the words parroting in his head.
A frigid wind draped against his dark jacket as he and his wiseguy leaned their weight against the framework of a building. It was a grubby passage, but the ideal repellent against the goody two-shoed flies crawling the city. Slurped fingers of black grime licked up the opposing building from its stump of ravaged filth. The coats of years-old graffiti littered the walls with, of course, the everyday blood splatter.
Wouldn’t be New York without it.
Cassio eyed the rotting carcass of a gàtto—awakened from the streetlight peering from the road. Writhed with plump maggots, collapsed muscle made clumps of its dirty brown fur. Flesh peeled off exposed bone like braised brisket, melting into the concrete disturbingly. The side of its skull had been smashed in, where gelatinous matter poured out in toe-curling shades of expired meat. It’d been there for a while.
A small maggot floundered its way down the bridge of the gàtto’s partially gnawed nose. Cassio followed its movements with a toughened stomach as the maggot wriggled its way up the gàtto’s bony nostril. Its end remained visible, and it was enough for his brow to twitch in disgust, and he shifted his gaze elsewhere.
Spits began hissing down. Slanting his brown-tinted gaze up, raindrops splattered on his face. He breathed out humid air, seeking the one thing he couldn’t have. Peace of fucking mind.
The mission the boss sent him on, it was meant to be a simple hit—ice a fucker in the back of the head and dip out. But it went crooked, it went so fucking crooked; an ambush. Someone knew they were coming, leading Cassio to believe it was a set up from the start. Another test.
His crew left him for dead—as they should. He wouldn’t respect any of the cunts if they stayed and helped. They saw an opportunity to become the next caporegime, and they all took it.
A slow breath pinched the aching bones, and Cassio shut his eyes to the grimace twisting his face. Fuckers are stabbing my lungs.
“You good, Cas?” his wiseguy asked. The only one who came back after the smoke cleared. Ballsy move, and Cassio had been feeling strange about it since.
He glimpsed at the wiseguy. Leaning against the wall beside him, Niccolò’s head was slanted up as well with his hands in his pockets, sparing him the same glance through a gaze darker than his.
“Yeah. Nothing a whiskey can’t solve,” he replied with a tight voice. “The sooner we get this done the sooner we can hit the brothel, yeah?”
“Yeah, dick’s been cold for too long,” Niccolò sighed, like he didn’t get the warmth he wanted last night.
Cassio would’ve huffed if it didn’t have a blade jabbing him through the ribs. It’d been a week since the crooked mission and he still felt the boots battering him like a mallet tenderizing a steak.
“Still can’t believe you’re making a move,” the wiseguy mumbled, mostly to himself.
“Smoke’s only getting thicker by the day, Nic. Someone has to,” Cassio played off.
He didn’t trust anyone to help him if they knew his true motive behind the dice he was about to play. He’d already accepted the reality of getting iced and made into a lesson. He’d most likely catch a bullet through the eye before the dice even left his palm.
It’s a dog-eat-dog world, boy. You gotta be the meanest mutt in the kennel if you plan on surviving.
The ground moistened and soon, whiffs of soggy death were breathing up his nostrils. Cassio didn’t need to guess where the stench came from. He looked at the culprit again. Pity. He liked the little companions. Maybe there’s a hell cat waiting to tear my limbs apart on the other side.
It wasn’t long until the streetlight seared against three dark silhouettes. Stretched shadows bobbing to the slow footsteps pursued behind the newcomers. A sober whistle echoed a relaxed guard of the middle one.
“Here we go,” Niccolò murmured under his breath, exhaling sharply. “I still think you should’ve bought more guys.”
“Easy, Nic.”
“Cas, come on. Do you honestly think Nigel called you here—the most grubbiest place in the city—just to talk politics?”
Cassio didn’t respond. A pulsing pain took another cheap shot at his ribs as he pulled himself off the wall—Nic following his lead. His jaw ground against the wince working his brows into a scowl. Fuck, maybe this was a mistake.
The three closed the distance, casual streetwear dressing their mismatched frames. The wiseguys hung back, leaving the fellow caporegime steps ahead. When he found Cassio’s gaze, a shit-eating grin quirked his mouth, defining the laughing lines of his diamond-like face.
"Ehi, Cas,” the man hooted with expressive arms. ”Cosa ti ha buttato giù nelle discariche?” | translation: What’s got you down in the dumps? |
“You tell me, mio amico, you’re the one who dragged us down here,” Cassio replied smoothly, immediately noticing an amused glance shared between the pair of wiseguys.
Figures.
Nigel offered a smirk—as fake as his teeth. Cassio knew the cafone hated him. The feeling was quite mutual but neither acknowledged it. Disrespecting a fellow Made Man, no matter the rank, would have a cafone dead in his trunk by the end of the week. A man didn’t survive the mafioso world by being a little càgna.
Another chill swept through the empty alley, reacquainting the air with the foul stench. It had Nigel pinching his nose, and Cassio cocked an amused brow as the fucker did a fanning motion in front of his face.
Nic snickered beside him. “Come now, Nigel. What’s a bit of dead skunk to you? We all know you like getting filthy, ain’t that right, Buckie?”
The shorter of the wiseguys smirked. “Not as filthy as I’ve seen you get, Nickie.”
“Forget about it,” Nic humored.
“Nothing stopping us from entertaining the whores down the street,” Cassio drawled. “So what’s the deal, Nigel? Is the boss giving us another hit?”
The caporegime chuckled. He slicked back his darkly damp hair—a movement that allowed for an innocent glance over his shoulder. Needles prickled the back of Cassio’s neck. The wiseguys shifted. Adrenalin thudded stiffly within his chest and a sharp glance sent Niccolò springing into action.
It was as if Cassio released the fox into the henhouse. Knife drawn and legs driving forward, he sprinted past Nigel’s obliviousness, lunging at Buckie.
“The fuck—”
Cassio lurched forward. He rumpled Nigel by the leathered collar as he braced his neck, pulled his head back, and threw his skull down. Bone slammed against bone. Satisfying cracks struck Cassio’s ears as he felt bone crunching into cartilage. It shivered through his spine, reawakening violent tendencies.
Nigel staggered back, head dazed upwards. Blood spewed from his broken nose like rivulets of the devil’s fucking nectar. Cassio tsked in ridicule. Still scuffing Nigel, he twisted on his heels, tossing the skinny fuck around and off his feet, deeper into the filth of the alley. Adrenalin numbed the pain pressurizing against his bones, but it didn’t stop the grunt biting through his teeth.
Nigel crashed onto his shoulder first, the rest of him dropping like a sack of potatoes; all while he squeezed his nose and cursed every Italian dialect in the urban dictionary.
Cassio stalked closer, drowning his fellow caporegime in his shadow as the rain palleted on the mafiosi. Profanities grunted behind him but Cassio paid no attention to it. Nic was on his own. Only a fool would turn his back to the enemy, boy.
“Y-You fuck! I bring your fucking head to the boss! Fuckin’ greasy bastard!” Nigel shouted from his curled position and abruptly pulled out a pistol.
Cassio stiffened. Fuck—
A bullet fired from the inevitable gunshot resonating against the alley walls. His reflexes weren’t sharp enough. The ballpoint carved through the side of his face. Pain of a searing hot knife slit opened the rawness of his cheek, and it burned like a cunt; heavy enough to yank his entire body around with the flying bullet. Rich liquid spilled from his pulsing cheek—its warmth prickly against the saturated night.
He swallowed a pained grunt, catching himself back on his leg. Another fire snapped at his awareness. It felt like a glowing iron poker tore through his shoulder, ripping the growl out of him. Fuck’s always been a bad aim. Who knew it’d be a fucking blessing?
He ducked at the third shot, grabbed the gun from his waistband, and pivoted around. Their eyes locked. The moment fell into slow motion as Nigel’s eyes widened, the spray of rain bounced off the blackened barrel, and Cassio exhaled a strained breath before he pulled the trigger. The ballpoint found its mark, lodging into Nigel’s neck. It snapped his head back, stunning him again. Gurgling noises bubbled and bled. The opposing gun left clatters on the puddled concrete as Nigel gripped his neck tightly.
Cassio’s fingers twitched against the gun, craving the consequences of a habit he should’ve never indulged in. He gulped down a pained grunt as he pulled himself upright. An arm applied pressure against his ribcage while he approached the fellow caporegime.
“You should’ve taken me up on my offer, Nigel.”
Nigel’s eyes bulged sickeningly. He knew. Pity. Blood seeped into the puddled ground that rippled with rain, contrasting its color to the ragged concrete. A pretty pity that was. Quietness fell behind him, whispering the victor of the scruffle. If it was Nigel’s men, he’d already be dropping dead. Guess I am a fool.
“Y-You think. . . you’ll be boss?” Nigel weakly spat out as crimson rivulets milked through his clawing fingers. “Can’t e–even get—” blood spluttered out of his heaving mouth— “crew’s res-spect.”
Cassio kept his expression stoic as he heard footsteps approaching. The faint whistling told him who it was as his wiseguy—clocking a freshly swelling black eye and busted lip—stopped beside him.
“At least he can take a bullet,” Nic replied, sneering cruelly down at the man.
Nigel smirked his gaping mouth. If he tried speaking, it was too late. His voice became lost beneath the gurgles, drowned. A cloudiness found his gaze, lolling his head back and slumping his hand down. Cassio felt nothing but the coldness sucking the warmth from his bones. Though he wondered if he’d witnessed a glimpse of his near future.
"Ci vediamo all’inferno. . . cugino.” | translation: See you in hell. . . cousin |
The mutter faded with the wind as he turned away, sheathing his gun against his lower back again. Silence settled; beneath the rain beating against the concrete, beneath the wind whistling through the passage. His footsteps were slow, his body aching as he observed the mess his wiseguy made. Motionless logs fallen atop each other, throats slit. He debated which would benefit him most; make the bodies disappear, or send a message.
“What now?” Nic asked, his voice like a gunshot in the emptiness.
The question had Cassio pausing, paces before the alley’s leave. His thoughts lead him to look over his shoulder, at his curiously waiting wiseguy, then at the logs. The rain came harsher in the clearing, icier. Cassio found it made his mind sharper, honed in precision. He knew what he had to do.
