Page 1 of Mercy in Betrayal

Prologue

Enzo

The narrow passage I walk along is more daunting than any of the bullet-ridden roads I traveled in Afghanistan. The errand my father sent me on to secure our place in the heroin trade there was surprisingly easy—easy enough to bring us up to speed with the Valachis, at any rate. They have the corner on coke, but this new deal should equalize us in that market for a time.

Even if it does make me feel dirty.

My shoulders move with deceptive ease as my men walk quietly behind me. Each light on the wall is like the tombstone of some dreaded memory, a place for me to stop and yearn for what I lost each time my father requested I come to his office. Each time, he made sure I walked away a little bit harder and more resentful until hate was all I felt for the man.

Carina and I. Every walk down this hallway had ended in explosions of anger and abuse when Carina and I were children. My gaze flickers up at the light fixtures. They’re like sentinels, lighthouses guiding wayward ships into a harbor loaded with mines.

No more.

My fingers dance along the waistband of my pants where my pistol rests; she hasn’t been used in a while. I have nothing else on me since coming back from my assignment. Going to Afghanistan was risky, and the last thing I wanted was anyone tracking me by my phone, so I hadn’t collected my device after arriving home. I knew that I was considered untouchable with my sister and Luca Marzano aligned, but nothing was final—not until he put a ring on her finger and his heir grew in her womb. Even then, I’m not sure I trust him. I’m not the trusting type. So, I took every precaution necessary.

We pause at the door, my father’s door, now mine. I’ll be the one on the other side of this chunk of oak. The one making the decisions. The one behind the desk.

I give myself a moment, and my men pause behind me.

I should be feeling something, anything.

It was supposed to be Francis.

My hand curls into a fist. From the grave, my father’s voice reaches out and taunts me. I can’t stop the swell of resentment that blossoms in the pit of my stomach at the thought of my brother. I don’t miss the constant reminder of how he was the golden child.

I don’t miss him, and the thought shames me. Guts me.

His death didn’t make my life easier. When he died, I lost my sister, too. Now, the only person I have left to rely on is myself.

I’m tempted to reach up and touch the scar behind my left ear, a mark my father left with his belt buckle. It makes it easier to hate the dead. It makes it easier to accept that this is now my domain, my castle.

Will I be as cruel as my father? How many men will fall under my rule; how many will prosper? So many questions I have no answers for. This life, this position, was never meant for me.

Yet here I am, standing outside a door that’s slightly ajar. It should be closed.

I slowly remove my pistol and glance up and down the hallway. I meet the eye of my most trusted head of security, Arturo, and he removes his own pistol and signals with it to the other men, letting them know we may have trouble ahead.

Arturo shifts closer, his gaze trained on the door, and he beckons for me to go behind him with two fingers. I grin and keep my place at the front of the pack.

I trust Arturo with my life, but men won’t die on my watch because I was a coward who sent them into war like my father did; my men would only fall if I fell, too.

I nod at Arturo. He isn’t happy, but he nods back, and using his fist, he raises it in the air and signals again to the men to move forward. I turn and face the door one final time before I launch my shoulder at the solid oak, sending it flying open.

The light is off. I pause at the darkness in front of me, and from memory, I shift slightly to the left with my gun still raised, running my hand along the plastered wall until I feel the light switch under my fingers. I flick on the lights, and the room is flooded with a warm yellow glow. My men shift as one with me, everyone with their pistols at the ready. But I’m trying to understand what I’m seeing in front of me.

My gaze skims across the heads of my father’s capos, gagged and kneeling on the floor. My focus lands on the Valachi men stationed behind them, their weapons trained on their heads. I’ve been trying to contact the capos for the last few weeks. It’s almost funny I should find them in this predicament.

I glare at Angelus 'Angel' Valachi, standing behind my father’s desk with his hands resting on the large leather chair.

My chair now.

“Do you want to tell me what is happening here?” I still haven’t put my weapon away, and I have no intention of doing so until I understand this.

Angel raises his empty hands in the air, no hint of fear touching his features. He should be afraid. I could kill him with one click of my weapon. That pisses me off.

“I come as a friend.”

“Enzo….” Arturo speaks behind me. I glance at my men; all their weapons are pointed at Angel’s head. He is the only Valachi in the room unarmed, and yet he is the most dangerous of all.

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