Page 58 of KAI Tortured

A big cheer erupts. My uncles, Logan’s uncle, and everyone else throw their hands up in the air; many applaud, and the whole place is vibrant with energy. A few champagne corks pop in the air.

I stand up and raise my glass. Logan and Kai follow.

“To us! The Cartes! The Vitalis! The Delgados!”

Everyone else raises their glasses too, and we all drain them in unison in a smooth, swift motion. The moment the last drops are gulped down, we simultaneously slam our glasses back onto the table, creating a clatter that echoes the crowd’s excitement.

“Salut!”

Everyone drinks again. And everyone rejoices.

I fill our glasses with yet more whiskey, lift the glass in my hand again, as do Logan and Kai, and raise my free hand for the crowd to quiet down.

“And to our fallen men!”

I intentionally spill some of my drink on the floor and down the remainder, the strong liquid burning a trail down my throat. Around me, others follow suit, each person’s small spill marking a symbolic tribute, a liquid offering for those we’ve lost. The room is filled with a somber unity, the act of spilling our drinks serving as a collective remembrance of the sacrifices made.

My thoughts drift to Garry. He was just a kid, really, far too young to have been caught in our crossfire.

“Salut!” echoes around the room.

I clear my throat. “The Slavs did a lot of racketeering, illegal waste dumping, money laundering, and drug trafficking. And other fucked-up stuff we don’t wanna know about! They also had a lot of help from extremely powerful people in New York and beyond. Who are they? We don’t know, but I wanna show them that there’s a new boss in town.”

There is a brief silence as everyone considers my words, which I made deliberately vague.

Soon, a murmuring swell follows as people begin to whisper among themselves, asking each other if anyone understood what I meant.

The question is finally called out. “Who’s the new boss?”

Some of them are unsure how to react and instinctively reach for their guns. The atmosphere has shifted to something more unsettled.

“To answer that question, I have to tell you the other reason why we’re here today.”

Immediate silence falls, quiet enough for me to hear my ever-running thoughts.

It’s been two weeks since we left the Slav HQ burning to ashes. Rosey’s body was in there, together with the other dead bodies that were brought in just before we lit it up. To get rid of the evidence. After the whole thing was over, and the police identified the bodies, her body was the only one we claimed. Maisy wanted to give her a proper burial. “She deserves so much more,” she said. It kills me to see her hurting. But grieving is a process. It cannot be rushed.

Although, if there was a way to change that, I’d find it. All she does lately is cry. We don’t know what to do. She doesn’t want to talk to anyone, staying cooped up in her room at Logan’s. She’ll be out when she feels better, she said.

It’s been two long fucking weeks that she hasn’t come out.

One thing we’re happy about is that she’s eating, at least. None of us is saying it but I think there’s a possibility that she could, in fact, be pregnant. We agreed that if she is, we’ll get it dealt with. We haven’t played with her as long as we want yet. So, no babies.

Babies.

That word is… unthinkable. But could she have become pregnant that easy? I hear all the time about women having trouble getting pregnant; it takes months, if not years. The mere thought of bringing a child, my child, into this world incapacitates me. Knowing that they’d have to go through everything I did. Living in the mafia world demands a lot of courage. It’s a life filled with constant danger and uncertainty. The environment is ruthless, the trust is scarce, and loyalty is often tested.

A definite no.

Because it would mean that one of us, or one of my brothers, made a baby with a Slav. Surely that bloodline should be killed off.

Fuck. What am I even thinking?

This brings to mind how I found Rosey’s children. I know Maisy will want to adopt them. But, again, what would that look like?

In our ruthless world, a place where many of our friends were killed by the Slavs, we would be raising four of them? Fuck that. It’s not gonna happen.

Yesterday, I got two letters addressed to Maisy. As Maisy’s lawyer, I’m dealing with the legalities on her behalf. She claimed her sister’s body already, and now, according to the letter from child services, they want her to sign a consent form so they can find those kids a home. The second letter was from the estate’s will. After Rosey, the house, or what was left of it, belongs to Maisy.

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