Page 68 of Iron Blade

“Aye.” I leaned down to reach beneath the seat, pulling out two ski masks from a small, black bag. “The same way I know that when the war comes, you’ll be by my side.”

“Not while your insane father is alive,” he said, as he pulled the ski mask over his head, and I did the same. “Have I told you that this is an insane move? Taking out Morelli? When your army isn’t ready for the backlash?”

“Aye, I know it. You don’t have to tell me. But what are my options?”

In a unified movement, he and I opened the side doors and walked out, leaving O’Malley alone with the running car. We stepped out at exactly 7:03 and lurked in the shadows by some hedges, waiting for the last man to come out of the office.

Morelli and his bloody work ethic.

He was always the first man into the office and the last one out. If I was allowed to admire him, I might have. Unfortunately, all I was allowed to feel was agitation that he was forcing me into these circumstances. It would be so much easier to just kidnap him from his home, where he lived alone - no wife, no kids.

My blood hummed in my ears as I waited, keeping my breath slow and steady.

A metallic clank preceded the door unlatching.

Dairo and I hopped into action. My cousin placed a bag over Morelli’s head, as he growled, “Stay back!”

I vaguely registered the presence of another person, but was too busy in my movements to let it fully sink in. Dairo and I weren't allowed to speak during this phase of the kidnapping - we couldn’t give away who we were.

I struck Morelli in the gut. It wasn’t because I wanted to hurt him. I just needed him to know that we meant business.

In one move, I zip tied his hands in front of him, struggling with his awkwardly strong, jerky movements. Dairo pulled the drawstring of the bag, cutting off his air.

We wanted him alive, but if we killed him, then it would be no matter.

“Run!” Morelli gurgled out. “Lock the door!”

The old man’s head was turning this way and that. The building door slammed closed, the latch turning loudly.

I looked past the glass doors, staring at the woman in pink inside. A rather rumpled looking Cosima Durante was screaming, tears falling down her painted cheeks as she held a phone to her ear, no doubt trying to call 9-1-1.

Poor thing… the police would be of no help now.

She looked at me with utter and complete malice. Even with the mask obscuring my features, she knew who I was. The sweet little daughter of Eugenio Durante, my father’s sworn enemy, had vengeance behind that perfect Mafia Princess visage.

I zip tied Morelli’s feet, then we carried his struggling body to the car.

O’Malley had changed out the license plates - to one we had stolen from a Mafioso’s ride. That specific step wasn’t necessary, but it made me chuckle. I wanted them to run the plates and see that it was registered to one of Durante’s nephews, so they could understand how truly fucked they were.

We were everywhere, and we were ready to fight. That was my message to them.

Morelli tried to struggle, his legs flopping about like a fish.

The man was strong for his age. I had to give him that.

We slammed the door shut on him, and I gave the bumper a good kick, just for the thrill of it.

Dairo and I got into the back seat, removed our masks, and were well away from the law firm before the sound of sirens even hinted at someone’s response.

“Come on, Dairo,” I said, as the distant lights faded into the rearview mirror. “You have to admit that was fun.”

Dairo tried to hide his smirk, doing that oh-so-British posh man’s smile that lowered in the corner of his mouth, as if they were always trying to frown joy out of their miserable lives.

“That was, I admit,” Dairo said, staring straight ahead and refusing to make eye contact. “But what you’re about to do to the man? That I can’t get behind.”

I thought about that for a moment. I wasn’t for torturing those who weren’t my enemy. Sure, sending a message was a part of our life. It was a part of regular communication with our enemies. It was something I did because it was expected, and necessary, but I didn’t do it with much conviction. I often couldn’t really get my back into it, and I had no creativity for that particular art form.

“I think we’ll feel different, when it’s us on the chopping block,” I said, pensively.

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