Page 1 of King of Omen
Chapter 1
LORENZO
Ghosting out of my SUV in front of the tiny chapel perched on the apex of a range of purple-misted mountains, I slid off my sunglasses.
My eyes flicked around the view of a small church at the summit, surrounded by a sea of violet-hued foliage. Its pointed steeple reached towards the heavens. The walls were of weathered stone adorned with colourful stained glass windows that reflected the sunlight in a dazzling display.
It appeared like a tiny jewel perched atop a regal and majestic elevation, the warm hues of purple lending it an ethereal glow.
Taking a deep inhale of the crisp air with hints of pine and wildflowers, I tucked away my eye wear, raised my chin to my driver and bodyguard, Mauri, and stalked off.
He moved in sync with my stride towards the sanctuary doors where groups of grievers clustered.
Their reaction to me was typical - shock, awe, respect and silence, for the most part.
I fuckin’ wanted it kept that way.
In line with what I had uttered an oath to always uphold: Omertà.
A single word with such immense power, its true supremacy was only understood by the truest of Mafiosi and Cadaveri gangs.
For decades, it had been a rule of absolutes that transcended borders with an underlying, scorching menace. It promised violence on anyone who used the law for their gain or sought to testify against their family or associates.
Omertà’s code of secrecy was so deeply ingrained that it bound together all ‘men of honour’, even if it meant we faced imprisonment or death rather than betraying our comrades and revealing the secrets of the criminal underworld to the law.
My kin had taken it further with a two-fingered salute to the lips, a visual symbol of the Omertà practice and our outward sign that we were the ultimate at remaining taciturn to the last.
Neither torture nor agonising pain would separate us from our heartfelt promise.
It was also the only way of life I’d become accustomed to.
I had spent almost four decades living and breathing nothing else.
Together with my brothers, we were the so-called Kings of Omertà, the Sons of Honour, who enforced the sacrosanct code for several powerful Mafia clans across Italy.
Our renown was extensive, sweeping across from Europe to North America and even the southern hemisphere.
My reputation preceded me wherever I went.
Yet I expected those who recognised me to keep my name off their lips; they were never allowed to utter it in public unless they were intimate with me.
So when a bald-faced junior capo on the crowded steps of the church called out, ‘Hey Lorenzo!’, I lifted a double-fingered salute to my lips.
He paled, realising his sin. He exchanged a frantic glance with his companion and attempted to melt back into the crowd.
I had no clue of his identity, but I sliced eyes to my bodyguard, who nodded.
He grasped what to do.
Mauri, a force unto himself, was a bulwark of flesh and muscle.
Face hard, gaze harder, and his cold, dark, honeyed features inherited from his Moorish ancestors.
He had the stride of a wolf and the menace of a warrior, one who’d never hesitate to protect me at any cost.
This time, it wouldn’t involve bloodshed but perhaps a ruffled collar and a promise of absolute quietude.
My visit to Australia had to stay low-key; focused only on saying farewell to my aunt, comforting my brother and leading a quick series of exploratory meetings to ascertain the options for relocating our business.
