Page 57 of Scar

I brush a lock of hair out of my eyes and run my hand through my thick black strands. My chin falls to my chest in resignation. How could I have fucked this up so bad?

“I don’t want to fight with you, Allegra,” I whisper.

“I don’t know how we got here,” she tells me.

“I’d have to say through a series of very unfortunate events.”

We’ve been going back and forth for hours, hammering out our plans. For the time being, Allegra has agreed to set aside her resentment that she had to mourn my ‘death’. She doesn’t move away when I twist an arm around her waist and bring her into my side. Instead, she covers my hand with herown and turns back to the drawing board where Dante is sliding a marker against the glossy white enamel, illustrating various strongholds.

“Scarfone, Luciani, Negri. These are the families that have affiliated against the Gatti family.”

“You left out one very important name,” Brando scoffs.

“Benita Gatti.” My mother’s name falls from my lips like a bitter poison I’m trying to regurgitate.

“Your mother,” Caleph reminds me.

I shake my head, a hard resolve in my eyes. The woman stopped being my mother years ago. And now she means nothing to me, especially after she tried to have my wife killed.

“You know the rules,” Dante says. Ah, yes. The rule about no women, no children. I know the rule very well, as does everyone else in this room. As does my so-called mother.

“She crossed that line first when she tried to have my wife and child killed.”

“She’s still your mother,” Dante seconds. I know that family is everything to these men. It would be beyond their understanding how a mother could be so callous, so cunning when it came to her own children. But that’s Benita Gatti in a nutshell.

“She should have been put down fourteen years ago,” Brando mutters.

No-one disagrees with him.

We have definitive proof of Benita’s hand in plotting our deaths. And now we’ve seen first-hand the lengths she’ll go to in order to take over the family that doesn’t want her. We won’t allow her to destroy everything we’ve built.

“Give me the proof that she didn’t order the cartel hit,” I dare him, my hard eyes flitting to Dante’s. “Give me the proof I need, and I won’t touch a hair on her head.”

The room is silent. No-one can argue with that. And no-one will fabricate that sort of evidence to save a matriarch that doesn’t deserve saving.

“I thought so,” I scoff.

CHAPTER 50 – SCAR

History would have you believing that to be successful in war, you need to start with the small fish, then move on to the whale. That’s what they want you to believe, anyway. We decide to work in the opposite direction – start at the top and make our way down. For one reason only, we only get one chance to take these fuckers out, and if they see us coming, they’ll scurry like the rats they are and we’ll be looking over our backs for the rest of our lives. That’s why we’re starting at the top. With the big fish. And what better time than tonight, with the heads of the families gathered at our mansion. Eating our food. Claiming the spoils of war from our efforts.

Tension clings to the air and makes every breath feel like an effort. We move under the darkness of night, traversing the length of the tunnels until we’re standing right under the house that’s been snatched from us. I don’t care about the house; I care about the memories we’ve made here. But they’re just that…memories which can be replaced with newer ones.

We’ve spent weeks planning this infiltration, knowing that our mother, the mastermind behind the attacks on us, has turned our sanctuary into a fortress for her allies. She even had the gall to think that she had more right to the house than my own wife. Well, if she wants the house that much…I’m sure we can work something out. I smirk internally, knowing what’s about to come.

The entrance to the tunnels is well-hidden, a relic from the days when our father had prepared for any eventuality. He was ahead of his time in that way, always thinking one step ahead. It doesn’t escape me that he started on the tunnel after my mother moved out of the house. He also bought the house next door, which he then annexed so no-one would ever know that the two houses were interconnected. I kneel beside the large oak, brushing aside leaves to reveal the rusted metal hatch. I look up at the men surrounding me, each of them determined to be the first to go in. With a nod, I pull the hatch open, revealing the dark, narrow passage leading down into the earth.

One by one, we descend into the dark underbelly of the tunnel, the darkness swallowing us whole. The underground operation comprises our most elite, two of which are Attila and The Jekyll. Rafi has stayed behind to keep his eyes on the cameras and report back to us via our comms units. The dumbest non-move our mother has made so far is not getting rid of the cameras. They’re still there, and we’ve tapped into the feeds and have been watching for days, ready and waiting for the opportunity to hit.

Lucky is with Dante and Caleph, readying to storm the front of the house. While Brando leads up the back of my group, I lead the way, my flashlight cutting through the blackness. The air is damp and cool, the only sounds the soft thuds of our boots against the ground and the distant echo of water dripping from the ceiling.

We move quickly and silently, the path familiar despite the years since our father had taught us how to make our way through these tunnels. When we reach the end of the tunnel, we stand on the opposite side of what looks like an impenetrable wall. I know it’s the wall of the butler’s pantry, and it’s a breath away from the side we’re going to emerge into momentarily. My father was a genius, I remind myself.

I look down at my gun, twist the silencer to make sure it’s secure. We’re all going in with silencers to muffle any noise that may alert the guards. We also have pump action rifles strapped across our backs and grenades on our belts. We’ve all had training over the years to rival any military, but that doesn’t mean we don’t sometimes need a little help from what we like to call our artefacts.

I hold my palm up to the biometric scanner in the wall until it swings open slowly, and we step out into the light of the pantry. I know Benita has fired all our former staff and now relies only on a maid and a cook that come in during the day then leave by four in the afternoon. But I don’t trust that the guards are not parading around the kitchen like their lives depended on their stomachs.

As we near the exit, I hold up a hand and press my ear to the wall, listening for any sign of movement. I tap my comms unit but get only the static crackle that I know sometimes happens with bad reception. I can’t think about that now. I concentrate, listening carefully for signs of life.

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