Page 3 of Vow of Silence

Kuznetsov men never back down from a fight. And Kuznetsov women?

They never forget.

TWO

Benito

You cheat the De Santis family out of what we’re owed, and you get me.

A made man on your doorstep isn’t all that terrifying in the filthy underbelly of the city, sure. But when your maker arrives in the dead of night without a single word and then refuses to answer pleas for leniency—the tranquility of the brutality is unbearable for most. I don’t promise an easy end. Only that it will, without a doubt, be the end.

I slow my Land Rover as I enter the mark’s suburb, paying attention to all the little indicators I pass on my way through the lit streets. Anybody can be a spy: children, old ladies, a seemingly blind man. I watch for signs that I’ve been announced, an indication that the mark has a head start on me. He knows what he’s done; there’ll be no confusion about why I’m here today. He probably hoped he could pull the swindle off a little longer, stash a bit more away, and set up his widow for a comfortable life before I caught up to him.

I don’t give a fuck about his family’s future.

If he wants to take what isn’t his, he has to expect that I’ll take back more than what I’m owed. If he’d approached my brother, Dion, with his problem, we might have been ableto help. None of us are impervious to the hold narcotics have on the weakened and vulnerable. Drugs are banned within the family, but that doesn’t mean a De Santis hasn’t succumbed to temptation and danced down the rabbit hole with Alice one too many times. I’ve seen what it does to the rational and logical mind, as have my brothers and father. If the mark had told us of his struggle, we might have been able to intervene.

He was a good worker.

But instead, he allowed the need to cloud his judgment, and now he jeopardizes the confidentiality we hold sacrosanct. I ease onto his street and cruise past the shared house. Parking out front would be akin to leaving a calling card with my fucking name and number. Instead, I’ll park a block over where I know there’s an abandoned factory and make my way on foot through the darkened streets. It’s dangerous, sure, but it’s cleaner and far easier to deny.

Not that danger concerns me. I lost my fear of blinding pain the day my uncle finally decided to pay attention to his oldest nephew.

I tuck the Defender behind a section of boarded-up fence and retrieve my 1911 from the console. My thoughts slide to my reason for being here—holes in our distribution. What reason would a low-level gangster have to go againstourfamily? What would incentivize a man to look the devil in the eye and shake hands with a lesser demon instead? I tap my head clear with the muzzle of my gun and then exit the vehicle, silently engaging the lock as I walk away. An underfed woman clutches a sleepy toddler to her hip while she stands brazenly on her porch to watch me walk by. She knows who I am and what I represent. But like most who live in these parts, she doesn’t fear the reaper—the reason why sin runs so rampant. There’s no place for civility when the lure of the forbidden is welcomed with open arms.

My family is Catholic, my mother saying her prayers most mornings, lighting a candle for those we’ve lost. The De Santis bloodline respects the Lord; we merely choose when to listen. Like a well-meaning friend, he’s always there to lend an ear in times of strife, but being the trouble-seeking misfits that we are, we choose when to pay heed to His advice or turn the other cheek. Sometimes, staying virtuous has its merits, but mainly, it presents a weakness when the enemy doesn’t care for the ways of the faith.

My gun sits tight against my lower back, tucked neatly beneath my jacket. Recent rain glistens on the sidewalk, reflecting what streetlights still work in this neglected neighborhood. My left wrist vibrates; I lift and twist to read the message displayed on the smartwatch.

Drinks are on the house.

The Don wants us home for a family meeting. My father hasn’t called us together since the Irish went on strike at the ports last year, holding our contraband captive. The need for a sit-down doesn’t concern me; it’s that he calls it so late at night. Business affairs are dealt with during daylight hours, sometimes over dinner. A discussion at this hour means that the problem was unforeseen.

My boots squelch over weeds and litter as I stride up the mark’s front path without hesitation. What could have been a leisurely lesson has become inconvenient; the sooner this is over, the better. Torn curtains shift behind the front right window, a yellowed light illuminating the room above. A dog barks in the neighbor’s yard, and a car turns a street over. The smallest sounds and sights can indicate so much. I relegate my worries about Papa’s instruction to return home to the back of my mind and approach the quiet house. My foot hits the stoop,and I reach into my pocket for a kerchief to lay over the door handle. There’s no point knocking on the fucking thing like a salesman announcing my arrival.

The entry door swings in on creaking hinges, scraping litter across the stained hardwood floor. I pocket the square of fabric that disguised my prints. The pungent smell of rotten food hits me first before the faint cry of a baby in the upstairs bedroom. I pause in the entryway, using my elbow to slowly close the door behind me while I calculate whether I should search for him upstairs or start down here. The mark decides for me. His lazy boots drag into the short hallway, chin thrown back as he curls his upper lip to flash me his golden grill. The stance is supposed to intimidate me, as is the hand resting on his Glock. It’s a show of colorful feathers from an otherwise terrified cock.

“Why do I get the feelin’ this ain’t a courtesy call?” he states, tipping his head arrogantly.

I shrug, removing my jacket as I do, then set it aside on the banister rail. I don’t intend to show up at my father’s house with stains on the expensive fabric.

“I don’t have your money,Capo.” He spits the title as though it’s all I am. A clear insult.

I don’t care. I don’t need his cash anymore. He’s past the point of redemption. He could have settled the dues two months ago, but instead, he wasted the time of no less than four men in our ranks, running them in circles to chase down a non-existent payday.

I point to the floor before him, nodding to the spot I’d like him to occupy.

The idiot chuckles. “How aboutyouget down there?”

A simple shake of my head, a slight curl to my upper lip, and a gun in my right hand. I school my features and land dead eyes on him while I gesture again to the spot with the business end of my weapon.

His fingers twitch on the hilt of his own.

Footsteps sound dull above our heads, drawing the mark’s eye upward. His weakness is revealed; the woman and child are his reason to be here when he knows death has dealt his card. I shake my head to indicate I won’t hurt them and then glance pointedly at the floor a last time.

He peels back his lips again, the aggression showing in his decision not to obey. The mark’s fingers tighten on the Glock, and he slides one foot out ever so fucking slightly to ready his stance.

My blade hits his wrist before he can fully draw the weapon.

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