Page 100 of Desperate Desires

These men were evil.

Sin peddlers.

That was what my Nonna called them.

Even her own son.

Trafficking in drugs, guns, sex, and people. Even women and kids.

It was fucking revolting.

Organizations that did this were vile.

Violent.

Immoral.

And subfuckinghuman.

It wasn’t that I thought all laws were morally just.

Hell, some governments were worse than any mafia family I ever heard about.

Corruption draped in flags and anthems instead of leather jackets and blood oaths was still corruption.

I likened myself to the average businessman, but even I knew better.

I already said I wasn’t a good person. I broke laws and committed plenty of sins that no amount of confession could redeem.

But modern business? It demanded a little lawbreaking now and then, especially when you played in the financial leagues I did.

I wasn’t naïve.

I understood that, respected it even. And no, I wasn’t standing on some moral soapbox, wagging a finger at anyone chasing their version of happiness, legal or not.

That wasn’t my issue.

I was not a politician, promising anything for votes, or a god, passing judgment from some high and holy place.

I was just a man.

And if being human meant embracing a few vices, well, that was the price of living in this world.

We all had our demons. Every single one of us.

That was the human condition.

My point was that the actual mafia was not romantic.

It didn’t have princesses and princes and happy ever afters.

It was cruel.

Heartless.

There was no honor among thieves, no velvet curtain hiding a secret nobility.

What the movies sold as brotherhood and loyalty was just a blood-soaked business where everyone was replaceable the second they stopped being useful.

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