Page 1 of Of Oaths and Secrets

Prologue

Rafaele

“Is everything ready?” I ask as the car comes to a halt in front of the warehouse by the dock, its cold, metal structure silhouetted against the dark, foggy night. Officially, it's part of our import-export business. Unofficially, it's a “talking chamber.” It's designed for easy cleaning—extracting information can be a messy job, one I enjoy far more than I care to admit.

"Yes," Paolo replies. "They're both inside."

I nod and get out of the car, adjusting my long black coat. People say it makes me look like Death—they say it behind my back, and it makes me smile because it’s exactly what I am. Yet, every time I put it on, I can't help but remember the day I earned this reputation—the blood, the screams, the way it felt both powerful and hollow.

“You coming?” I ask my little brother, lounging in the back seat like a twenty-eight-year-old brat.

“No, it’s gory and grim. Not really our job, is it? But the sottocapo loves to get his hands dirty.” He smirks. “Do the blood and screams turn you on, Rafaele? You seem like the type.”

I look at him impassively. The notion is absurd. I've never felt the heat or pulse others seem to chase. There’s nothing about the physical—neither pain nor pleasure—that stirs me. For me, power is about control, not indulgence. It’s always been that way. Pain and punishment are my forte—hence the nickname, “Il Mietitore”—The Reaper. A name I wear with pride. Better than the one Leo has… “The Lucchese Whore.”

“This is part of the job, Leo. It’s not all parties, booze, and women.”

“You forgot drugs,” he adds with a smirk. Leo thrives on indulgence, on excess. But I’ve never needed the thrill of a random woman in my bed or the haze of a high to feel alive. My satisfaction lies elsewhere—in the quiet submission of power bent to my will.

I take a deep breath, steadying myself. "Now come."

He crosses his arms, scowling like he did as a kid. “You’re not our father.”

Thank God for that.I sigh, glancing at my watch, patience wearing thin. “Why do you think you’re here? It wasn’t my idea. He thinks it’s time you grew up, and I offered to help. But you know what? I’ll let him handle you.” I lean back inside. “Take him to whatever club he wants.” I close the door and tap the roof twice. Let him deal with our father. I don’t have time for his antics.

Paolo watches Leo leave with a clenched jaw, his frustration clear. He’s not just my right-hand man; he’s my best friend and the son of my father’s former consigliere. We were raised together, more like brothers than friends, until the day his father, in a fit of rage, killed his mother. My father, defying all the rules of our world, executed Paolo’s father. It was a decision that could have torn us apart, but Paolo was grateful. He moved in with us, and from that moment, he became far more of a brother to me than Leo ever will be.

“You shouldn’t let him get away with this shit.” He is one of the few allowed to speak to me so freely.

“He’s not cut out for this.” I shouldn’t say it aloud, but Paolo’s been as close a confidant as I can afford since our mandatory year in Sicily at seventeen. We spent that year with the original famiglia, learning the ropes, spilling blood, and cementing our place in this life. We returned together at eighteen, and he’s been by my side for over fifteen years.

Paolo’s jaw tightens. “He needs to step up. You can’t keep saving him.”

“I know.” The words taste bitter, frustration simmering beneath my calm façade. Leo is a liability I can’t afford. But family is duty, and I’ve never shied away from mine—no matter the cost. Responsibility is a chain that binds me tighter than blood. “We'll deal with that later. For now, let's handle this.”

We had part of the shipment disappearing—guns—and money from the betting business not adding up. Small discrepancies, maybe too small for most to notice, but I’m not most people. It’s time for everyone to remember that.

I turn toward the warehouse, the shadows embracing me as I step forward. Inside, screams and blood await—my canvas, my art. Tonight, justice will be served, and betrayal will be met with the cold kiss of death.

Inside, Sergio sits slumped in a chair, hands tied to the armrests. My cousin Sofia huddles nearby, crying and begging me to spare her husband.

Sofia’s voice cracks. "Please, Rafaele," she pleads, eyes darting between me and her husband. "Don't do this."

I ignore her as I walk to the chair, nudging him. “Look at me,” I order.

Sergio raises his head slowly, his eyes filled with fear and desperation. He knows what's coming. Sofia’s sobs grow louder,but they fade into the background, drowned out by the rush of blood in my ears and the steady beat of my heart.

“You betrayed us, Sergio. Now you pay the price,” I say, my voice cold and unyielding.

“Please, Rafaele,” he pleads, his voice trembling. “I didn’t mean to?—”

“Silence.” I cut him off sharply. “You knew exactly what you were doing.” Vargas’s listening system was more than helpful in sniffing out the traitors, and I already have all the evidence I need against Sergio, but what I want now are more names.

I get the knife out of my custom-made holder that contains both my guns and specialist knife collection. The cold metal feels reassuring in my hand.

“Raf—”

I move swiftly, pinning Sergio’s hand to the chair with a sharp thrust. He screams, a high-pitched sound that echoes in the empty warehouse.

---