Page 1 of Petrichor

Prologue

Marco

Istep out of the car as rumbly thunder disturbs the quiet of the warm evening. My eyes move to the darkening sky while my fingers run roughly through my short black hair. Storm clouds are riding the gales blowing this way, announcing a summer storm. The air seems to hum with life.

A foreboding feeling overwhelms me, and I check my phone one more time. Still no call from Seb. I feel like I’m standing on burning coals. Hate the uncertainty.

“Cazzo di tempo!” Luca, another Leone enforcer cusses.

“No shit! The wind is howling like a banshee bitch, sir,” Carlo agrees with him. He’s new in the family, a lanky, eighteen-year-old kid eager to prove himself to us.Il capo, Don Massimo, ordered us to bring him along to show him the ropes.

Being an enforcer for the most ruthless family in New York is not an easy fucking job, but it’s the only life I know. Don Massimo found and welcomed me and Luca when we were kids and raised us for the sole purpose to protect Seb, his son—he vetted us at a very early age. We became brothers not in blood but by chance. Growing up together, sharing almost everything intertwined our lives so tightly. I can’t imagine being without them at my side.

And anyway, blood is just water, right? Otherwise, priests wouldn’t drink it every damn Sunday. We are about to spill a lot ofred waterin a few minutes. And after I get that phone call, am I going to spill more? I clench my fists as a wave of anger and nausea assaults me.

“Stop that, Marco!” Luca snaps as he unholsters his gun. “We have work to do.” He might look big as a two story house and fucking scary to the rest of the world with that scar marring his face, but to me he’s still the same kid I defended when the others called him the Frankenstein monster.

I nod at the lookout in the blue Toyota, signaling him to leave since we are here. I notice a couple walking on the other side of the street. As soon as they see us, they hurriedly move out of sight with their heads down. This neighborhood is ours. Most cops here work for Don Massimo, and the ones who won’t accept palm-greasing still turn a blind eye, knowing there’s no point in coming after us.

Our family operates according to a code of silence calledomertá—literally humility. It comes from the very first Mafia families in Italy and refers to the code of submission of individuals to the group interest, the family.Cosa Nostra. It is an extreme form of loyalty and solidarity in the face of authority. The basic principle ofomertáis that one must not seek aid from legally constituted authorities to settle personal grievances. A person who has been wronged is obligated to look out for their own interests byavenging the wrong themselves, or finding a patron—like Don Massimo—to avenge them. This is also called vendetta.

Breakingomertáis punishable by death. One of its absolute tenets is that it is deeply demeaning and shameful to betray even one's deadliest enemy to the authorities or to other families. For that reason, many Mafia-related crimes go unsolved. Because even only the suspicion of being acascittuni—an informant—constitutes the blackest mark against manhood. Andomertáis the reason we are out here on this fucking stormy night.

I grit my teeth and glance at my phone again. Nothing yet. I spit on the ground, trying to get rid of the bitter taste inside my mouth. Then I nod at Luca as I take off my suit jacket and throw it on the car seat of the Mercedes before closing the door.

We head toward the squalid building on the right. Heavy drops of rain start coming down as we get inside. I leave my gun in my holster and instead slide on my custom-madegoldbrass knuckles with little crosses carved on the top of each finger. I engage in my pre-fight ritual, giving the cross on the index knuckle a kiss for good luck while quickly reciting in my head the Angel of God prayer, asking them to protect us and guiding us on the righteous path.

A criminal with a religious mind. It can look like hypocrisy to some, but it’s just the way I was raised.

I flex my fingers. I always prefer to use my hands to feel the battle on my skin, the pain I inflict, the common sense I impart. Pistols are fine, in some cases necessary, but my gold knuckles are my weapon of choice. A present from Don Massimo the day I became a made man, an enforcer for the family. I grip the metal in a fist, breathing slightly easier at the familiar feel of it. I fucking love this.

“I can’t believe I’m going on a job with Marco ‘the Knuckle’ Moretti and Luca ‘Scarface’ Nero! I’m with legends!” Carlowhispers-yells, sounding all excited about it. I guess his reaction is fine-ish. The first time I was sent to kill someone I was so nervous, I puked afterward.

Luca growls with annoyance. He hates that nickname, while I’m kind of impartial about mine. “Just stay behind and do whatever the fuck we say,” he grumbles at Carlo.

The kid’s face goes deathly pale as he frantically bobs his head in agreement.

“Hey kid, if you don’t want to sport a similar scar on your skin, shut your trap,” I add, just because.

As we go up the flight of stairs, the usual thrill invades me. That payback thirst that makes my skin tingle with delight. Anybody who attempts to hurt my family will incur our wrath.

“That’s the door.” Luca points at the brown one on the left as we reach the second floor. The corridor is dimmed. The stench of piss and stale air overwhelms me for a moment. The carpet covering the floor is frayed, stained and discolored, a couple of pieces of wood are missing from the boarded-up window at the end of the hall showing the darkening sky. Not even Satan would waste his time in a shit hole like this.

An abrupt scream comes from inside the apartment, making me grit my teeth and Luca growl. It sounded like a kid’s scream.

We exchange an agreeing look as I signal Carlo to stay behind me a moment before Luca kicks in the door and rushes inside, keeping his gun high. I follow him, entering the cheap apartment. A woman in her forties is sitting tensely on a worn-out sofa; she’s sporting a large bruise on her face and track marks on both arms. A half-empty bottle of booze, pills, and more drugs are spread on the small table in front of her. The ashtray is overflowing with cigarette butts, and trash litters the floor. One of the light bulbshanging from the ceiling keeps flashing, giving an even shittier atmosphere to the room. The place is a fucking dump.

There’s no kid around, though. A man who I recognize as Joseph Gordon is standing in the small kitchen, hands behind him grabbing the counter, his angular face contorted in fear and anger.

“What the hell is going on?” he has the nerve to ask. He’s an associate who works in our loan shark business. We send him to talk to the clients when seeking tocompelthe satisfaction of a debt. I never liked him, too cocky and power hungry.

I move closer to him with a smirk on my face. “Joseph, I’m pretty sure you know.”

I see terror flashing in his eyes before he hides it under his pathetic bravado.

“Haven’t the slightest clue.” His voice trembles. He swallows hard.

“Too many wrongs to think about?” Luca mutters, pushing the drugs on the table around with the muzzle of his gun. We put a tail on Joseph after a loan client came gun in hand to the restaurant where Don Massimo was having dinner with Seb, screaming about his daughter and how we kidnapped her. We are a crime family, but taking children away from their own family is something Don Massimo would never condone. After a little digging, we found out who was behind the kidnapping and more.

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