Page 1 of Vito

Chapter 1

Vito

Theonlysoundinthe room is my breathing as the crimson pool spreads around the body lying on the floor.

Starting or ending my day with blood isn't anything new. Hell, blood anytime throughout my day or night isn't abnormal.

It doesn't faze me. It doesn't upset me. It often fuels me, motivates me.

As the second-born and protector of the Santoro family—who is part of the 'Ndrangheta organized crime syndicate from Italy—blood is my way of life.

I leave the ruling of the criminal underworld and the boardrooms to my brothers. My place is on the streets, in the field—the dirtiest and darkest parts of our world.

I'm a natural leader and strategic, but my skills are for protecting my family and our empire, not for amassing more power and wealth.

When my father finally succumbs to the disease ravaging his lungs, and Massimo takes the reins as Don, I've stressed to Mass that I don't want the promotion to his second-in-command andall the administrative duties—yes, criminal syndicates run like a Fortune 500 company—that go along with it.

That's a future problem, though.

Right now, I have a very real, very shitty, fuck-of-a-deal problem.

The pool of blood that I'm staring at has almost reached the tread of my boots.

Blood—so normal in my world—but tonight,thisblood enrages me.

I sit on my haunches, crouched beside… I don't even know what to call Aiken Fallen.

He isn't a friend, and he isn't an ally. But I like the guy. Respect him.

In San Francisco, Aiken is neutral when it comes to the criminal factions in the city. His establishment, Gilly's, is the only truly neutral place. A conflict-free zone. No one's turf. The Switzerland of the criminal world.

It doesn't matter if you're a soldier or the leader of your criminal band of savage misfits; Gilly's rules apply toeveryone.

Gilly's is more than a bar; it's been a neutral, conflict-free zone for forty years. Its purpose is to reduce bloodshed in the city, which helps minimize collateral damage to innocent people. Hence, law enforcement superiors of local, state, and federal bodies order their subordinates to leave Gilly's alone.

Whoever steps foot in Gilly's agrees to respect the neutral territory rule and do no harm—no fighting, stabbing, shooting, and definitely no killing. And those rulesdefinitelyapply to Gilly's owner-operator, who is the equivalent of the President of Switzerland.

I cup my jaw, staring down at Aiken. He lies in the middle of the bar in a pool of his blood, his vacant eyes open.

As much as I like and respect—or I guess,likedandrespected, because of the need for past tense now—I can't call Aiken a friend.

With him being Gilly's owner-operator, his role and existence revolve around him being neutral. If he befriended someone like me, or even appeared to be too friendly, that indicated he was choosing a side. He could neither be for nor against any criminal in this city. He had to remain impartial, unbiased, and unprejudiced.

But someone has chosen a side against Aiken.

"Security system was taken out." Raf stalks into the barroom area from the back. His dark hair falls over his forehead in loose waves. "None of the cameras recorded anything beyond Aiken closing."

Raf is dressed similarly to me: black jeans, a dark shirt, and boots. His guns are visible in his shoulder holsters and the back of his jeans since he had tossed his jacket on the bar. I know he has knives in each boot, the same as I do. Raffaello Romani—AKA Raf—is my right-hand and best friend since diapers.

"There are slight signs of forced entry at the back door, but it's not clear if that's how they got in and out," Raf adds.

The bar was locked up tight when we arrived. The inside looks like a bar brawl took place—tables and chairs are overturned and busted, smashed bottles, and even a deep dent in the wall. Based on where Aiken is lying and the blood pooling around his head like a gruesome halo, I suspect the dent was caused by someone smashing his head into the wall.

"Any luck getting into Aiken’s office?" I stand, scanning around the bar.

"It's sealed like Fort fucking Knox." Raf scowls and scrapes his nails across the scruff on his cheek. "I'll call Gus."

Gus is Aiken's manager. He, along with all the staff, had gone home prior to the shitfest that went down here. Everyoneknew Aiken always sent his staff home when they finished their closing tasks, and he did the final closing up alone.

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