Page 6 of Hateful Vows
When I reach my father’s house, I go straight to the gym underground. I discard my suit and shoes, left in nothing but my boxer briefs and put on my boxing gloves. For half an hour, I’m at the bag, destroying it and my own body in the process. My punches reverberate all the way into my shoulders and pecs, sweat drips down my forehead and chest, but I don’t stop.
Someone assassinated my father, and that rat is in my own fucking house. I’m about to bring a reckoning like we haven’t seen for centuries in the whole organisation. No one will be safe but the ones swearing fealty at my fucking feet.
When the time for my meeting with the Venti family comes, I shower quickly and call Andrea Capaldi. The man is the best hacker in all of Europe save for his own cousin, Lisandru Pierce, who sent me a fucking invite to his engagement next week.
The prospect of drinking and fucking to my heart’s content should delight me, but all I can see is the shadow of the traitor I need to annihilate.
“Capaldi, I need your help,” I tell him when he picks up the phone. I proceed to explain my issues and enlist his services for this delicate but necessary revenge.
The Ventis have probably been waiting for a while when I reach the lavish office, painted a tacky red, with a massive Louis XV clock on the chimney’s mantle. The whole house is gaudy as fuck and I never cared but everywhere I walk, the ghost of my father reminds me how much I’m already failing at my new role.
“Mr Ventura,” the patriarch greets as I enter, standing and pushing his sons out of the way to reach my hand. I ignore him and shake Francisco’s instead, winking at him before going to his brother, and finally their father. He’s fuming but I don’t care. He’s only here because Francisco and his brother Matteo are minors.
“Tell me everything,” I instruct the older son and he spills the content of the text. There’s not much to go on.
Anonymous
Kill the king, get ten million pounds.
I confiscate his phone. A word of protest is on the tip of his tongue and I dare him to complain with a raised eyebrow.
“Good boy,” I say when he remains silent.
I hand him a new phone, still sealed in its plastic, and give one to Francisco as well, who beams at me with renewed loyalty shining in his young brown eyes. That one isn’t sealed because it has my number on it. Though he doesn’t know it yet, Francisco just gained his place amongst my most trusted men. And I’m saying that of a fucking thirteen year-old I didn’t know two hours ago. That says a shit ton about the crumbling system we have in place. It’s time for clean up.
“Thank you, boys. I want a report every single week. You go to school, work hard, get good grades. You’ll come here on Mondays at six pm sharp.”
“I trust that my boys will be compensated for their services, Dante,” their father quips.
I click my tongue, then smile. It puts the man at ease. I love it when they trust so easily. Standing slowly, I make my way around my desk, draw my gun out of its holster at my back, and pull the trigger.
Venti howls as his kneecap shatters, and blood sprays around him, hitting his older son’ side seated on his right. The smell of copper hits my senses like a freight train, satisfying my need for bloodshed even for a moment.
“It’s Don Ventura to you,cazzo.” I level Francisco with a stare. “Lesson number two, Francisco. Don’t get too greedy.” I press my foot to the wound. “Lesson number three. Don’t forget our motto. Do you remember, Venti?” I push harder and the man underneath my shoe whimpers, starting to beg in earnest.Both his sons, standing now, recite in unison, “Lealtà, dovere, coraggio.” They’re both trembling with fear but underneath is a very little hint of satisfaction, especially on Francisco’s face.
“Tino,” I call. “Call the medic and get him out of my sight. You two, welcome to a new age. From now on, you will learn from me.”
The boys scurry after their father, their expressions one of awe and admiration. My pride swells. If there were anyone to see, I’d puff up my chest. I’m shallow like that.
I have to start from the ground up, and with the news of the last few hours, the fucking children of our families are the key to uncovering my father’s murder, their incompetent fathers too complacent or drunk on the alcohol I fucking pay for. It’s time for a reset.
I doubt my father was killed by a fucking sixteen year-old but he didn’t have cameras in his house and I found him slumped at his desk, no signs of home invasion or wounds. This whole text message bullshit is just a decoy, a way to spread chaos and mistrust.
I’ve interrogated every staff member on his security team but the cameras revealed none of them had been in the house. My father only had a butler who moonlighted as a cook, Olivier, and his wife Margot, as a housekeeper. They’re on house-arrest until further notice. I’ve known them for so long it feels wrong to keep them at arms’ length but I justify it in my head with concern for their safety.
Our capos have been requesting meetings after meetings and I don’t trust any of them. It seems I have to remind them all who’s the fucking king.
FOUR
DANTE
Ihaven’t made any progress with finding my father’s killer in the past week, and it’s all I can think about as I look at the expansive old stone mansion overlooking the Mediterranean Sea.
I never visited Kalliste Island before, but one could get used to these types of views, hills atop an azure sea and mountains with the summits tipped in snow even in the middle of May.
Fairy-lights dance in the trees of the luscious garden, which is crawling with every fucking representative of the most prominent European crime families.
“Signore Ventura, my condolences for your father,” Alana Moretti, the mafia heir of the island and host of the evening, says after she greets Tino and I. Her sumptuous forest green dress matches the three-piece suit of her fiancé, Lisandru Pierce, whose hand is clasped on her waist like he can’t stand the idea of letting her go. They both look like royals surrounded by the plebs, planting seeds of agreements and new alliances like matchmakers. Their engagement party on Kalliste Island is the event of the decade, and probably the biggest marriage grounds for the European crime syndicates.
