Page 54 of Memento Mori
“What is the meaning of all this, Rizzo?” Haruto asked. “You summon us like we are your soldiers, and you want to bring our women into this as well. You better have a damn good reason my wife is sitting here at this table.”
There was a very good reason their women were here. There was no love lost between the men sitting at this table. I didn’t have blinders on. Hate was too strong of a word to use, but we certainly did not like each other. Putting that aside, we held a deep respect for each other because of who we were and the positions we held. We were the sons of some of the most powerful men in the world. Some who were retired from the Life, others who were now dead. We were the legacy of theirdecades of hard work. Hard work someone wanted to destroy. No matter our dislike for one another, they were owed an explanation. Someone was coming after everyone gathered here today including our women.
“You’re right, Haruto. And you know I wouldn’t have called for this meeting unless it was warranted, especially not insisting you bring your wives,” I said.
Haruto Yamada, head of the Sato Clan of the Yakuza, sat with a prominent scowl on his face, beside his lovely wife, a former nurse from North Carolina, Ebony Yamada. I couldn’t fathom how she ended up married to the head of the most powerful and dangerous clan within the Yakuza. There had to be an intriguing story behind it.
At an acquaintance’s wedding, I had the pleasure of meeting Ebony for the first time. Her warm smile immediately put me at ease. A few months later Aaliyah and I traveled to Japan to attend the wedding of Haruto’s sister. Despite our mutual dislike for one another, it would have been disrespectful for me, as the head of the largest and most powerful Italian Mafia families in both Italy and America, to not attend after being invited. Although Haruto and I disliked one another, our wives hit it off, and kept in contact with each other, meeting up when they could, and keeping business and pleasure separate.
Ebony and Aaliyah were alike in many ways. Not just similar skin tones, and curvy bodies, but both were quiet unless provoked, strong, and stubborn as hell. They both kept us balanced. I believed that was the case for all the men in this room. Without our women, we would be much different men.
Ebony placed her hand on her husband’s, giving it a gentle squeeze. Without any words his eyes softened, his body relaxed, and he nodded when he gazed at his wife.
“We can get started,” I said, eager to begin. “I understand the anxiousness of being here, especially with your wives, but it was important you all were here. My wife will be handling this meeting.” I leaned over, feeling a rush of warmth, and gently kissed Aaliyah on the cheek. “The floor is yours,Bella.”
“Hello, gentlemen. We are so glad you could join us, although I’m sorry to say this is going to hit all of you a little hard, if you are anything like my husband,” she said, looking to all the men gathered in the room, the frowns deepening on each one of their faces.
She typed on her laptop, her eyes fixed on the screen in front of her, and then pressed the button to activate the projection screen at the front of the office. The partially obscured face of a woman with ebony skin, and long black curly waist length hair exited the driver’s side of a steel gray Aston Martin DBS Superleggera Volante, decked out to the nines. If there was one thing I could say about this woman, she had excellent taste in cars.
“The reason we’ve asked you and your partners here is because I uncovered some information pertaining to each one of the women sitting at this table. And it is only fair as our partners, you all have the right to know too.”
Confusion filled the room as everyone glanced around at each other, then turned their attention back to the woman on the screen.
“Someone is coming after us,” Aaliyah said without hesitation, and pointed at the projection screen. “And they are sending her.”
“What do you mean someone is coming after us?” Synthia asked. “You mean, us women?”
The tension in the room skyrocketed as Synthia Williams, wife of theBratva PakhanNicholai Kozlov, posed her question. She was as deadly as she was beautiful. Standing close to six feet in height, the imposing former lawyer, now wife to one of the most power and deadliest men in the world, gripped her husband’s hand tightly to keep him calm after he heard the news about the threats against his wife.
Everyone’s attention was laser-focused on Aaliyah, waiting for all the information she gathered. “For those of you who don’t know, I’m able to tap into any computer network if I choose too. I received an encrypted message from a long-time contact about a threat circulating on the Dark Web for a couple of weeks. A threat against everyone sitting here at this table. There is a plot to take our organizations down, but first they want to bring you to your knees by eliminating us. And they’ve hired O Fantasma.”
“The Ghost,” Synthia translated, and Aaliyah nodded.
“Wait one fucking minute!” Ardan O’Brion yelled, his Irish accent resonating with each word. Leaning forward, he restedhis forearms on the smooth surface of the large mahogany conference table. “Let me get this straight. Some fucking twat is threatening my wife! Is this the cunt that attacked your wedding?”
Ardan O’Brion, the Boss of the Irish Mob, out of County Cork, Ireland, barely controlled his anger. His pale face flushed with a deep, red hue, as if a blood vessel was on the verge of rupture. I couldn’t blame him. It was an anger I understood all too well. Even as we all sat here in this room, the same raging feeling consumed me knowing that someone was coming after my wife, trying to get to me.
As criminals we followed a code. Every man sitting around this table, regardless of their ruthlessness, adhered to it. We didn’t involve women or children in our world, if possible, but something changed. A dying Camorra leader decided they wanted to take out the leaders of the Mafia, Yakuza, Bratva, and the Irish Mob, but first our partners. To me, this was personal.
Ardan’s wife, Yolanda, a former financial analyst, intervened by placing a reassuring hand on her husband’s to suppress his anger. Although Ardan’s father, Ciabhan O’Brion was alive, he retired more than five years ago after handing the reins of the organization to his eldest son. Ardan ran a tight ship, much like his father, but the one thing that set them apart was Ardan’s insatiable thirst for blood. He was impulsive, always leaping into action without hesitation and worrying about the details later. Yolanda balanced him when they’d married, saving a lot of lives.
“Ardan, please try to calm down,” Yolanda said in a soothing tone. “Let’s hear what Aaliyah uncovered. You’ll get your chance to tear the world down. Aaliyah, please continue.”
With a frustrated huff, Ardan leaned back, his fingers tangling in his fiery red hair. But nodded his head in agreement with his wife. He was just as interested to hear what Aaliyah uncovered despite his anger.
“I know hearing someone is coming after us is difficult for all of you, but who they are sending is the key to wiping them all out,” Aaliyah said. “Have any of you dealt with The Ghost?”
Every hand rose, including mine. While Underboss we used the Ghost to get rid of the son of the Irish Boss Paddy O’Connor when my father took over Boston. After Paddy’s enforcer ended his life, we finished the job by taking out his son and all the faction leaders until the Irish Mob no longer controlled Boston. Now we did. My father wouldn’t waste such talent on a mundane job, but he wanted it done right and quickly, paying a steep price to do just that. She came highly recommended. She was quick, efficient, and pricey.
“According to my sources, this is the only known picture of the assassin. Although you all have used her in the past, it was never known whether she was female, or male, black, white, living, or dead, until now. The woman is the epitome of her name. She is indeed a ghost. But she made her first mistake. She didn’t kill me.”
“Do you have any clue who hired her?” This was the first time since he and his wife entered the room, Nicholai Kozlov had broken his silence.
“We were also sent this untraceable message.” Aaliyah handed the piece of paper to Haruto who sat closest to her, who handed it to Ardan, who then passed it to Nicholai.
“What does it say?” Yolanda asked her husband.
“Memento Mori,” he replied.
