BLACK SUN: From One Monster to Another

Taryn Vescari

The reek of stale cigars and cheap gin clung to the air, thick and rank enough to turn my stomach. The soles of my heels stuck to the worn hardwood with a sickening squelching sound as I crossed the floor. In the dim daylight filtering through the grime-caked glass, I could see dark, rust-colored stains on the boards that were definitely blood. In a few hours, the velvet shadows of the Black Crown Lounge would hide the filth, but right now, it was a reminder of the gutter I was stuck in. Still, it was the highest-paying gig a nobody could land in the Vescari District.

The Black Crown was a bruised, brutal dive in the heart of our territory, packed with scuffed leather booths, a battered mahogany bar, and a tiny stage. The Vescari District was the scrapyard of the city—a haven for hitmen, disgraced bagmen, and bottom-feeders who had nowhere else to crawl. I learned young not to ask questions. In our crew, survival meant keeping your eyes down and your mouth shut.

Over by the stage, the band was plugging in their amps, taking long pulls from dirty bottles. Enzo Caradonna didn’t pay the acts cash, but he gave them unlimited booze, and some tipped heavily when the liquor hit right. My shoulders slumped when I recognized the frontman. Damian Varga’s crew didn't tip, and after three drinks, Damian’s hands started wandering.

“Hey, beautiful,” Damian called out, leaning against his guitar stand. “How about you and me take a little break in the back alley between sets?”

“Not in your wildest dreams, Damian,” I said, tying my black apron tight around my waist.

“Why not, sweetheart? You’re good at taking orders. Let a real soldier take the lead for once.”

“You couldn't handle me if I came with a warning label.”

He smirked, raising his bottle. “You’ll be begging for it sooner or later.”

“Keep telling yourself that while you sleep alone tonight,” I shot back.

His bandmates burst out laughing, and I grinned at the flash of anger in his eyes. Damian had been hitting on me for two years, but the bastard had never left a single bill on the table. In this district, you learned fast: guys who didn't tip were always the ones who’d leave you bleeding in a ditch.

I walked over to the bar where Bianca Rosetti was mixing a massive tub of cheap house cocktails.

“Hey, Bianca,” I said. “How was your night off?”

“Oh, standard stuff,” she said, stirring the red liquid with a long plastic paddle. “Robbed a armored truck, killed a guy, slept till noon.”

“So a trashy reality TV marathon in your sweatpants?”

“You know me too well.” She smiled, popping a lid onto the container.

“Who else is working the floor?” I asked.

“Just you and me to start. Matteo is coming in an hour.”

“Please tell me I’m not running the tables solo on a Friday.” My boss had been slashing shifts, and running this floor alone was suicide.

“It was supposed to be Gisella and Celeste, but neither of them showed.”

“Hey, watch out if you go into the back,” Bianca warned softly. “The boss is on a rampage today.”

I gave her a quick wave and pushed through the heavy doors into the kitchen. The line cooks were already chopping and searing meat, ignoring me completely. I walked past the deep fryer, where dark oil sizzled and filled the air with the smell of old grease.

I knocked on the glass of the back office. Don Salvatore’s underboss, Enzo Caradonna, was hunched over his desk, chewing on the end of an unlit cigar. He motioned for me to come in, and I stepped into the cramped, windowless room. Behind his desk hung a cheap painting covering a wall safe everyone knew was there. To his left was a reinforced steel door with four deadbolts, guarding the high-end liquor supply.

“Tell me Gisella and Celeste are outside,” Enzo snapped, not looking up from his ledger.

“Nice to see you too, boss.”

He glared at me. “We have three crates of imported sausage that need to move before they turn.”

“Push the specialty platters. Got it.” I hated this job with every fiber of my being, but I had three years left on the debt I owed the syndicate for taking me in as a child. Three years, and I’d be free.

“Keep an eye on Rocco and his boys,” Enzo added. “Kid might be the Don’s son, but I won't have him wrecking my club just because he can't hold his liquor.”

“Understood.” I swallowed down the sudden lump in my throat. Rocco Falcone and his crew were a nightmare. Growing up, Rocco had made my life absolute hell. As the heir to the Falcone crime family, he treated the Vescari District like his personal playground, and me like his personal punching bag.

I stepped out of the office and nearly ran right into Celeste D'Amico. Her face was dead pale, her mascara smudged, and her hands were trembling violently.

“Celeste? What's wrong?” I asked.

“It’s Gisella,” Celeste whispered, looking around as if the walls had ears. “I just heard from the street.”

“What happened to her?”

“She and her boyfriend tried to hijack a shipment belonging to the Moretti Syndicate,” Celeste breathed, her voice cracking. “They thought they had a buyer in Moretti Syndicate Territory. It was a setup, Taryn. Vittorio Moretti’s enforcers didn't even ask questions—they put bullets in their heads right there on the pavement.”

My blood ran cold. Gisella was dead? Executed by Vittorio Moretti’s men? The Dark Don of the Moretti family didn't give second chances. Everyone in the city knew you never crossed into Moretti territory unless you were looking for a body bag.

“I can't believe she was that stupid,” Celeste muttered, wiping her eyes before her face hardened into a mask of cold indifference. That was how you survived in the mafia—no weakness, no tears. “Enzo wants you in the back office again. Now.”

I nodded slowly, pushing my own shock down, and walked back to the office door. I knocked and stepped inside.

“Gisella is dead,” Enzo said plainly, crossing his arms.

“I heard.”

“She was supposed to run the private table down in the basement tonight,” he growled, stepping up until his massive frame towered over me. “I don't have anyone else. I need you down there.”

My eyes narrowed. The basement was strictly off-limits—a private card room for high-rollers and syndicate bosses. “What’s the pay?”

“Are you questioning me, girl?”

“I’m asking a simple question,” I said, holding his glare. “You need me. Make it worth my time.”

Enzo let out a harsh, rasping laugh. “Standard pay for the basement floor is a thousand dollars cash. Plus whatever the Made men throw in your tip jar.”

A thousand dollars in one night? That was more than I made in two weeks upstairs. It could shave months off my debt to the family.

“I’m in,” I said immediately.

“Take the back stairs. Sergio will post you at the door,” Enzo warned, his eyes dangerous. “And Taryn? Keep your head down, play the sweet girl, and don't repeat a single word you hear down there if you want to keep breathing.”

My heart hammered against my ribs, but I just nodded and turned toward the hidden basement door. One thousand dollars. If I could survive the sharks downstairs, I was one step closer to buying my freedom.