4

Thoughts dip in and out of my brain hazily. I lie back on the bedspread and let the liquor gently lead me into oblivion. Maybe this is why my mother drinks? To numb her of the absurdity called her life.

I can’t imagine after twenty years with Marco what I’ll look like by the end. Spirit broken, and of no more use than to plan parties and entertain his guests. Most of the men in the five families want a trophy wife. There aren’t many daughters in the pedigreed lines that make up our own little world here in Chicago. The sons of these families can take one of the daughters as a wife and have a hundred mistresses on the side. No one cares. The second one of the wives takes a lover, well… I’d seen the grave of one of their wives with my own eyes.

Are their mistresses held to the same standard of conduct? I need to get my brain to shut off. The questions are compounding, and I don’t have any answers. I’m wasting my time thinking about things that don’t matter.

I close my eyes and picture my sister’s face in my mind. Her beautiful silky black hair I always envied. The gentle curve to her brown doe eyes. I can feel her ghost nudging me along, giving me the strength when all I want to do is rip my hair out and scream until someone listens to me. Until someone hears me.

Undoubtedly, no one cares. I’m alone in this. In two days, I will become Mrs. Celeste Gardello. All the dreams I have as a person will be gone. Stripped away to unearth new desires, all of which must center on my husband and his needs. It’s the way things are done, my mother told me after we signed the contracts.

“If you be kind to him, show him that sweet heart of yours, how can he not fall in love with you?” she’d said with her liquor-laced breath and tears swimming in her eyes.

They weren’t tears of joy. She was weeping for me, for my loss.

My mother loves me. But not enough to save me.

No one can save me now, not even myself.

2

NIC

he problem with the five families today… every one of them has gone soft. They consider holding their territory and keeping it tucked tight in their fat fucking

fists beneath them. Which is why, when I’m done, I’ll take it all. Every fucking thing will be mine. Every man and woman will bow to me or face death. I don’t make idle threats, and I’m anything but soft. I’ve clawed my way out of hell and back. I’ll make them all pay for their sins.

As for holding my territory… I revel in it. I delight in showing every dickhead who steps into my lane exactly who’s boss. Starting with the three idiots kneeling on the pavement of my parking garage before me.

I sit in front of them on a stool, my trusty Desert Eagle 50AE clutched in my hand, resting on my thigh. With thick cloth bags over their heads, they can’t see the gun. It wasn’t necessary when they had nearly pissed themselves the moment I put them on their knees.

“Do you know why you’re here?” I ask them.

The question is rhetorical because they know why they’re here. Plus, they are all shaking so badly, I doubt any of them are going to volunteer an answer.

They fucked with me. Now they’ll pay the price.

I keep my voice level and calm. An easy trick considering these assholes will be dead in five minutes or less. “Will any of you tell me where the gun cache you hid in my territory is?”

I don’t need to tell them who I am. Every single criminal on the streets knows where the boundary lines to my domain are. The moment they shift, you better believe it’s learn quick or die fast.

I slide off the stool and step up to the first dickhead. He visibly quakes as I crouch in front of him. Not that he can see me through the sack. Though I’m sure they can feel the slight stir of air, feel death breathing down their necks.

“How about you, Big Shot? Want to tell me where the guns are?”

“Will you promise not to kill me?” His voice wobbles. I can imagine his bottom lip is trembling, his face a mask of pure horror. I wouldn’t even be surprised if he had tears running down his cheeks. The number of times I’ve seen grown men cry is astounding. There are never tears when they’re doing wrong, only when they’re caught in the devil’s clutches.

I glance back at my second-in-command, Soo. His shoulder-length black hair is already in a bun at the base of his neck, ready to make a move the moment I ask. I shake my head with a little grin. “This one wants to know if I’ll promise not to kill him.”

Soo just shrugs, matching my smile, knowing damn well that begging never works with me.

I turn my attention back to my captive. “Sure, I’ll promise not to kill you. Just tell me where the guns are.”

The man visibly sinks into himself, thinking I’ve given him a reprieve. Immediately, the other two dickheads speak up, talking over themselves to save their own skin.

“Fifth street…” one says, and the other finishes his sentence.

“Near the warehouses, across the railroad tracks.”

I almost laugh, it’s funny what people will do once they think there are no repercussions. What they don’t realize is that there is always a repercussion. For every good and bad thing you do in this world, there is a consequence, and this is there’s.

Without delay, I press the barrel of the gun to the middle guy’s temple and say, “Thank you.”

I pull the trigger, and he falls back onto the sheet of clear plastic, waiting for easy cleanup. The other two men immediately huddle into themselves. Why? I stare at them, genuinely trying to figure out how cowering will help keep them alive. Their fear only feeds my rage, and without even blinking, I pull the trigger again and then hand my weapon, barrel first, to Soo.

As he takes the hot metal in his hand like it’s nothing, he says, “It’s time.”

I turn toward the SUV idling nearby. The sound of the gunshot behind me causes the sides of my lips to tip up into a sinister grin.

Never make a deal with the devil.

He always wins in the end.

I climb into the car, and Soo takes the driver’s side. Already, my men are gathering the plastic, rolling up the dead bodies for easy disposal. There are very few people on my payroll. But every single one of them I trust implicitly.

Every bond I make is forged in blood. Nothing less will do to ensure my men stay loyal. Paying them well and giving them a cut of my product doesn’t hurt either. The gangster’s retirement plan, they call it.

As if any of us will make it to retirement age. That’s laughable. It doesn’t matter, though. I don’t care if I die as long as I finish my plans first. Death is inevitable; it will catch you in the long run and even more so in this job. I’ve come to terms with that, and when my time comes, I will greet death with open arms.