The Mafia Don's Revenge

CHAPTER 1

Callum is dead.

I stand in front of his grave as the Priest drones on in the background, tracing his headstone with my eyes.

Callum Jones, son, brother and friend.

Callum was a constant in my life, we grew up together. Ever since my parents died and my aunt Mercy adopted me.

“Are you okay?” Aunt Mercy whispers as she gives me a shaky smile, I should be asking her that same question.

She worries about me. I haven’t cried since we heard the news. I just can’t. In place of tears, there’s a weight on my chest that gets heavier each day, and I can hardly breathe through it. I nod a reply to her.

The police said it was a drive by shooting. I don’t believe that for a second; who would kill Callum? He was an accountant for goodness sake. Plus, he lived in a really good neighbourhood with tight security. It just doesn’t make any sense.

“Daisy”

I snap out of my reverie. “Yes”, I choke out. I wrap my arms tightly around myself as the cold chill of loneliness consumes me.

Aunt Mercy grips my hand and pulls me towards the freshly dug mound of his grave. My legs feel weak as I wobble behind her. I steady myself as we stoop down and gather the soil in our palm, tossing it on his casket. Then we toss the roses.

As we head back, I bump into someone. Lifting my head I encounter the piercing green eyes of a stranger. He’s tall, with sandy brown hair and broad shoulders. I notice his clenched jaw and his eyes show this quiet rage rolling in its depths.

“Sorry” , I gasp out an apology that goes ignored. He passes by me and I crane my neck watching as he tosses his rose into Callum’s grave. I still watch him as he leaves, trailed by another man in a tailored suit. They both get into a tinted car and drive off.

“Who was that?” I ask my aunt, my voice tinged with curiosity

“Who?”, she replies in a distracted tone

“That man, the one that just left”, I press, my gaze locked on hers.

Aunt Mercy scoffs, her voice tinged with disdain,

"Must be one of his colleagues, at least he bothered to show up”

The funeral is sparsely attended. We received a condolence message passed through his boss’ assistant and the few co workers that showed up just paid their respects and left; not what I’d call a cheerful bunch.

The lot of them with stoic faces that seemed chiseled from granite and fancy coats that flapped with the breeze, worst off all their icy auras gave me a prickling sense of unease.

As we watch Callum’s casket being lowered into the ground I balk at the finality of it. My throat closes up, my breath catches and I feel the sting of tears in my eyes. They refuse to fall, shoved behind a brick wall of unshed grief so I just stand there with smarting eyes .

The gloominess of his funeral fills me with sadness. Callum, though not happy go lucky wasn’t so melancholy either.

The Priest finishes the closing prayers and approaches Aunt Mercy, they engage in a whispered conversation that I tune out.

I trace his headstone once more. The vibrant colour of the flowers contracts with the greyness of his headstone.

The last time I saw Callum was two weeks ago. We met at my favourite cafe on my university’s campus, we made a routine of this. A biweekly lunch to catch up on each other. Though with my course workload and his demanding job it was difficult to do so.

He had an off day, I had a test the next day and I had carried flashcards so he’d help me study. We sat at our usual table, the sun had cast a warm glow across it and he quizzed me, his warm laughter and jokes were a welcome change. In between the questions, I had enquired about his life.

Callum was secretive about his work and that was understandable as he handled people’s money so I knew not to press too much on the subject, focusing instead on his love life. I ribbed him about his inability to keep a girlfriend and he had laughed stating that they eventually became insecure of his good looks.

The sudden transition from laughing with him to getting the call from Aunt Mercy threw me off. Her choking sobs as she struggled to get the words out and the static in my ears as I registered what she was telling me.

I existed in a state of shock as I packed my carry on and left my dorm room. I barely recalled the flight home then suddenly I was enveloped in Aunt Mercy’s arms breathing in her vanilla perfume. She has used the same one for the longest time and it comforted me.

The brush of fingers jolts me and I look down to see Aunt Mercy’s hand on my shoulder. She gives me a stabilising squeeze, her eyes reflecting the grief in mine.

2 Weeks Later.

I’m sorting out a box of Callum’s things at aunt Mercy’s house. The house is silent which gives it an echo and the breeze from the open windows carry the scent of the variety of flowers from the garden.His things are being arranged in three boxes; keep, donate and unknown.

The last box mostly contains the junk he’s collected over the years. Callum was somewhat of a hoarder so that last box wasn’t filled with an organised collection but with random stones, coins and seashells all jumbled together in jars and I sit in the chaos of it, overwhelmed.

The contents of some are strewn across the flow creating a kaleidoscope of colour as the sun reflects off them.

As I rummage between the jars and other junk, my fingers close around a small notebook. My interest piqued, I flip through it. It’s filled with names and numbers, some faded and scratched out, others seem freshly written. I browse through it, the names blurring together as most don’t register.

“Must be his clients”, I mutter to myself as I continue flipping through.

A folded picture falls out, I open it. I immediately encounter sharp green eyes. The familiarity of them startles me.

“Where do I know you from?”, I question myself as I fixate on the picture. I have a niggling sensation at the back of my mind as I try to remember the man in the picture.

I take in his tall frame and broad shoulders. He’s wearing a tailored suit that emphasises his build and he stares straight into the camera, his gaze cold and intimidating.

My breath catches as I remember. He was at the funeral, I bumped into him. Questions run through my mind as I flip the picture over. A name is scribbled at the back of it in Callum’s handwriting.

Kaiden Nikolaou.