Sal heard another boom of crowd noise from beyond the door at the end of the hall. He imagined things were just about over. Garibaldi Scarvini would soon be in a mood to celebrate.
“Well,” said the guard rubbing his chin, an aloof look in his eyes. “Suppose you could just give me what you got and I can give it to old Garibaldi soon as the match is over.”
Sal smiled placatingly. “Let’s just say it’s not that kind of gift. You, uh, wouldn’t want me giving it to you, and you sure as Sacrull’s hell wouldn’t want to be giving it to him yourself—unless of course. . .”
The guard’s eyes widened with realization. It seemed he wasn’t half so dumb as he looked. “That one there is his room. Should be unlocked. Bjorn here is got the keys if you needs them.”
The tattooed one grunted as though he’d not been so quick on the take, but Sal didn’t give him time to object before he moved for the second door on his left and tried the handle.
The door was unlocked.
*
Seated upon the divan, Sal could hear them as they laughed and jeered in the hallway just outside the room. He breathed deep, and rubbed his hands together feeling the thick coating of the skeev dust on his fingertips. Nerves on end, he crushed more of the cap between his thumb and forefinger.
The door swung open.
Garibaldi Scarvini had his father’s look. Sal had seen Don Giotto Scarvini a handful of times at his uncle’s home, and there was no doubt Garibaldi was his son. Still, there was something about this Scarvini that seemed to fall short of the name. Some quality of his father’s which he lacked.
But as Garibaldi’s eyes met Sal’s, he knew what it was that seemed wrong.
When Sal had looked into the eyes of Don Giotto Scarvini, it had sent a shock of fear right through him. Yet when Sal looked into the eyes of Garibaldi Scarvini, all he saw was fear. Not the predatory look of his father, but the wild look of fleeting prey.
“The fuck is this then?” said a second man, entering just behind Garibaldi. An unfamiliar face, lean and hard. He gestured to Sal. “Baldi, you know this one?”
Sal sank into the divan, as though he were relaxing all the more. When in truth, his nerves felt taught enough to snap.
Garibaldi Scarvini shook his head. His weasel-like face showing only bemusement.
Two more men filed in, and stopped short, just as the others had, upon seeing Sal lounging on the divan.
“Who are you?” asked Garibaldi, a slight tremble in his voice, his left hand shaking ever so slightly.
“Name’s Salvatori. You must be Garibaldi.” Sal said in his most sultry tone. “Giovani sent me over.”
Garibaldi didn’t show so much as the hint of a smile. His restless eyes narrowed and flicked quickly between his companions as though gauging their reactions.
It was then Sal realized his mistake. He’d had Vinny drug the wrong dog. If they’d have drugged the white bitch, and Garibaldi had lost, he might have come back to the room alone. Dispirited, he may have been somewhat moody, but might still have been interested in the bait, for a source of comfort.
Yet in his high spirits, hot on the heels of his victory, it seemed Garibaldi was in the mood for companions to share in his revelry. And the gods only knew just how open Garibaldi was with them about his preferences.
Sal ran his tongue slowly across his top lip. “There’s no reason to be nervous,” he said, sitting up and patting the divan cushion.
“Close the door,” said Garibaldi, slinking toward Sal.
As Garibaldi neared him the look in his eyes changed. He no longer resembled a deer, so much a mischievous weasel.
Sal wondered just how stable Garibaldi Scarvini was, and whether he ought to abandon the rouse there and then.
Garibaldi’s nose wrinkled, his top lip curling slightly. “You said Giovani sent you?”
Sal nodded.
The door closed with a thud and the others moved in behind Garibaldi. There were three of them: a slender bloke with a knife at his hip, a fat one with a cudgel already in hand, and a thickly-muscled dock thug that slipped a pair of iron knuckles from his pocket as he neared the divan.
“Giovani? He sure did. Wanted me to make sure you weren’t too heartbroken if you had lost—and if you won, I was told to show you a good time.”
Garibaldi nodded, but his eyes were filled with suspicion and his pursed lips frowned at the edges. “Giovani sent you did he?”
Sal maintained his composure on the outside, but inside his confidence had shattered like a pane of stained glass. He’d made a damned fool of a mistake. Keep the lie simple, don’t bother with unnecessary detail.
“My little brother didn’t send you,” said Garibaldi, the tremble in his voice readily apparent. “Giovani’s never done nothing for nobody in his bloody life. Now who in Sacrull’s hell sent you?”
Sal realized his initial approach was bound to fail and so he swiftly switched tact. “I’m here to deliver a message. A message concerning Giuseppe Scarvini.”
Quick as that, the weasel was gone, and Garibaldi looked like a deer readying to run. “What’s this about Giuseppe, what’s your fucking message?” he asked, his voice just short of panicked.
Sal stood up from the divan and calmly stepped past the muscular thug, addressing Garibaldi directly.
“His killer wants to make peace.”
“His kill—and just who the fuck are you?”
“Like I said, my name’s Salvatori,” Sal said with a wink. “Salvatori Lorenzo.”
“Lorenzo?” said Garibaldi. “As in Stefano Lorenzo?”
Sal shrugged. “I suppose we’re related.”
“So, what’s this? You telling me the Svoboda Family is responsible for my brother’s murder?”
“No,” Sal said. “I’m not with Svoboda, nor am I here on my uncle’s behalf. I’ve come seeking peace on behalf of your brother’s killer. My message is from him. We aren’t associated with any of the Five Families. We’re a family of our own, you could say.”
“The fuck? You saying you’re responsible for Giuseppe’s death?”
Sal shrugged, “Some might look at it that way.”
All four of the men tensed, Sal could feel it, the energy of the room shifting with that admission. It was as though they didn’t know whether to be upset or frightened. Though it seemed they quickly settled on an option.
“And what other way is there to look at it?” asked Garibaldi, a vein in his neck bulging.
Sal shrugged. “Might be you would need to hear my message to understand.”
Jaw clenched, the vein in his neck pulsating dangerously, Garibaldi turned his hand palm up, as though asking Sal to hand the words over.
Sal grasped the locket with his skeev coated fingers. A rush of energy cascaded through his veins. Without warning, he focused his will, and released it through his open palm.
A blue bolt of lightning struck the closest man square between the eyes.
His head exploded like a melon, and the muscular, headless corpse collapsed to the ground.
Garibaldi let out a scream.
Sal spun on the skinny one, who’d drawn his knife by then. He focused once more, and unleashed another bolt.
Lightning consumed the skinny man like a web. He writhed on the ground as blood streamed from his eyes and the corners of his mouth.
As Sal turned, the fat one swung a cudgel. Yet he swung as though his club were a sword and he meant to split Sal in half from his head to his middle.
Sal dodged by lunging for man, but the cudgel clipped his ear.
The fat man swung again.
As the cudgel whistled past Sal’s head on the backswing, Sal focused his energy, and felt the electricity course through his veins, down his arm and out his palm.
The bolt he unleashed was so powerful that when it struck the man, what was left of his body was thrown across the room to slam and splatter against the far wall.
Sal was panting, his heart hammering in his chest, his limbs we
ak and rubbery, but he kept standing and turned to face Garibaldi.
Only, Garibaldi Scarvini had disappeared.
Where the man had stood, there was now merely a puddle.
But as Sal looked about, he noticed a pair of fine black leather boots poking out from behind the divan.
Sal sighed, relieved that Garibaldi had chosen not to fight back. Exhausted as he was after pulling thrice upon the locket’s power, Sal doubted he could have so much as raised his arms high enough to fend off a punch—even a punch thrown by Garibaldi Scarvini.
“Come on out, m’lord,” Sal said. “The fighting is all done.”
The boots quickly disappeared behind the divan, and Sal couldn’t help but hate the man for his cowardice.
“Look, Scarvini, you saw what I did to your men, yeah? What makes you think that bit of furniture is going to make a lick of difference if I choose to kill you?”
“I’ll have your balls for this!” Garibaldi cried out, his voice pitched high with fear. “You’re a fucking dead man. There are twenty men outside this room, twenty Scarvini soldiers, killers to the man.”
“By my count only seventeen men remain you, and all of them are outside this door.”
“Think it through,” said Garibaldi from behind the divan. “There is only one door in or out of this room, one door and no windows. Just how do you expect to get out when you’ve finished with me?”
“A valid point,” Sal said. “Though, if my predictions prove correct, the two men outside your door ought already be dead.”
Garibaldi laughed, yet it was a laugh that rang of false bravado. “What sorcery is this? The guards outside my door will gut you the instant you try to leave.”
Sal moved slowly to the door, scuffing his boots loudly as he walked so that Garibaldi would hear.
When he turned the door handle, he looked back over his shoulder to see Garibaldi peeking over the back of the divan.
Sal opened the door.
The fat body of the tattooed guard slumped through the doorway and thudded on the flagstones.
Garibaldi let out a shrill cry.
The fat body of the tattooed guard was dragged out of the way by his thick ankles, before two people entered.
Valla sauntered in, followed by Dominik.
“Help!” Garibaldi cried out.
But too late.
Dominik closed the door. The cry might have been heard just outside the door, but there was no chance anyone in the clamoring arena hall would have noticed a thing.
“Fucking mess you made of this one.” said Valla, wrinkling her nose.
“Who—who are you people?”
Dominik crossed the room and behind the divan. He grabbed Garibaldi by the leg and dragged him out, kicking and screaming. Dominik had to stop dragging Garibaldi once or twice to stomp on him until he stopped his flailing.
When they reached the center of the room, Dominik put a boot to Garibaldi’s chest and pinned the man to floor.
“You want to know me name?” Dominik said looking down on the terrified Scarvini.
“A dead man!” Garibaldi said, his voice cracking, a fresh stream of piss puddling on the flagstones beneath him.
Dominik snorted, and drew his knife. “Me name is Dominik D’Angelo.”
Tears streamed out the corners of his eyes, but his tone remained petulantly defiant. “And why should I give one fuck what your name is?”
“Scarvini that’s your name, isn’t it?”
“Fuck you,” said Garibaldi.
“Had me a wife for that once.” Dominik said, giving Garibaldi another kick. “Hell, had me a brood of me own once. Me little family, but your family, they had to go and try to take that from me.”
“Fuck you, dead man,” Garibaldi sneered, his back flattened against the flagstones. “I don’t know who you are, but we’ll have your fucking head for this.”
Dominik merely shrugged. “You know who I am. Me name’s Dominik D’Angelo. But you can just call me the reaper.”
Afterword
I hope you enjoyed the second installment to the Fall of the Coward series half as much as I enjoyed writing it. If you were one of those who disliked the ending, or were simply left wondering where the rest of the book is, allow me a short explanation.
The Fall of the Coward was drafted and initially intended to be written as a single epic novel. After years of work, I came to the realization that the story of Salvatori Lorenzo would be better served if I broke the project into multiple novels. So, for those of you wondering where the rest of the book is, do not worry, the answers are coming.
Just as The Hand That Takes was a long time in the making, many of the chapters used in A Fool Of Sorts were written seven years before the novels release—although, I’ll bet you can’t guess which ones.
I especially want to thank everyone who helped with the making of this novel. To my Beta readers, Allan, Kyle, Eric, and Phil, your feedback was invaluable. I also want to thank my cover designer Stuart Bache for his art work. And finally, my editor, Ashely Wyrick with Dream Edit Repeat, for her vigilance and discerning eye. Without your contributions I have no doubt this novel would not be half of what it is.
Lastly, I want to thank you, my readers for your support. Without you, none of this would be possible.
Taylor O’Connell
Bennington, Ne
August 9, 2019
About the Author
Taylor O’Connell is the author of The Hand that Takes, A Fool of Sorts, and The Man in Shadow. And very much looks forward to presenting the final pieces to the series: Fall of the Coward; A Throne for Thieves, and For All that Ascends.
Taylor primarily writes fantasy, but loves books of all genres. When not lost within the city of Dijvois, he spends most of his time with his beautiful wife and children.
For more information or more novels by Taylor O’Connell, visit Tayloroconnellbooks.com
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