by Ivy Fox
“Vaffanculo!” I chuckle, giving him the classic Italian arm gesture to drive my point to the arrogant bastard.
A small smile appears on his face, as he pats my shoulder amicably.
“Enough foreplay, dear friend. I want to be back in town before nightfall,” he informs, opening the car door and climbing inside to make his point.
I’m actually quite grateful to have his company. Whenever I spend too much time alone with my thoughts, they end up depressing me. With Ciro riding shotgun, the next couple of hours will be filled with work talk and finding new ways to inflict pain—a skill I have perfected over the years with all the practice. Still, there are some twisted, sadistic things I’ve watched others do, which I feel are beneath my reputation. Watching The Butcher’s work in action comes to mind. Understanding why he was given the nickname in the first place is something I don’t wish on anyone.
In my mind, we can give a dying man some dignity even if we are the ones holding the ax over his head. Unlike Bianchi, humiliation and cruel torture for the fun of it has never been my way of doing things. Well, at least not until today. To be honest, if his name were ever on my kill list, I would make that rat bastard suffer gruesomely for days on end.
Fuck dignified death.
I’d make sure he left this earth suffering the same tormenting lacerations he was so keen to shell out on others weaker than him.
This afternoon’s little nick was just a small appetizer, not even close to giving me any true satisfaction.
“Think you could swing a couple of days to meet me in New York?” Ciro questions, crumbling away at my own vengeful thoughts.
“Hmm… Don’t think so. Got some people who earned a visit from me. My calendar is fucking full as it is,” I reply, thinking of the long-ass week that awaits me.
Growing up, I never thought an enforcer’s job was so time-consuming. But the years have taught me to be on the clock twenty-four-seven. I think the celebrated phrase of ‘no rest for the wicked’ must have been coined after the likes of us. Because a mafia’s executioner is always on call and downtime is a thing for lazy pussies.
“Shame,” Ciro adds, looking out his side window.
“Why? Think you’ll be lonely or something?” I mock teasingly.
“Aren’t we always?” I hear him mumble, and my abrupt frown burrows deeper at his astute proclamation.
“Whatever. I’m sure you’ll find more than enough entertainment to keep you busy there.” I play off, not wanting to get into real talk with the man at my side.
Those types of private conversations I leave to have with my family—and that’s Vince and Gio; the only ones who understand and are living the same shit I am, day in and day out. Ciro wouldn’t get it, and frankly, apart from breaking bones and going out to drink the night away, there isn’t enough of a bond to link us together. Not even close to the strong bond we three share with each other.
I doubt there are many friendships like ours anyway.
Doubt any heartache and love like ours does either.
I quickly move our conversation along, away from any melancholic themes, to more mundane syndicate issues. Such as, which young associate is showing talent, and should be initiated; or which capo needs more manpower in his crew. Talking shop always gets my mind focused, and I know Ciro is the same way. Soon enough we’re back to more pertinent topics than talking about feelings and shit—those fuckers I keep a tight lid on. And no way are they coming out in front of Ciro of all people. Aside from his little slip of the tongue, I’ve never known him to be anything else than a cold-blooded killer. And that particular attribute suits me just fine.
Once we reach the farm, I belt out a whistle, warning the men inside the rustic barn of our arrival.
“So, who do you have?” Ciro asks, patting my large black duffle bag.
“Just some tech geek who thought he could swindle money out of us without us being the wiser. The idiot was taking ten cents out of every transaction we were getting from the online gambling ring, thinking he was smooth by taking such a small amount. Doubt the scumbag knew he’d make three million in two days.” I laugh, shaking my head at some people’s poor decision-making when money is on the line.
“Idiot, in his panic, got careless and came up with the excuse he needed to leave town to take care of a sick grandma. We had done a full background check, and it turns out he had no living relatives whatsoever. Kid didn’t even have time to enjoy it before Gio asked me to pay him a visit this morning.” I shrug unbothered. Sure, I felt for the foolish kid trying to pull one over on us, but he knew exactly who he was dealing with the minute he took the job. It’s his own damned fault he didn’t stay loyal.
“It’s hard to get something past our consigliere, isn’t it?” Ciro remarks, emotionless.
“I pity the fool who tries,” I admit. “So, who do you got there? What’s your trash about?”
“Nobody,” he replies, blasé as always.
“Nobody? Really? Looks mighty heavy for a nobody,” I state, racking my fingers over my beard.
“Doesn’t mean he was a somebody. Didn’t like how he looked at me, so now he’s a nobody,” Ciro answers, indifferently, as if we were talking about the weather and not the life he took out on a whim.
“That’s cold, man, even for us. Whoever you whacked must have been something to someone, Ciro. Doesn’t make you less of a man admitting it, either,” I tell him, giving my own two cents on the matter.
Sure, I’m not opposed to my line of work. Someone who targets the famiglia should be disposed of accordingly. But senseless death isn’t something I can condone. Contrary to popular belief, I’m not the bloodthirsty beast everyone thinks me to be. I’m just really fucking good at my job because I believe in the Outfit wholeheartedly. Especially since Vince and Gio took over; they are the only family I know, and I would die for them without missing a beat. But that doesn’t change the fact that a life, no matter how rotten it is, should still be viewed as precious. That’s one of the few certainties I still have, specifically because I do the shit I do. Taking out the light from someone’s eyes isn’t easy, but I have the comfort of knowing that, if I didn’t do it, then the dying soul being choked by my hands would harm the organization, one that has looked out for me since I was just a scrawny, hungry kid. But killing someone just for the sake of killing isn’t my style or the way I ever intend to live my life.
The result of being such a man stands right next to me.
An unfeeling, empty shell of a man.
That’s no way to live a life.
Some parts of me—my broken heart for one—might be dead to the world, but I still have my soul. I have no doubt that Ciro lost his, long before he even knew what to do with it.
A loud whistle breaks my train of thought, and I tilt my head up to see three farm hands walk in our direction. With just a quick nod of recognition from the gray-haired pig farmer, his companions take our bags from us, and I slip him a cool thousand for their troubles.
“You fellas burn the hair and bash the skulls?” the younger jean-clad man questions suspiciously.
“Of course. Pulled the teeth and crushed the hip bones, too. Think this is my first rodeo, dickhead?” I growl at the insult. I take pride in my job, and effectively disposing of bodies is an important part of the gig.
“I apologize on his behalf, Mr. Mancini. The boy is still new and learning the ropes,” the older man interjects, glaring daggers at his new employee to keep his trap shut.
“Make sure next time he knows who he’s talking to, or he’ll be the one in a duffel bag,” Ciro huffs out, forcefully closing the trunk and strolling back to the front seat.
All three men grow pale at the comment, the older ones knowing full well that The Thorn doesn’t warn anyone twice.
“Guess your new boy is lucky as well as stupid. Had my boss not liked his face, you’d have another body to feed the greedy hogs. Must be his lucky night.” I announce, patt
ing the old timer on the shoulder, and rushing to get my own ass back in the car before Ciro changes his mind.
My day started out with a burial. I don’t want to end it with another.
I’ve had enough death for one day.
FOUR
Selene
My feet meet the wet snow, and I curse myself for not wearing warmer boots. Chicago in January is notorious for its snowfalls and I should have expected as much. Last time I was here, it was a gloomy autumn day and the first forlorn showers of the season had made themselves known; a fact I appreciated at the time, making my nun’s habit and umbrella that much more effective in hiding my presence and camouflaging my existence altogether.
Of course, I made sure to wait for the expensive, window-tinted SUV’s to leave the premises before I took a step inside the Rosehill Cemetery gates. Secretly though, I wished I had been braver and attempted to walk amongst the grieving crowd.
Maybe, for just a few minutes at least, I would have seen them.
But common sense told me it was a risk far too great to take, even if my aching heart begged for just a quick glimpse. If anyone had recognized me then, they would need to bury another body next to my dear mother, and I couldn’t let that happen.
Once, I might have wished for death.
But that was before a life was given to me.
Today though, no such extreme caution is called for. Aside from my ball cap and hood, I don’t think a more elaborate disguise is needed. Made men aren’t exactly the kind who come willingly to a cemetery and pay their respects. Aside from the obligatory funeral ceremony, their affair with the dead isn’t that considerate. So running into a capo on this crisp morning is highly unlikely.
I walk slowly but surely to the grave I have memorized by heart. An overwhelming sadness coats the air around me, but I try to remind myself of all the glorious times I was able to spend with my mother away from such a deplorable place. I wish we had made more memories. Over the years I’ve come to realize how precious simple, joyous moments are. Sometimes those mundane recollections are the only things that keep you going. A wisdom my mother tried to impart on me when life still felt cruelly predictable and bleak.
As I walk closer to the tombstone, I see a white rose carefully placed on the granite. The sight of the delicate flower is a small comfort, at least. I know my mother touched so many lives, but in this fast-paced, uncaring world, I’m grateful someone still cares enough to remember her. I have no misguided notions in thinking it was my father who had come to visit her and left such tenderness at her feet. I’m sure he forgot about her the minute dirt hit her coffin.
I just wish he was as aloof with my disappearance from his life, as he must be with my mother’s departure from this world. Though I’m sure if I gave him the chance to be rid of me, I’d get my wish. He’d forget about me too, once he made certain I shared the same grim fate as my mother.
Unfortunately for him, he’ll never get the opportunity to have power over my life again.
Or anyone else’s, for that matter.
“Hi, Mammà. I’ve missed you,” I whisper, picking up the thornless white rose.
My eyes start to prickle with the wave of loss hitting my hollowed chest, and I bite my inner cheek to prevent any such waterworks from occurring.
“I know you said no tears, and I’m trying really hard, but I miss you so much. We both do,” I proclaim, cleaning the snow away from the gravesite, placing the fragile rose back on its original spot.
“You’re probably up there worried about me. And I know I promised not to come here anymore, but I had to, Mammà,” I hush out, hoping she understands why I would put myself at risk in this way.
“Things have changed since the last time we spoke, and I can’t just stand back and watch anymore. I need to do this. I hope you understand. I’m definitely going to need you to watch over and protect us as best you can. I’m in dire need of an angel, Mammà—and if God ever had one here on Earth, it was you.” I silently cry out, anxious to have her hold me as she used to.
Even on my worst days, I could always count on her comfort to ease the pain somewhat. With her gone and unable to offer me any reassurance, I turned to distant recollections of days long gone to keep me steady.
A rebellious, silent tear hits the snow, and I wipe away the remaining sorrowful evidence from my face. I hear distant footsteps, and with my cap still hiding my features, I see a caretaker start his morning routine. The clock is ticking, and even if I’d preferred to have a few more moments to sit here and just talk to the only parent who loved me unconditionally, I know I need to be mindful and keep this visit short. Soon this cemetery’s visitors will start to arrive, and although I don’t believe any of them could be a danger to me, I’d rather not tempt fate. My presence in Chicago will be limited, and aside from the drop-ins I intend to make, no one else should even fathom I’ve returned—especially the forces that made me flee this city in the first place.
“Mammà, I’m going to have to do something. I know you won’t approve, but I just need you to understand and guide me. Guide me and help me maneuver whatever obstacles are put in my way. I need your strength, Mammà. This is bound to get ugly, and I’m far too exhausted from so much ugliness in my life already.”
I look up at the pale blue sky hoping she hears my plea. It’s as close to an actual prayer as I’m capable of doing. The heavens have never been kind to me, but with my mother’s watchful eye and grace, I’m hoping that’s about to change. And Lord knows I need it to. The next few days will be excruciating to live through. But for him, I’ll need to gather all of my wits and do what needs to be done.
It will hurt.
God, it will hurt.
But there is no turning back now. Chicago has always been my home but I’m returning to it a stranger—a traitorous outsider that most would love nothing more than to eliminate. I just hope the love that once bloomed here is enough to sway the ones that matter most to me, not only to spare my life but also help with my cause.
It really is an undeserving favor to ask of them, especially when I’ve caused so much destruction in their lives. Still, lies and truths will be said in the days to come. I have to make sure I remember which ones are which. I can’t be fooled by my own words, and more importantly, by theirs.
These past few days, an infinite amount of questions have consumed my every thought. Too many to count. How will it be to see them all again? How will they react? Who should I approach first? Should I go for safe and comforting or go to the one that will undoubtedly usher me away? Or should I go directly to the love that has the final word in all things and has cause to hate me most?
The last isn’t really a question. I already know the answer.
There is only one man I have to find true courage to face. He’ll be the one with ice in his veins and a glare of disapproval in his hazel eyes. The last person I want to face is the very one I’ll have to initiate the first encounter with. With the other lost pieces of my heart, it won’t be as difficult to omit certain things. With Vincent though, I will have to lie every second that I’m in his presence.
Yes, he’s the one who will cause my soul the most damage, and as such, he’s who I will need to face head-on.
With no apologies and no fear.
Just courage and deceit.
I won’t beg for his leniency, but if it comes down to it, I will beg for his aid. Because without it, condemnation awaits. And I have hurt too many people in the past to let it happen again. For his sake, I have to try. Even if it means to condemn my own soul, and mourn something I will never have again—their love.
FIVE
Vincent
I pull up to my driveway in desperate need of a hot shower and a stiff drink. My body yearns for a full night’s rest and a decent meal, too. Unfortunately, no such thing will be possible since it’s already close to dawn, and in a few hours I’ll have to repeat this hellish day all over again. A shower and a change of cl
othes is the only amenity I’ll have time for.
I knew going in this Cosa Nostra ordeal would create havoc within the syndicate, and that my days would revolve around strategizing the best course of action to take, as well as hear out the elders’ endless opinions. It’s a courtesy I give them, and one I’m starting to resent. Their impish views and craven notions are complete contradictions to my own wants and visions. We’ve had three months to set a plan in motion—one that will disintegrate New York to nothing but a pile of ash. Yet they still come up with ways to stall my attempts in proceeding with an attack.
I have no doubt Bianchi is behind their feeble pleas of caution. Behind closed doors, the devil whispers in their fearful ears, undermining my will at every turn. Aside from complete fratricide, the only choice I have is waiting for Silvio to get sloppy and betray me in a way that can justify me slicing his throat in front of every last capo, putting an end to his influence.
Funny enough, I was under the impression I would be cutting up another traitor in my midst before Bianchi. Unexpectedly, Ciro came back from his New York assignment with pertinent information on where our enemy is most vulnerable. After scrutinizing every detail, and sending out my own secret scouts, I was pleasantly surprised my underboss did such a thorough job. I must admit, when I gave him the task, it was under false pretenses. I was sure once he came face to face with the Cosa Nostra’s don, he would use it to his advantage and strike a deal against me.
Never thought Il Bastardo had any sincere loyalty to anyone, other than to himself. But he has surprised me before. There was a time where he was right at my side in search of someone who meant nothing to him but meant a great deal to me. Those long grueling days, and even more tempestuous nights, made everyone apprehensive of my state of mind, yet Ciro never flinched at my manic, destructive behavior. Dominic might have been the one who kept me sane those two years on the road, but it was Ciro who kept up with my voracious need to scorch the earth until I found who I was looking for.