Sons of War 3: Sinners

by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

  “Please, as soon as possible.”

  “You have my word,” Marks said.

  They hugged, and Marks left Dom standing in his little apartment. A few minutes later, he joined his team back at Moose’s. He felt numb as he opened the door.

  Rocky and Bryon were arm-wrestling on the floor, while Isaac laughed and cheered.

  “That’s all you got, kid?” Rocky said.

  Moose’s son grunted. He was no match for Rocky, but Rocky was putting on a good act. Face red, muscles bulging, panting, he appeared to be putting up a good fight.

  Bryon looked just as serious.

  “Oh no, oh no, oh no,” Rocky panted, lowering his arm slowly toward the carpet. He grunted louder before letting his hand touch. Bryon threw his arms up in victory.

  “Damn,” Rocky said, massaging his biceps. “You’re stronger than you look, kid.”

  “Uncle Dom, I got him!” Bryon crowed. “I got Rocky!”

  “Nice work, buddy,” Dom said, trying not to think about what Marks had just told him.

  “Rocky’s weak,” Tooth said with a playful grin. “I beat him every time we get in the ring.”

  From the couch, Bettis laughed for the first time in days.

  “That’s not true, and I look forward to beating your . . . your butt next time we get in the ring, brother.”

  “Bring it,” Tooth replied, taking a swig of beer.

  “Do you guys ever stop with the dick-measuring?” Camilla said, apparently less delicate than Rocky with her word choices.

  She rolled her eyes, got up, and returned from the kitchen with two beers. Taking a swig from one, she sat on the floor with Cayenne and Tamara, who was rubbing the pit bull’s belly. She handed Dom one of the beers.

  “You okay?” she asked. “You don’t look so good.”

  “Got a cough, probably from taking that bullet to my vest,” he said, rubbing his sore ribs. “You’re the one that looks rough, though.”

  A bandage covered her forehead above her right eyebrow, and a nasty bruise crossed her chest diagonally, like a macabre beauty-pageant sash.

  She smiled. “Oh, this was so worth it,” she said with a cute smile.

  “Dom, got a second?”

  Yolanda beckoned him from the hallway. He followed her into the shadows, out of view of the other Saints and the kids. She checked the front door to make sure it was closed.

  Seeing Moose still outside, she said, “I’m going to be frank, Dom. I’m really worried. I haven’t seen Andre much lately, and he’s been more irritable. Won’t tell me what’s going on.”

  “Things are getting better,” Dom said. “I’m looking after him, don’t worry.”

  She looked at the floor, thinking, then looked back up. “Andre promised me he won’t make me a widow, but I need you to make me a promise too.”

  Dom nodded.

  “Promise me you won’t sacrifice yourself or my husband—even if it means killing Antonio Moretti.”

  “I promise I won’t ever sacrifice Andre,” Dom said.

  She put a hand on his arm, a gentle touch, and left him in the hallway. Camilla moved into view, brows arched.

  Dom took a swig of his beer as the front door opened and Moose brought in the meat, kicking the door shut behind him. “Dinner is served, baby.”

  “I’m fucking starving,” Tooth said, nearly jumping off the couch.

  Yolanda shot Tooth a glare. “Callum! Language!”

  “Sorry. I’m freaking starving,” he said, grinning.

  “Better,” Yolanda replied.

  Camilla helped her set the table.

  The lights suddenly flickered, and the oscillating fan clanked off.

  “Well, that’s shit,” Rocky said.

  Tooth wagged his head. “Grid must be down again.”

  “We have candles and lanterns in the corner,” Yolanda said, treating it as no big deal.

  The kids took seats as Camilla and Dom worked on lighting candles and turning on the lanterns. When they finished, the adults and kids clustered around the small wooden table set in the kitchen. Victoria helped four-year-old Isaac, the youngest of the kids, into a chair.

  Moose placed the burgers in the center of the table, and Yolanda passed a plate of veggies around. She smiled at Bryon and Tamara, both grinning like kids on Christmas morning.

  Dinner rarely involved fresh meat, especially beef, but Yolanda had managed to grab some at the market and invited everyone over.

  Bettis held out his hands. “I’d like to say a prayer.”

  “Man, always with the prayers,” Rocky said. He glanced up at Bettis. “No offense.”

  “Go ahead,” Yolanda said to the kids, who bowed their heads.

  Dom squeezed Camilla’s hand, and she squeezed back. He held Tamara’s soft little hand in his other.

  “Dear God, thank you for this bountiful food,” Bettis said. “Thank you for our friends and for the family that we all have become. We ask you to bless this food and bless us. In the Lord’s name, we pray.” He crossed himself and leaned back in his chair. “I also want to thank our leader, Dominic.”

  Everyone looked over at Dom, who reared back slightly, his napkin like a white flag in his hand. He didn’t like the attention and normally wasn’t much for speeches.

  “Thank you for putting together our team and making us a family, in a place where family is all we have,” Bettis said. “Without you, we would all be lost.”

  “Thanks, boss,” Tooth said. “Tonight, we celebrate our most recent victory.”

  “Thanks for looking after my dad, Uncle Dom,” Bryon said quietly. “He’s lucky to have such a good best friend.”

  “Oh, I’m the lucky one,” Dom said. He tore off a piece of meat and handed it down to the only team member who couldn’t talk.

  Cayenne greedily accepted the bite.

  “Shit is dope,” Pork Chop said. He wiped the ketchup from his beard with his sleeve.

  Namid shook his head. “You don’t have any manners, do you?”

  They ate in the glow of candles, and despite the heat and the noise outside, Dom relaxed in his chair, enjoying this moment with the people he would do anything for.

  This was his family now.

  But as he looked around at the smiling faces, he couldn’t help feeling that it was all temporary, like a can of soup with an expiration date. The Saints had been lucky thus far, but their luck wouldn’t last forever.

  One thing was certain, though: Max Sammartino had run out of lives.

  Soon, Dom would pay the man a visit at the House of the Devil and find out whether he had been behind Monica’s kidnapping.

  Maybe she was still out there. Maybe he would find her.

  A small flicker of hope emerged in his hardened heart, and he embraced it. Halfway through the meal, a knock came on the door. Namid got up from the table and looked through the peephole.

  “It’s your brother, Ray,” he said to Moose.

  Moose looked at Dom, who shrugged. As far as Ray knew, they all were sheriff’s deputies who worked at Refugee Processing Center 4, nothing more.

  “Let him in,” Moose said.

  Namid opened the door, and Ray walked in wearing a leather jacket and holding a six-pack. He smiled. “Well, hell, no one told me you guys were having a party. How come no one invited me to this shindig?”

  -10-

  “I don’t want this life for Marco,” said Lucia. “We both agreed that he would not join the family business. That’s why we sent him to school in—”

  Antonio raised a hand to cut her off. His wife shied away from him. Not because she was afraid he would hit her—he had never laid a hand on her—but because she knew when she had said something disrespectful.

  “I will protect him, and so will Vin,” Antonio growled.

  Vinny stood in the living room, hands cupped behind his back, looking as nervous as his father. They had good reason. Lucia was not happy with the decision to introduce Marco to the family business.

>   “That expensive school taught Marco nothing about real life,” Antonio said. “All he does is party. Vinny will teach him how to be a man.”

  “It was your idea to send him to Italy,” Lucia replied. “I listened to you then because you convinced me it was best, but this . . .”

  “I know, and I’m still glad we sent him away for those years, because he learned legit business. Now he must learn our business.”

  “So you’re going to give him a seat at the table?”

  “If he earns it, yes. And I promise you, if that happens, he will do something safe. Something with numbers, in an office, not out on the streets.”

  “I don’t like this at all,” she said. “We have one child—”

  “He’s not a child anymore. Chrissy, Vin, meet me downstairs,” Antonio said.

  He walked over to the window while his brother and nephew left, the door clicking shut behind them. Antonio knew that Lucia would follow him to the bulletproof picture window, and he wanted her to see what he was looking at.

  The view of the pool wasn’t good from this angle, but it was easy to make out Marco down there with his friends. Girls in bikinis sunbathed on this unusually clear and hot day while his guy friends drank beers, smoked joints, and listened to music that Antonio could hear faintly.

  He saw one of the kids snorting off a table. The sight made him clench his jaw, but it was the thumping bass line that infuriated him.

  Antonio hated noise. He hated seeing his son waste his life even more.

  “You know what?” Antonio said. “Let’s go downstairs and settle this the old-fashioned way.”

  “He won’t like being embarrassed in front of his friends,” Lucia said.

  Antonio turned to his wife. “What he likes is not part of the conversation.”

  She bit the side of her lip.

  “Lucia, this has been a long time coming,” Antonio said. “Let’s go.”

  They left their apartment and stepped into the elevator. His heart pounded, not just because of his disagreement with his wife, but because of everything else going on. Maybe he should just tell her. Maybe that would help her realize just how much he had on his plate.

  Or it could make things worse.

  They had lost a crew and an entire shipment of product and medicine in an ambush. And while the peace treaty with Esteban was still intact, it could easily shatter if the Vegas saw any weakness.

  Antonio couldn’t let that happen. Now more than ever, he had to show strength.

  Christopher and Vinny were waiting in the lobby downstairs. They both stood, and Antonio waved them over.

  He led them through the back exit, to the pool. Two guards watching over the party stiffened and gave nods as the four approached.

  Antonio put on his sunglasses and pushed open the door, holding it for Lucia.

  She stepped out into the sunshine, basking for a moment. This was the nicest day in months, although the midmorning temperature was already tipping ninety degrees—a bit high for his liking.

  He loosened his tie as he walked to the pool.

  Four girls and four boys hung out with Marco. Antonio knew his guy friends. There was Nick, a well-built southern boy with a mane of blond hair and striking blue eyes. Giovanni, a handsome kid with movie-star good looks second only to Marco’s. And, of course, the identical twin brothers Alex and Pietro. Antonio still couldn’t tell the entitled pricks apart.

  Several of the girls sat up, sweat dripping down their perfectly sculpted bodies.

  “Mr. Moretti,” Giovanni said, giving them a million-dollar grin.

  “Don Antonio,” Vinny said.

  “Ah, yes, my apologies, Don Antonio,” Giovanni replied.

  Marco, who had just jumped in the water, surfaced and swam over.

  “Dad, Mom,” he said. “What are you guys doing down here? I thought I was . . .”

  Antonio crouched at the edge of the pool. “Playtime’s over,” he said.

  Marco looked to Lucia, and Antonio was relieved to see her backing him. She gestured for their son to get out of the water.

  “But we’re—”

  “Finished here,” Antonio said.

  The other youngsters groaned but quickly grabbed their clothes and left. Marco watched them go, his face red with anger.

  “Later, Marco,” said one of the girls.

  Marco sucked in a deep, angry breath. “This is bullshit,” he said. “How dare you come and embarrass me like that in front of my friends!”

  Antonio resisted the urge to push his son back into the pool.

  “You said you wanted a seat at the table,” he said. “This is not how you earn it. Now, get some clothes on and meet your cousin in thirty minutes.”

  Marco looked to Vinny. He hung back with Christopher. Still in their dark suits, they had begun to sweat.

  “I already got something in motion,” Marco said. “You’d be proud, Dad, but I guess you’d rather just come down here and embarrass me than trust that I know what I’m doing.”

  Antonio almost laughed, but the rage building in him suffocated any jocularity. He looked at his brother and nephew and then jerked his chin at the door. They both took off without saying a word.

  “Wait, Vin,” Antonio called out.

  Vinny stopped.

  Marco wrapped a towel around his waist. Like his friends, he spent hours in the gym almost every day. Antonio wished his son would focus as hard on doing something with his life as he did on his body and chasing girls.

  Lucia walked inside with Marco, and Antonio remained out in the sun with his nephew. He had no idea what his son had in motion, but he was curious.

  “You know what Marco was talking about?” Antonio asked Vinny.

  “Not a clue.”

  Antonio watched his son open the door and go inside. He pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at his forehead.

  “Thank you for agreeing to look after your cousin,” Antonio said.

  “Sure.”

  Antonio was surprised by the short answers, which he saw as a sign of disrespect. He knew that Vinny didn’t like the idea of taking Marco under his wing, but normally he was a lot more diplomatic about orders he didn’t like.

  That made Antonio even angrier.

  He stepped closer, leaning in.

  “What happened at the port was your fault, Vin. You got caught with your pants down.”

  “I’m—”

  “Don’t talk,” Antonio said. “Just remember, what happened there can happen at any time. I didn’t think I would need to explain this to you like I did to Marco, but the Saints are our most dangerous enemy yet.”

  “I won’t underestimate them again.”

  “I know, because next time I won’t be so forgiving.”

  Antonio drew in a breath and looked at the ruined skyline. “I need you to show Marco how to survive out there—to teach him how things work, and most of all, to keep him alive.”

  * * *

  The crackle of static filled the Jeep as Camilla twisted through the channels. She stopped on the weather channel for another predictable forecast.

  “Hot, hot, and really fucking hot,” she muttered as she took a swig of water. The type of heat that made people irritable—and sometimes got them killed.

  Only two in the afternoon, and it was already a hundred degrees. In the past hour, she had listened over the encrypted police-band radio to reports of three murders, confirming her theory.

  A sweat necklace rimmed the white tank top under her brown long-sleeved T-shirt. She sat in the Jeep with Namid and Pork Chop, waiting for their new CI to make a move.

  “It’s going to be blazing hot this afternoon, my friends,” said meteorologist Regina Díaz. “But I’ve got good news. We’re looking at clear skies for the next twenty-four hours. No dust storms or acid rain in sight.”

  Camilla turned the radio off and went back to fiddling with the air-conditioning controls.

  “Great time for it to go out,” Pork Chop said. He dragged
a bandanna across his forehead.

  “Could be worse,” Namid said, shrugging. “At least, there aren’t any dust storms today.”

  “How’s Victoria doing?” Camilla asked, trying to make small talk.

  Namid smiled. “She’s fine. Isaac has been helping out. He’s going to make a good big brother.”

  Camilla smiled as she fiddled with the air vents, but the hot air just made things worse. She finally gave up and rolled down the window. Dust billowed up from a passing car, trash swirling in the wake.

  The city smelled like a dumpster.

  It didn’t deter the hoopsters in Lincoln Heights. Several games were going on the courts, between guys wearing nothing but shorts and sneakers.

  She glanced back over her filtered mask at Pork Chop, then over at Namid. They all were operating on a few hours’ sleep, but you couldn’t really tell by looking at Namid—surprising since he also had his pregnant wife and young son to look after.

  The handsome Mojave Indian had perfect tan skin and a hard part in his black hair. In his early thirties, he always spoke in a calm and sophisticated tone.

  Pork Chop, on the other hand, looked like a junkie. The white kid from rural Nebraska had a mottled complexion, and bags rimming his bloodshot blue eyes. A trucker hat turned backward covered his bald head.

  Camilla stole a glance in the mirror. Cuts and bruises from her night at the Catalina still marked her freckled face.

  But instead of time off, Dom had sent them right back into the field. He was always the guy with a plan, the smartest guy she knew. Sometimes, she wondered what he would be if the United States hadn’t collapsed. He had killer instincts to go with his smarts, so maybe an entrepreneur or CEO. Perhaps even a fancy-pants politician.

  Nah, politics isn’t for Dom.

  She never thought about what she would be doing if not this. The streets around her were her reality, and she scanned them for the target. The CI was the one who had tipped Marks off about the port shipment. Now they had to bring him in.

  “I figured he’d be lying low after what happened,” Camilla said.

  Namid nodded. “Kid has balls, I’ll give him that. But apparently he forgot to tell Marks the cops were going to show up.”