One of the men stood. He was as tall as the pair that lead Sal, brawny, with a tattoo on his face. He approached, his head tilted slightly, and he raised his chin.
“A messenger,” said the skinny one.
“Got information about Giuseppe,” said his fat companion.
The tattooed man cleared his throat. “The fuck is it you think you’re going?”
“Up,” said the skinny one.
Neither of the men escorting Sal stopped walking, and so neither did Sal.
The other fourteen men remained seated, only a few bothered to even look at the trio as they passed.
Sal put his hand into his jerkin pocket, trying to coat his palm with as much of the crumbled cap of skeev as he could.
The tattooed man put a hand on the skinny man’s chest and stopped him walking.
“Whoa there,” said the tattooed man. “I asked a question. Only seems fair I should have an answer.”
“I need to speak with Uncle,” said the skinny man in a somewhat sullen tone.
The tattooed man was smiling, but the smile didn’t reach his cold gray eyes. “Well now, that wasn’t so hard then, was it?”
The skinny one frowned, shrugged, and began to walk again when the tattooed man stopped him once more with a hand on the chest. “Nobody sees the don. Not until this mess with our cousins has been sorted.”
“I say we do,” said the skinny one. “Uncle will understand. He’ll want to see us.”
“Oy,” said the tattooed one. “You got straw stuffed in that bucket, Torvald? I said nobody sees the boss, not until it’s been sorted, got that?”
Some of the Scarvini men strewn about the furniture in the foyer began to stir, and Sal cursed to himself. He hoped things weren’t about to get messy.
“Sacrull’s balls,” cursed the fat door guard behind Sal. “Dasem, if it was just your brother trying to take him to your uncle, you might be worried, but I can vouch for Tor this time.”
The tattooed Scarvini fixed the fat one with a withering stare and motioned with his head. A group of the men strewn about the furniture stood and began to approach.
Sal cursed and reached for his locket. He focused his will and burst across the room like a bolt of lightning.
Not bothering to look back, Sal ran for the nearest door and slammed it shut behind him.
He quickly focused his will once more and unleashed a bolt of lightning upon the wall.
Shrapnel burst and a large section of the wall collapsed before the door, blocking it shut.
Sal shook—a slight tremor that coursed through his entire body. His head felt light, his muscles rubbery, but he continued on, determined to finish the job.
It was too late to turn back now. If Sal managed to finish off Don Scarvini, it could spell an end to their problems and Lilliana’s.
After ascending a spiral stairwell, Sal reached another hallway, this one larger, more finely decorated and well lit.
Two Scarvini men laid dead upon the stone floor. One man’s chest looked to be caved in. The other man seemed to have taken a blow to the head with something heavy. His skull split open wide to reveal the gray beneath the bloody remains of the shattered bone and torn flesh.
Sal moved through the door, feeling an ominous premonition when he heard commotion around the corner of the vast room. He ran to inspect and saw Odie.
Two Scarvini men were backed up into one corner of the room, spears in hand, a third Scarvini man laid on the ground, his limbs beneath him in awkward angles.
Odie swung his hammer. The hammer smashed the lead spearman on the shoulder, a blow that crumpled the man like paper.
The big man lifted his hammer back over his shoulder, while the remaining Scarvini man charged, his spear lowered and directed at Odie. But the big man let loose of his hammer and grabbed hold of the spear.
For a heartbeat, Odie and the last Scarvini man wrestled over the spear before the big man wrenched it free.
The Scarvini man jumped back and slipped a knife from his belt.
Sal grabbed hold of the locket and focused his will, just as Odie thrust the spear.
A bolt of blue lightning burst from Sal’s open palm and struck the Scarvini man in the torso, sending him careening back against the wall where he collapsed, sizzling and wreaking of burning flesh.
Odie shouted and leaped back, throwing the spear in his surprise.
“Get you did I?” Sal asked.
“That bloody well hurt,” Odie said, bending down to retrieve his hammer.
“Come on,” Sal said. “We need to get upstairs fast. By now, Scarvini has to know we’re coming.”
Sal led the way back out into the hall.
On the next floor, they found a fresh pair of corpses lying near the stairs.
“Sword,” Odie said from just behind.
Sal nodded, moving up the stairs, not bothering to spare the bodies a second glance, he was more than willing to take the big man’s word for it. Sword work would mean Dominik. It was about time they saw a sign of the man.
When they reached the next floor, Sal saw yet another Scarvini corpse, a spray of red upon the wall and a trail of blood leading down the hallway. It was like a monster had stalked the halls of the Scarvini estate. Sal felt a chill run down his spine as he looted a knife off the corpse of the Scarvini man.
What did he really know about Dominik D’Angelo? Was the man a monster in truth, merely a beast clothed in the flesh of a man?
Sal heard shouting, and he began to run. It had come from just around the way.
“Up the stairs,” Odie said.
At the top of the stairs, they saw Dominik with his legion sword held high.
Three Scarvini men shouted and backed up against a door at the end of the hall.
Dominik charged, hacking at the point of a spear with his sword.
One of the men wielding a long knife stabbed at Dominik and took the edge of the longsword between shoulder and neck instead.
The man dropped with a squelch and jerked as he fell the long knife still in his hand.
Before the man hit the ground, Dominik swung around to face the man circling to his right.
The man with the spear took the opening and moved in.
Sal shouted and grabbed hold of the locket. Lightning surged through him as he jolted forward, bursting across the hall in the blink of an eye.
He shoved the stolen knife into the spearman’s gut.
The man dropped to his knees.
Sal pulled, but the knife was stuck, and only came free after a few hard tugs.
The man coughed and groaned as he tried to stand back up.
Sal froze.
The man reached out, and—
Thwack.
The man screamed. Dominik’s sword sank bone-deep before he ripped it free and swung once more a clean arc. The sword cleaved through half of the man’s neck, nearly taking his head off his shoulders, and racking the body to the floor.
Dominik roared, the veins in his neck and head bulging, his eyes red as the dawn. He stalked to the door, the tip of his sword dragging along the wood floor.
Dominik rattled the door handle, and when it didn’t open, he put a shoulder to it.
He took a step back, then, screaming like a berserker, he charged once more, lowering his shoulder and slamming into the door. He backed up and kicked, once, twice.
“Fuck!” He swung his blade. Once, twice, thrice.
Thwack, thwack, thwack, sounded the steel on wood. And splinters flew like shrapnel.
Dominik drew back to kick the door once more, but by then, the big man had appeared. Odie passed by Sal without a word and put one massive hand on Dominik’s chest.
The burning rage within Dominik was instantly quenched, like a torch in a monsoon.
The big man held his hammer one-handed. The head of that hammer, easily big as a loaf of bread, solid iron, and so heavy Sal wondered if even Dominik could have wielded the thing. Yet, the big man one-handed it as though it were
a carpenter’s tool.
Odie lifted the hammer over a shoulder and swung with terrible ferocity. The upper half of the door burst to pieces, some of it folding over the bar lock. Odie lifted his hammer once more, and with the second swing, cleared out what remained of the door’s bottom half.
As the shrapnel flew, the dust yet to settle, two quarrels flew from the room and struck Odie in the chest.
The big man huffed and staggered back.
“Sacrull’s balls!” he cursed, dropping to a knee and ripping the quarrels from his chest.
“Come on,” Dominik shouted at Sal. “Hurry, help me move this crossbar before they can reload those bolt throwers.”
Sal ran to the door with Dominik. The beam was heavy; it must have weighed a good fifteen stone.
Luckily for them both, Dominik made up for Sal’s exhaustion, practically hurling the beam a pace from the door.
His sword abandoned, Dominik rushed through, Sal only a step behind.
Dominik drew his long knife on the run and cut the throat of the nearest crossbowman.The blade met the man’s neck as he still cranked his weapon.
The second man had wit enough to discard his crossbow and draw a knife, but Dominik grabbed him by the wrist and twisted.
The crossbowman shrieked.
Dominik stabbed his long knife into the side of the man’s neck, threw him to the ground, and made a straight line for Don Scarvini himself without sparing the crossbowman a second glance.
Don Scarvini remained standing behind the desk of his solar, tall, and defiant. His sharp chin held high.
Dominik slowed and approached Don Giotto Scarvini as though he were a lion.
“My name is Dominik D’Angelo.”
“I know who you are,” said Scarvini, his sunken eyes dismissive of the predator in his midst. “Dominik the rat, ain’t it?”
Dominik made a noise rather like a growl. “I’m the man’s going to kill you with me bare hands,” Dominik said, stopping short of the don.
“Better men than you have made that threat. I’ve never taken it very seriously.”
“Best take me serious. Started with your sons, and I’m going to end it with you.” Dominik dropped his knife and kicked it away with his boot as it clattered on the wooden floor planks.
“Foolish,” Scarvini said, seemingly unaffected by the mention of his sons. “Though, I’d wager you’re not the brightest man. You’ve come one son early. I’ve three sons, not two.”
“Aye, I’d not forgotten that one, but figured we ought to take care of you first.”
Don Scarvini shifted his footing, backing up a step.
Sal thought he caught sight of something bright white in the don’s hand.
Don Scarvini looked to the door like a rat in search of an escape.
“Took note of this army you were building, we did,” Dominik said, closing the distance to Don Scarvini, who’d backed up into the far wall. “But don’t you worry, once I choked the life out of you, I’m going to feed that runt of yours to the worms, and to Sacrull’s hell with the bloody lot of you!”
Dominik closed on the man, but as he charged, the don swung his arm.
Too late, Sal realized what it was Giotto had been holding—a flasher.
The glass orb shattered with a bang! And blinding light burst forth. For an instant, brilliant white light was all he could see—before everything went black.
Sal staggered, crying out in pain as he clapped his hands to his eyes. His head was spinning, his stomach turning, a dull ringing in his ears. Sal dropped to his knees and made sick there and then.
It seemed like forever before the vomiting ended, and his sight returned. It came back slowly at first, the light burning each time he opened his eyes. But soon enough, he was able to see once more.
When Sal stood, he saw Dominik, the blood dripping from his stomach to the floor. He looked at the empty place where Don Giotto Scarvini had stood moments before, and cursed.
Odie leaned on his hammer, kneeling on one knee. The bloody quarrels laid beside him along with the scatterings of splinters.
“You all right, big man?” Sal said.
“Just fine, little fishes,” Odie said, roaring as he stood.
Sal didn’t fail to notice how much weight he leaned on the hammer as he stood. Still, Sal wasn’t going to offer to carry the man, and so he held his tongue, and let Odie do what he needed.
“How bad?” Sal asked as he went to Dominik to examine his wounds.
Dominik shook his head and stood, wincing as he brushed Sal off with the back of his hand. “Feeling just fine, meself,” Dominik grunted. “How are you feeling?”
“Not so well, if I’m honest,” Sal said. “But we don’t really have time to lick our wounds now, bound to be a whole host of Scarvini men coming our way soon enough.”
Without a word, Dominik limped back across the room and out the door, Odie close at his heels.
Sal followed, keeping his eyes up and away from the ground where the corpses laid, faces shock white, their mouths open, dead eyes hardly translating the horror the men had felt as they had taken their last breaths.
23
Ring Of The Falcon
INTERLUDE, SEVEN YEARS EARLIER
The ships hold stank of pitch, and grain that had gone to rot.
“Just use that one there and let’s get out of here,” Sal whispered to the half-Norsic. They couldn’t very well take the lockbox out in the open, and bulky as it was they’d need something to hide it in until they could get off the ship.
Vinny grabbed the grain sack and cut a slit in the burlap, then poured out a fistful and shoved the lockbox within. Sal would have picked the thing, but they didn’t have time for that now.
“Right, then,” Sal said, as Bartley rejoined them. “Shall we?”
Vinny moved for the stairs.
“Hold up,” said Bartley, grabbing the half-Norsic by the shoulder. “Put this in there.”
“Lady’s sake,” Sal cursed, “Bartley, leave the bottle.”
Vinny looked like he might shove the little Yahdrish until he saw what it was Bartley had stopped him for.
“Fire-wine!” said the Norsic smiling brightly as he swung the grain sack down from his shoulder, spilling more grain.
“Keep your bloody voice down,” Sal said. “And pick that thing up, Bartley, leave the bottle, mate.”
But it seemed Sal’s words were not to be heeded. Bartley hastily scooped more grain from the sack to make room for the bottle of fire-wine, and Vinney shoved the bottle in with the lockbox.
“Right, then, bloody ready now, are you?” Sal said, hardly able to contain his irritation. “Nothing else you wanted to grab before we get ourselves caught and gutted?”
“There’s a chest full where that came from, there is,” said Bartley excitedly.
Vinny practically jumped to his feet. “Where’s that now?”
Sal could have strangled them both. “You want to get us all killed over bloody fire-wine?”
But the other two were already on the move, making for the other end of the ships hold, Vinny pouring grain as he went.
Sal had no choice but to chase after, despite every bit of sense telling him he should just run.
Bartley led them through a cabin door, giddy as a child on the day of End.
The cabin was spare, only a small writing desk and a bed. At the foot of the bed, a wooden chest.
Vinny’s eyes went wide when Bartley opened the lid of the chest to reveal eight more bottles of fire-wine. The half-Norsic quickly shook the rest of the grain from the bag and hastily began shoving bottles through the slit in the burlap. When they’d gotten the last bottle, Vinny smiled at Sal, as though Sal would be as pleased as he was about the take.
Sal shook his head. “let’s get the fuck out of here.”
“Take it easy, mate,” Bartley said consolingly. “What are you worried about? I mean, we’ve got the ring, don’t we?”
“The ring is to get us off th
e docks. It’s not going to save us if any of my uncle’s men come through and find us looting the larder.”
Vinny picked up the bag and slung it over his shoulder, the bottles rattling with the tiny pangs of glass on glass.
Sal shook his head, hardly able to believe his friends.
“Look, it’s going to be fine, what could possibly go wrong?” Bartley asked, a peevish grin on his rodent-like face.
“You’re a fool of a fool if you don’t think anyone is going to notice that sack Vinny is hauling isn’t full of grain.”
“So, we tell them it’s not grain,” said Vinny flashing a smile and a wink.
“And if they ask us what it is?” Sal said.
“Show them the ring,” said Bartley, as though Stefano’s ring was going to get them out of any explanation.
Vinny nodded and stalked off as though this were good enough for him, and Bartley followed in his wake. Sal sighed and went after them, resigned to whatever fate awaited them above decks.
The trio headed for the stairs. Once on the deck, Sal and Bartley laid out the gangplank, and they all crossed onto the docks.
Bartley giggled excitedly. “Nine bottles of fire-wine. What a bloody take I tell you.”
Sal wanted to hit him. Not only was the Yahdrish too loud, but he’d clearly forgotten what it was they’d come for. Leave it to Bartley to lose sight of the prize over a bottle of fire-wine.
The trio made their way along the docks, the smell of salt mingled with the stench of stagnant water and rotting seaweed.
The sack full of bottles clanked a rattled along with each step Vinny took until he came to a sudden halt.
Sal nearly ran headlong into his Norsic friend but managed to stop just in time.
“Get that ring ready,” whispered Vinny, as he shuffled back a step to allow Sal the lead.
Sal brushed past, only to come face to face, not with Svoboda men, but his uncle’s own cronies: Hamish Skein, and Benito Ricci.
Benito and Hamish were at the edge of the dock speaking with two others that Sal recognized as connected guys.
Sal cursed to himself as he nodded respectfully to the made men.
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