Sons of War

by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

Antonio looked at the ledgers spread out on the card table. For the past few years he, too, had worried about the future, but where his brother saw a threat to their growing business, Antonio saw opportunity.

  “What’s happening out there is going to help us achieve our dream,” Antonio said.

  “You said it yourself,” Christopher reminded him. A dream without a strategy behind it is just that: a dream.” He took a puff from his cigar and blew the smoke toward the ceiling. “This isn’t Naples. There’s more competition, more gangs. More threats. We narrowly survived the last attack, and I lost my Greta.”

  “I know, and I’m eternally sorry, brother.”

  “We’re weaker than we were then, Antonio. We have to grow before we can expand.”

  “I know, but I’m asking for your trust.”

  “You have it,” Christopher said. “I’m just waiting to hear your brilliant plan for how we’re going to get rich here and not get ourselves killed. Because we’ve been here six years, and I’m starting to worry, especially with the news.”

  “That,” Antonio said, gesturing toward the screen, “is a good thing for us, and in a few hours you’ll see why.”

  He cracked a rare grin. A good player showed his cards only when he had to. He didn’t like giving away information, but it was time to share some things with his brother and his most trusted confidants.

  Christopher leaned forward and flicked his cigar ash into a glass dish. The news switched to the dirty bomb in San Francisco.

  “Aren’t you worried about this?” Christopher asked.

  Antonio took another sip of his espresso. “I’m worried for my family, yes.”

  “I am too,” Christopher said. “I don’t want to lose my boy like I lost Greta.”

  “We’ve survived far worse, and I’ve been preparing for this war.”

  Christopher picked up the remote and turned up the TV. Images of the reorganized National Guard came on screen. But the story wasn’t about the arrival of AMP troops in Los Angeles; it was about the recruiting stations.

  “AMP centers like this are popping up all across the country, attracting jobless men and women who desperately need a paycheck,” said the announcer. She stood near the long line of people outside a recruiting center with a banner sporting AMP’s raven logo.

  “Noncommissioned officers from other branches are enlisting, and so are mercenary guns for hire. Tens of thousands of National Guard members have been deployed to the streets.”

  “Jesus,” Christopher said. “These news anchors are starting to sound like the state crap we had in Italy—basically a propaganda wing for the government.”

  Antonio steepled his hands, but he wasn’t praying. He prayed only when he needed to, and his plan would work without an assist from God.

  “This is all good for business,” he said. “The police are already distracted with the looters and rioters. This could be the chance we’ve been waiting for. We know how to make money in the slums, and we know how to organize in situations like this. Don Giuseppe and our papà taught us well.”

  “God rest their souls,” Christopher said, crossing himself.

  Antonio pulled out the necklace of the Moretti family’s patron saint, Francis of Assisi. He kissed the gold charm, saying a prayer for all those they had lost.

  Thinking of the ambush at the basilica filled Antonio with rage. Feeling his thumping heart reminded him he was still alive, and as long as it continued to pump blood through his veins, he would get his revenge on the rest of the men responsible.

  Next on his list was Don Enzo Sarcone. The bastardo who helped betray his family had also moved to Los Angeles, when the other families turned on him a few years back. It was the other part of the reason Antonio had come here: not just to grow his business, but to kill Enzo and poach his customers. That day was soon coming.

  He pushed thoughts of revenge aside and walked over to the bulky safe on the floor behind his desk. Punching in his code, he reached inside to grab what remained of their reserves—just shy of sixty thousand dollars. Returning to the table, he set down the stacks of hundreds.

  “The police, AMP, and the rest of the military branches are out en masse,” Christopher said. “It’s a bad time to be making a move in the drug trade. Besides, we’re just small fish …”

  “That’s exactly why it’s time. The police and soldiers are too preoccupied to bother with—what did you call it?—‘small fish.’ They’re focused on all the rioters and the established gangs.”

  “We don’t have enough men to expand,” Christopher said. “We’re hardly making ends meet as it is. We got the Norteño Mafia controlling dozens of Latino gangs. We got the Crips. We got the Bloods. We got the Southeast Asian Boys, the …” He puffed on the cigar. “Hell, we can’t even take out Enzo.”

  Antonio heard the anger and struggled to manage his own. “Patience is the virtue you never had, brother,” he said. “You must remember, life is long, and to achieve success requires patience and planning. I’ve had plenty of time to plot our revenge, and the time is almost here.”

  Christopher did not reply.

  “Los Angeles is like Naples with the gangs,” Antonio continued. “Which is another reason why I decided to settle here of all places. We understand how this environment works, and that gives us an edge. In Italy, the government is corrupt, and so are the police and the army. Same thing is starting to happen here, and the other gangs you just rattled off don’t know how to deal with the cops—or with AMP. I do.”

  Christopher leaned forward to flick ash into the bowl. “So what if we know how to deal with dirty cops, dirty soldiers, and dirty politicians?”

  “Because now is our chance to start working with them.”

  Christopher sat back in his chair, considering the words.

  A knock came at the door, and Raffaello Tursi opened it.

  “Don Antonio,” he said. “Your guests have arrived.”

  “Thank you. Send them in,” Antonio said.

  Raff nodded and backed away, but Antonio told him to hold up.

  “I need you to watch over Lucia and Marco tonight,” he said. “I’m not sure when I’ll be home.”

  “Of course, sir,” Raff said politely.

  The soldier was a lonely, quiet man who Antonio often thought belonged in a different line of work. Antonio had never asked Raff to kill anyone, and that was exactly why he was looking after the family tonight instead of coming with them.

  The door opened again, and their much younger cousin Zachary Moretti stepped inside the room, wearing a cocky grin. Since that fateful day in Naples, he had turned his extra weight into muscle. And today he had added a blond Mohawk to his presentation.

  “Don Antonio,” he said in a thick accent. “Christopher.”

  “What the hell kind of animal you got on your head?” Christopher asked. “You better knock it off there before it shits on you.”

  Antonio laughed, but Zachary just shrugged. “I kinda like it.”

  “Where’s Lino?” Antonio asked.

  “On his way.”

  Zachary walked farther into the room, his chest muscles bulging beneath the big gold cross hanging out of his open track jacket.

  “Well, you gonna tell us what happened?” Christopher asked.

  Zachary looked to Antonio for permission.

  “Wait till Lino is here,” Antonio said. After the eight years he had already waited for his revenge, what were a few more minutes?

  “What’s it like?” Christopher asked. “Our home—what’s it like now?”

  “Not the same as it was,” Zachary said. “Things are changing there, and not for the better, I don’t think.”

  His English, like Christopher’s, wasn’t the best, which was partly why Antonio insisted they speak in their second language. He never wanted to be in a position where people, espec
ially enemies, could speak and he not understand. For the same reason, he was also learning Spanish.

  Shoes clicked on the tile floor outside. They could only be the Italian leather shoes of Lino De Caro. The wiry, rail-thin man entered wearing a suit, two gold hoops in his ears, and sunglasses propped up on his head.

  “You got a haircut too,” Christopher said.

  Lino ran a hand over his shaved head. Looking at Zachary, he said, “Thanks for waiting, Yellowtail.”

  Zachary shrugged. “Sorry, man.”

  “Yellowtail? ” Christopher said. “Who the hell is … Oh.”

  “My new nickname,” Zachary said. “I didn’t ask for it. Guess it’s going to stick, though.”

  “Cut the shit,” Antonio said. He gestured toward the card table and the six bank-wrapped stacks of bills piled in the center. Someday, they would have a real war table, where they would discuss multi-million-dollar operations. But getting there was going to entail some major risks.

  Yellowtail and Lino sat down.

  “Is it done?” Antonio asked.

  They both nodded.

  “Every last one of our enemies is in the ground or has fled and won’t be coming back,” Lino said. “We can return to our home whenever we want, and tell our relatives to come out of hiding.”

  Antonio sat back in his chair, his body numb and on fire at the same time. “Not all our enemies,” he said.

  All three men looked at him, but none spoke.

  “There’s a reason I didn’t come with you to Naples,” Antonio said. “I’ve decided the Morettis’ future is here in Los Angeles, where we can expand. I’ve already put things in motion. Soon, cousin Vito and our other surviving relatives will make the journey to the Stati Uniti, to join us.”

  “But—” Yellowtail began to say, running a hand through his blond spikes.

  “I’ve made up my mind, and the wheels are in motion,” Antonio said. “I didn’t come to America just to escape the bloodshed. I came here to destroy the Sarcone family. Nor did I come here just to make a decent living. I came here to make a fortune. The crumbling economy is providing us with an opportunity to do just that, and I need the help of every blood member of our family.”

  Yellowtail looked wide-eyed at Antonio, but Lino remained calm as usual, while Christopher wore his perpetual frown.

  “Naples is no longer our home,” Antonio said. “We must accept that.” He glanced at his watch and then handed Christopher a bag to put the cash in. “Time to put my money where my mouth is, as the Americans like to say. Follow me and get ready.”

  “Ready for what?” Christopher asked, rising from his chair.

  Antonio stopped in the doorway, avoiding his brother’s gaze. “Either you trust me or you don’t.”

  They left the office and passed the small rooms that served as living quarters during long nights, and into the open warehouse stuffed with racks of plastic-wrapped designer clothing.

  Vinny Moretti and his best friend, Daniel “Doberman” Pedretti, were taking inventory. Both young men turned and stood side by side, stiff and respectful to the older men.

  Doberman dropped his heavily inked arms. He stood a good four to five inches taller than Vinny, who was short, like his father.

  “I want that stuff all sold off in bulk,” Antonio said. “I want it moved fast.”

  The order got him a sharp look from Christopher. Antonio didn’t blame his brother. They would make far less selling in bulk, but for his plan to work, he needed the cash now.

  “Right away, Don Antonio,” Vinny said.

  He was a good boy. Strong like his father, and smarter. Antonio hoped Marco would turn out as smart and strong as his older cousin. But he had a long way to go. Not even twelve yet, he cared only for video games and music. Girls hadn’t even caught his eye yet.

  Next, the group moved through an open door into the connecting garage, where they stored a Toyota van, an early 2000s Mercedes-Benz C-Class sedan, and a three-year-old Cadillac Escalade. Two low-level Moretti associates, neither of them made men, were standing guard in the garage. They watched Antonio move to a wall of lockers where they kept gear and weapons.

  “Load up, gentlemen.” He took off his jacket and put on a bulletproof vest, cinching down the sides. The other men followed suit. Yellowtail grabbed his AR-15, Christopher his Mossberg twelve gauge, and Lino loaded an extra magazine into his MP5.

  Antonio tucked his pistol into his concealed waistband holster and put his jacket back on. Then they all piled into the Escalade, with Yellowtail behind the wheel.

  The two Moretti soldiers holding security opened the garage door to a dark sky and a deserted street. Most people were off the streets long before the nine o’clock curfew went into effect. It was being monitored by both the police and AMP.

  “Where to?” Yellowtail asked.

  Antonio pulled out his cell phone, brought up the directions, and handed the phone up to the front seat. Yellowtail zoomed in on the address and laughed.

  “Good one, Don Antonio,” he said.

  “What’s funny?”

  Yellowtail’s forehead creased under the strip of bleached hair. “You want me to drive to Don Sarcone’s house?”

  Antonio nodded. “I want to see where the snake curls up at night.”

  The other men said nothing as Yellowtail pulled out of the garage, and barely a word during the drive through Long Beach, most of which was controlled by the Bloods and the Norteño Mafia.

  Several AMP Humvees met them. In the turret of each truck, a soldier swept the barrel and spotlight of an M240 machine gun back and forth over the government housing projects.

  “That curfew starts in just over two hours,” Christopher said. “And if we get pulled over, how we gonna explain the weapons and cash?”

  “Don’t get pulled over,” Antonio replied, gazing out the window at one of the roughest neighborhoods in Compton.

  It was always the impoverished who got trapped in bad situations. Childhood memories surfaced from when his family lived in a place like this, before his father and uncle got into the drug business and made millions.

  Things were tough when he was a boy, and things were tough now. The things that Antonio and Christopher had done in their lives would haunt most older men, but Antonio was grateful for the events that built his character, and he lived without regrets. Not only had he broken the chains of poverty, he had survived two wars and made it to America.

  The time of struggle was almost over. The time to rebuild the Moretti family was finally upon them.

  Yellowtail moved over to avoid a line of cars waiting at a gas station. An AMP Humvee with the black raven’s-head insignia pulled into the parking lot, and armed soldiers jumped out, yelling at the people waiting their turn.

  “Fuck me!” Yellowtail said. “Petrol is twenty bucks a gallon!”

  “Did you see the price on water?” Christopher said. “Ten bucks for a bottle.”

  Antonio scanned the haggard faces waiting for gas. Many were parents with children in their cars, fueling up to make a run for wherever they deemed safer than here.

  They turned down an expensive strip of houses in Los Cerritos, the Long Beach neighborhood where the head of the Sarcone family lived.

  The area had avoided most of the street crime because families hired their own muscle to protect their estates. Yellowtail parked under a coral tree, out of view of several armed men patrolling the sidewalks. But Antonio wasn’t here to make trouble. He was here for motivation, to see the house of the last man alive who had betrayed the Moretti family.

  Antonio spoke to his men in Italian, something he rarely did, calling the Morettis perdenti—underdogs. This much they had in common with Canavaro and Sarcone, the two families that had conspired to bring them down. “Underdogs have turned empires into ashes. We’re going to build ours from the embers.”


  Part of being a leader was learning from one’s enemies. It was time to use their underdog status to their advantage.

  “Take a good look,” Antonio said. “This is where we will live soon. But before we cut the head off this serpente, we must prepare.”

  Glancing at his watch, he saw they were about to be late for their real mission.

  They drove another fifteen minutes, to a parking lot behind an abandoned Walmart. Plywood covered the broken windows and shattered doors. Several fast-food restaurants and chain stores were also boarded up, and there wasn’t a moving car in sight. A lone AMP Humvee was parked in the middle of the lot.

  The view reminded Antonio of the slums in Naples.

  “Looks clear, but there’s lots of places people could be hiding out,” Christopher said, clutching his shotgun.

  His brother was right, and Antonio felt the trickle of anxiety that came with uncertainty. But it wasn’t enough to deter him from the mission.

  “Park over there,” he said, pointing toward the middle of the parking lot. That would give them multiple escape routes if they needed to leave in a hurry. Yellowtail parked a few hundred feet from the Humvee and shut off the lights.

  “Who’s that?” Lino asked.

  “A friend from AMP,” Antonio said.

  He kissed the medal on his gold necklace and said a short prayer. This time, it was called for. Then he grabbed the bag of money and got out of the Escalade.

  “Stay here and keep it running,” he said to Yellowtail.

  Christopher and Lino followed him toward the Humvee, where two soldiers cradling M4A1 carbines stood in front of the grill guard.

  “You’re late,” said the bulkier one, a corporal with the beginnings of a gut hanging over his belt.

  The other AMP soldier was his opposite, trim with a square jaw. He reached out his hand.

  “Good to see you, Sergeant Rush,” Antonio said.

  “You got the cash?” said the heavyset one.

  Antonio directed his gaze at the corporal.

  “Relax, Craig,” Rush said.

  The corporal gave a snort. “I don’t like dealing with these guineas.”