Page 64 of Mafia Daddy

I close my eyes and let the flashback pull me under…

MANY YEARS AGO…

I am nine years old, barefoot in one of the upstairs hallways of the big house. It is late, way past my bedtime, but shouting woke me…

Angry voices. The mind I should avoid.

But that’s not me. When I sense danger, I move toward it.

I creep down the wide wooden staircase, careful not to make a sound, clutching my stuffed rabbit to my chest. The argument is coming from the study. I crouch low near the floor and peer through the narrow crack in the door.

Papa and Uncle Paolo are inside. Papa is pacing, hands clenched at his sides. Uncle Paolo sits behind the big desk, calm as always, but his eyes are cold.

“You’re going too far, Paolo,” Papa says, his voice low and furious. “This isn’t how we do things. Not anymore.”

Paolo leans back in the chair. “The family needs strength, not your soft heart. We have opportunities. Real power. You’re either with us or you’re in the way.”

Papa slams his hand on the desk. “I won’t let you drag us into that. Never. And certainly not like this.”

The argument grows louder.

I press myself smaller against the wall, heart racing. Suddenly Papa storms toward the door. I barely have time to duck behind a cabinet before he charges out, slamming the door behind him. He doesn’t see me. He never sees me.

With Papa gone, I creep closer again and look through the crack. Uncle Paolo is alone now. He picks up the phone on the desk, dials a number, and speaks in a low whisper I can barely hear.

“There is no going back now.”

PRESENT DAY…

I open my eyes with a sharp inhale. The memory hits me like a punch to the chest. That phone call. The cold finality in Uncle Paolo’s voice. I always thought my father’s death was the result of a rival hit, some old feud.

But now… now I wonder if Paolo had something to do with it.

Did he removed his own brother to clear the path for his vision of the family?

“Milo?” Kobek asks, noticing my expression. “You okay?”

I swallow hard. “We need to leave. We need to leave right now.”

Kobek doesn’t argue. He puts the car into gear and starts reversing slowly down the dirt track. But we have only gone a few meters when the sound of gunfire erupts behind us: sharp, rapid cracks that shatter the quiet afternoon.

“Shit!” Kobek swerves, accelerating hard.

I twist in my seat and look back. A row of Lentini men with assault rifles are scrambling out from hidden positions near the gate, jumping into two black SUVs. They are coming after us.

“Kobek, they’re following!” I shout.

“I see them,” he replies through gritted teeth, pushing the sedan faster along the narrow track.

I turn to look at him and my stomach drops. A red patch is spreading across the front of his shirt, just below his shoulder.

Blood.

He has been hit.

“Kobek… you’re bleeding!” I cry, reaching for him.

He grimaces but keeps his eyes on the road, one hand pressed to the wound. “It’s through and through. I’ll live. Just hold on.”