Page 77 of Niccolaio Andretti (The Five Syndicates)
I gasp. “Like Vincent Romano.”
Niccolaio reluctantly nods. “Yes, but I would never let that happen. Neither would Asher for that matter.” His eyes meet mine. “There’s another way to pay the blood debt.”
“How?” I ask, though judging by his expression, I know I won’t like the answer.
“When a mafia heir is born, he is automatically and permanently given the title of caporegime. Regardless of excommunication.”
“What are you saying, Niccolaio?”
But I suspect I know what he’s implying. That he can pay the blood debt.
And as mad as I am at him right now, the blood drains from my face when he confirms it.
“If I die, the blood debt is repaid… If I die, all of this ends.”
Chapter Thirty
To err is human,
to forgive, divine.
Alexander Pope
twenty-four years old
I don’t mind the hard punch to the stomach.
In fact, I welcome the physical pain. I relish it. I just wish my brother’s smug fucking face could be anywhere else but here, gleefully witnessing my brutal beating, as one of his soldiers rains punch after punch on my already sore and bruised body.
Ranie’s eyes are full of triumph, as if he caught me, when in reality, I didn’t bother hiding. Perhaps it was a mistake to attend my father’s funeral, but the old man had been a good father to me before everything went to shit. Four years of banishment didn’t erase twenty years of decent parenting, so I figured I’d pay my respects.
And I wasn’t going to do it hiding from afar like a fucking coward.
Instead, I arrived to the funeral in the car my father had bought me on my sixteenth birthday, a black 1970 Chevrolet Chevelle SS 396. A car I stole back from the Andretti compound an hour before the funeral.
It wasn’t exactly hard.
Almost everyone was either preparing to leave for the funeral or was already on their way to it. And when I stepped out of the car at the cemetery, slipping on black aviators that matched my fitted black suit, I saw several slack-jawed faces turn my way.
Not much had changed since I left, and I could immediately tell everyone’s rank by their reaction to my presence. The soldiers tensed, their hands automatically reaching for the weapons they undoubtedly had holstered underneath their suits.
The caporegimes, while tense, put a considerable amount of effort into not reacting, which was a telltale reaction itself. They’re ambitious little fucks, and any display of fear regarding my appearance would be tantamount to cowardice.
And finally, standing beside my father’s closed casket was Ranieri; my dad’s old consiglieri, or chief advisor; and the new capo bastone, the underboss or second-in-command of the Romano family.
The latter two had stoic but resigned expressions on their somber faces, but Ranie graced me with a slight, devilish smirk, which was entirely inappropriate for the occasion and therefore a very Ranieri thing to do.
A murder, an excommunication, and four years later, and all I got from Ranie was a damn smirk.
He made a sweeping gesture with his arm, welcoming me to join him beside our father’s grandiose gold- and marble-embedded, jet black-stained casket, a lavish and colossal thing, which was the pretentious variety of shit my father had been known to prefer while he was still alive. I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that my father had chosen it long before he croaked, unwilling to let us mere mortals fuck up choosing one for him.
If my brother and I were on better terms, I would have whispered some witty joke about it in his ear, and we’d make a competition out of hiding our laughter in front of the thousand strong crowd that came out for my father’s funeral today.
Instead, I was greeted with a mocking smile and the immense pleasure of a murderous glint in Ranie’s eyes. I suspected that he was letting me attend Dad’s funeral out of respect for our father, but I had no doubt that, after the funeral was finished, he had plans for me that involved a cathartic spilling of my blood.
Which brings me to now.
Not even a quarter of an hour has passed since the funeral ended, and I’m already in the basement of the funeral home, kneeling in a pool of my own blood, the blood loss causing my vision to go blurry and my head to pound.
