Kiss Of Death: A Dark Mafia Romance

Nero

Gio sits in the passenger seat, and I can practically feel the tension coming from him. I usually acknowledge his advice, after all, he is a Made man born and bred. He knows what it takes to hold power in the mafia, but right now, I don’t give a fuck about the mafia. I’m going to use every inch of power that I have to get Una back.

We pull up at the shipping dock and I get out of the car. The briny smell of the harbor hits me as Gio comes to stand beside me. We make our way towards the small maze of shipping containers in the center of the shipping yard. That constant rage is beating away at me, consuming everything in its attempt to fill the gaping void left by having Una torn from my side. The hinges creek loudly when I open the door of the dark blue container, the paint peeling off the iron beneath. The single light bulb rigged from the ceiling casts a harsh yellow glow over the inside of the container. Jackson and Devon are here, both their faces set in a stony mask. Jackson nods to me when I enter. Devon is young for a capo, and unlike Jackson’s hulking bulk, he could be a businessman, a young banker or something of the nature, except for the fact that he’s a bloodthirsty little shit. Gio is my second because I’ve known him my whole life. He has morals, and he’s the only person that can possibly rein me in when I go too far, which is often. Jackson and Devon are my capos because they have none. Jackson moves to the side, revealing two figures huddled against the back wall, one clutched in the arms of the other.

“Bring them,” I say, taking my gun from my holster. Jackson grabs the woman by the arm and drags her to her feet. She immediately starts crying, heaving, desperate sobs as she reaches for the child. Devon grabs the kid. They’re both shoved to their knees in front of me.

“Take the bags off.”

Jackson yanks the bags from their heads and they both blink. The woman is probably in her late thirties. Her face is tear-stained and her dark hair is matted to her cheeks. The kid is a teenager. Despite having pissed on himself, he’s not crying, though his bottom lip trembles. They’re the wife and son of a bratva leader here in New York, and that’s unfortunate for them.

As I look at them, I know I should feel something, because even for me this is bad. These people are complete strangers to me. They didn’t take Una. They don’t want to take my child. And perhaps, as I look at this kid I should be thinking: what if this were my child? But I don’t. I feel nothing but cold fury. I think of nothing but sending Nicholai a message loud and fucking clear: I will keep coming for you, and I will spill innocent blood until the streets of New York run red.

I lift my gun and Gio shifts beside me. “Nero, please…”

I glare at him. “Do not question me.”

He swipes his palm over his face. “You are crossing a line you can’t come back from,” he pleads, eyes flicking between me and the woman in front of me. She turns, pulling her child into her arms as she cries.

“In war, there are casualties, Gio. Until I get Una back, this is fucking war.” I lift the gun and pull the trigger. Maybe I’m every bit as bad as Nicholai. I don’t care.