Page 31 of King of Omen

The Abrazzio clan were the most vocal of the Alliance members, resisting our gentle but insistent efforts to end our contract. They were adamant we would continue managing their money and secrets.

I’d become irritated with them at our last meeting, and this check-in was a chance for me to reiterate they needed new financiers for their ‘flower’ exporting business.

The Don was old-fashioned, and to him, our exit meant we were either going to the competition or seeking the authorities’ attention.

None of which was true.

A unique initiation ritual had to be performed before one could earn the title of a ‘man of honour’ or a ‘made man’ within the Omertà protocol. It involved a recruit sacrificing a drop of his blood, a powerful symbol of his unwavering commitment, and spilling it onto a card bearing the likeness of a saint.

It would be set on fire, and as the novice passed the blazing totem from hand to hand, he’d take an oath of loyalty to the family and the clan.

From then on, his clan expected his silence to remain absolute.

We were the enforcers of that silence and would never betray our code. We’d spilled too much blood and walked through flames as a family to uphold it.

Don Abrazzio accusing us of speaking out was the utmost disrespect.

We were the feared Omertà keepers.

We weren’t these families’ errand boys anymore, and I needed to remind the ageing man of this today.

We entered the heart of Naples and into the neighbourhoods controlled by the Abrazzio family, where an eerie stillness enveloped the streets.

Mauri sensed it, too.

His jaw clenched as he navigated the winding, chaotic thoroughfares, his knuckles tight on the leather-wrapped steering wheel.

My phone buzzed with messages. I glanced at it, scrolling through my list of things to do.

The bullet came out of nowhere.

All I heard was a thump as it hit through the armoured windscreen and Mauri’s warning roar.

A second thud and crack followed, and I jolted like someone had punched me. I lurched back into the seat as the SUV spun around at Mauri’s hands.

‘Merda! Shit!’

His voice was a mix of alarm and fury as he manoeuvred the spinning SUV, tyres screeching against the pavement.

The squealing echoed in my ears as the world outside blurred into a dizzying whirlwind of chaos.

Bullets tore through the air, shattering glass and ripping through metal with a deafening roar. Mauri’s expert manoeuvring saved us from plummeting into disaster down a steep level of stairs, the SUV sliding about corners with precision born of desperation.

Instinct took over as Mauri navigated through the tumultuous streets, dodging cars and pedestrians in a desperate bid to escape our assailants. Each turn we made into a new avenue felt like being thrust into a labyrinth of danger and betrayal.

Through the chaos, I caught a glimpse of masked figures on motorbikes weaving through traffic, their intent clear in the brutality of their assault.

I reached for the gun pouch in the back of the seat and pulled my Sig Sauer out, managing to squeeze a few rounds through the now blown-in SUV windows.

The once-familiar streets of Napoli had transformed into a battleground, and we were trapped in an unceasing crossfire.

Mauri’s face was a cold mask of grit as he navigated the SUV with precision, his years of training evident in his swift reactions.

The distant wail of sirens grew louder, a sign assistance was on its way, but for now, we were on our own.

When the car rounded a corner at great speed, I was thrown into my seat belt as a wave of agony went through me.

I must have yelled out because Mauri called out to me.

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