Page 1 of Veil of Vengeance

PROLOGUE

EMILIANO

3 1/2 months earlier

Romiro lets out an exasperated huff for the third time in as many minutes, grating on my last nerves.

“If you’re that hot, just roll down the damn window,” I say, my patience wearing thin. Shooting me a smirk, his fingers run through his tousled blonde curls.

“While I’m flattered that you think I’m h—” he begins, but I cut him off sharply.

“That's not what I said, you fuckface.” I shift my attention back to the desolate road ahead, the stores lining the street already shuttered for the night. Nobody in their right mind would be out at this hour if they value their lives.

“What does the Capo want from you?” Romiro asks, his voice edged with curiosity.

“How the fuck would I know?” I sigh in frustration.

“He is your Dad, after all, you asshole.” He makes an indistinct noise in the back of his throat before responding with a hint of sarcasm.

“Just because he’s my Pop doesn’t mean he’ll fucking share a damn thing with me.” His irritation is evident as he wipes the sweat from his face.

“Why did he have to choose fucking Ohio, of all places?” he grumbles. I can’t help but chuckle at his complaints. Romiro's irritability flares, a clear sign that the sweltering heat is getting to him.

“We’re here now, Rom. Just hang in there; there's a working air conditioner inside,” I reassure him, as he slaps the broken car air conditioner. The car comes to a stop in front of The Sweet Cinnamon, its illuminated letters flickering. My gaze drifts across the boarded-up stores lining the street beside the strip club. Once the doors close with a solid thud, we both step out and stand in front of the car's hood.

“I don’t get why it’s called ‘The Sweet Cinnamon.’ That’s a stupid fucking name,” Romiro complains. I agree, it is a stupid name. However, there was a unique story behind it—the club had been named after a former stripper who had once worked for my Nonno. Romiro remains blissfully unaware of this fact as he kicks a can along the pavement while we approach the graffitied metal door. Raising my hand, I knock firmly. The discolored metal panel swings back, revealing a pair of piercing gray eyes that bore into us before allowing the door to open fully.

“Hey, guys. The boss is in his office upstairs, waiting for you. Dominico is in one of the back rooms,” Silvio informs us. I give Silvio a tap on the shoulder as I pass by him, entering the dimly lit club. Old men fill the tables scattered around the stage, their presence leaving the once-purple carpet matted with dirt. The subdued lighting and sensual music pulsating through the speakers create an ambiance thick with intrigue. In the shadowy corners of the room, seedy-looking men leer at the stripper performing. As we pass the dimly lit stage, the stripper playfully winks at Romiro, the harsh red lighting casting shadows that make her seem older than her years. Determined to stay focused, I press on, leaving Romiro to engage with her as he winks back, lingering at the edge of the T-shaped stage. He’s like a dog waiting for a fucking bone. Glancing back at him, I raise an eyebrow.

“You coming, or…?” I ask, my tone laden with impatience. The stripper gracefully descends the pole, her eyes fixed on Romiro as she crawls toward him sensually. He offers his signature smirk, and she responds by licking her ruby-painted lips.

“Oh, he’ll be coming, for sure,” she purrs with a suggestive double entendre. A nauseating twist churns in my stomach at her words.

“Nah, bro, you go ahead. I’ll be right here if you need me,” Romiro replies, giving a nonchalant shrug. I nod and continue through the club. Surprisingly, it isn’t as crowded as I had anticipated, which suggests that most of our security is likely deployed at our other club across town. As I make my way to the back hallway, the ambient lighting bathes the area in a cool, soothing blue hue. Framed photographs signed by major celebrities, who had visited the club during the sixties, adorn the walls.

I take a moment to roll the tension out of my shoulders before heading upstairs. Moving forward, the plush dark carpet muffles my footsteps. My Pop's office, with its imposing floor-to-ceiling black-accented doors, remains closed, but I can hear muffled voices from within. The walls of the hallway are a muted gray, and the harsh white lighting above irritates my eyes. Summoning my resolve, I open the door to the office, paying little attention to the club manager who stands at the edge of my Pop’s desk. Dim lighting accentuates the somber atmosphere of the room, the dark walls only adding to the overall gloomy ambiance. I approach my Pop's desk, where he sits with a proud smile gracing his lips as his eyes remain fixed on me.

“Figlio, why didn’t you have Silvio tell me you’re here?” His delivery is light, but there is a hint of something deeper in his light blue eyes as he rises from his seat behind the desk. He steps over to me and gives my shoulder a reassuring pat. Then, he turns his attention to Felix.

“Go on, Felix, you can leave,” my Pop instructs. Felix’s gaze shifts briefly to me before he nods at my Pop. The door closes with a subtle click, leaving just my Pop and me in the room. We settle into the chairs facing his desk.

“What is it you wanted, Pop?” I ask once we’re both seated, the air charged with anticipation.

“I’m considering stepping down soon. It’s about time you became Capo,” my Pop says, his words delivered with a sense of inevitability. I saw this coming for the past couple of months. He has aged, grown more lenient than he’d like to admit. I wait for the other shoe to drop, as it often does with my Pop.

“But…” he continues, and I brace myself for what comes next.

“I want you to get married before that.” Jaw clenching, my teeth grind together. My Pop's old-fashioned beliefs are holding back the Camorra, and I don’t have the fucking time to cater to a woman’s whims. I lean back in my chair, releasing a deep breath.

“Who did you have in mind?” I ask, my curiosity tinged with caution. He wears a shit-eating grin, as if he has me right where he wants me.

“I was thinking about Stefano Gambi’s niece,” he replies. My lips curl involuntarily at the mention of the Gambi family head, the man who has relentlessly tried to undermine our drug operations in New York. My Pop’s laughter fills the room, a twisted sound that matches his character all too well. He may be an ally who supplies some of our weapons, but he is a devil in disguise. The Gambi family has been one of the most notorious illegal firearm traders since World War one.

“No,” I declare firmly, unwilling to entertain the idea any further. His eyes narrow, but before he can protest, the sudden commotion downstairs cuts our conversation short. The intercom buzzes, and Silvio’s voice crackles through.

“Boss, we’re under attack! They shot Dominico, and he’s losing a lot of blood. Tommaso is dead.” Heart stuttering, a sense of dread washes over me. Fuck, Dad’s Consigliere is dead. Dad storms around the table and stabs the button for the intercom behind his chair.

“Who the fuck is attacking us?” His face twists into a snarl and he pulls a gun from his suit pants. Reacting swiftly, I rise to my feet, draw my own weapon, and head for the doors.

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