Page 4 of Vicious Behaviors
Something colder. Something sharper.
A monster born of love, shaped by loss and trauma, and forged to rule the Outfit.
I would never be the son my father wanted.
But I would grow to be theCapo Dei Capiour enemies all feared.
Chapter 1
Marcello
Twelve years later
Dom throws the priest’s body onto the loading tray like one would slap down a slab of meat in a butcher’s shop.
“Fucker’s heavier than he looks,” Dom mutters with a grimace as he brushes his hands off after laying the body flat on his back on the cold steel stretcher.
I don’t dare utter a response. Not because I don’t have anything to say, but because speaking out right now might earn me my father’s wrath—and I’m not talking about Dom’s.
My father, Vincent, gives a small nod to the crematory operator for him to begin. Unbothered by what we’re about to do, he starts the cremation chamber as if it were just another day at the office. Then again, there’s no reason for him to be fazed by all of this. It’s not like he hasn’t done this sort of thing for our family before.
In fact, apathetic men like him are a dime a dozen in our world, since this isn’t the only funeral home my father owns.
Funeral homes, especially with cremation services, are a smart investment for the Outfit. Perfect fronts for laundering money, and when necessary, for making bodies disappear. That kind of utility matters to the syndicate, especially in times of war.
Though to be fair, we haven’t been at war in over twenty years. Not officially, anyway. Everyone in Chicago and along the eastern border knows who’s in charge. But even in peace, things go sideways. People die. Mistakes get made. And right now, that’s exactly what Father McDonagh is. A mistake. One that needs to be corrected and erased. Permanently.
Wrapped in the same altar sheet he once prayed over, the priest’s body slowly glides into the furnace. Once it’s fully inside, Dom slams the door shut and orders the operator to do his thing.
“Turn up the heat,” Vincent commands, not even a minute into the process. “We don’t have all day.”
After the operator obeys, my father dismisses him with a silent wave, leaving us alone to watch as Father McDonagh’s body is consumed by flames until all that’s left of him is soot and ash.
As we watch the fire begin to lick at the priest’s flesh and bones, I can feel my father’s sharp and assessing gaze fixed on me. I don’t risk looking at him. Instead, I keep my sight locked on the small chamber window, pretending it holds something worth studying.
If I meet my father’s stare, I’ll only end up disappointing him more than I already have.
I know what he’s searching for. What he expects to find behind my eyes. Remorse. Guilt. Maybe even fear for my soul’s damnation. But all I feel is calm. A strange, quiet calm that settles in my chest, relaxing every muscle, soothingly. It feels dangerously close to peace. I know the feeling is rare and fleeting, like smoke that slips through your fingers the momentyou notice it. But right now, it’s mine. Entirely, unquestionably mine. And I cling to it, because peace doesn’t come easy. Not for someone like me.
Maybe I should be frightened that killing a man of God has brought me such relief. But I’m not. Not one bit.
It’s not like the man burning inside that infernal furnace ever liked me. The one time I truly confessed to Father McDonagh and laid bare every sin, he told me I had the devil inside me.
I was only ten years old at the time.
I came to him for guidance… for absolution.
And all he gave me in return was condemnation.
Hypocrite.
He nearly killed Father Torres tonight. And if I hadn’t stepped in, he would’ve gone after my brother, Enzo, too.
So much for being a man of faith. Of pious righteousness.
The kind of rage I saw, so visible in his eyes with every strike and brutal blow, wasn’t born from nothing. It didn’t come from nowhere. No.
Father McDonagh may have condemned me for what I was, but the devil resided in his soul, too. Just not the same one that haunts me. The one that torments all my days and nights.
