Page 38 of Dark Prince

ANTONIO

It’s amazing how you can give a man a little bit of bread and water and his heart keeps on ticking for as long as you decide to prolong his misery, his hell. On one hand, his torture should last at least eighteen long, agonizing years. On the other, he took Ariana’s life from me, the kids, herself. He didn’t deserve the seventy-five years he was granted when she didn’t even see her thirtieth birthday.

The hatred that’s buried itself so deep inside my soul wants me to continue draining his blood at a slow pace. The monster wants to watch him suffer in a pain much greater than our own, but I don’t think that’s possible to achieve. There is no greater suffering than losing the love of your life before we had time to experience everything we’d planned.

Ari didn’t get the chance to see her children grow up, make mistakes, or learn valuable lessons. I wasn’t the best role model for them, but I tried to do the best I could without her guidance. She was much better at parenting than I am.

She’d love that Sienna fell in love with Martina De Salvo’s son, even if her former friend is furious. Marti will eventually come to terms with the union once she gets to know Si. If she doesn’t, then I may have to turn Martina’s world upside down and reveal her own dirty secret. It needs to come to light no matter what, but then again, that is a whole other problem in itself that I don’t have time to hash out.

Ariana would not be happy with Lorenzo. Of course, if his mother were still alive, he wouldn’t have hidden his relationship with Sasha Nikolayev. Keeping secrets from family wouldn’t have been tolerated. That’s a lesson Ren needs to learn. By making him the underboss in New Orleans until Domenico establishes our takeover, I’m hoping that he understands what he did was dangerous.

I didn’t allow him or Sienna to see the bad shit, and maybe I should have. Perhaps I made an error in keeping them at arm’s length regarding the finer details of the family business. I wanted their hands to be clean. Hell, I never wanted Domenico to have blood on his hands either. I made a promise to my wife the day he was born, and I’ve broken it time and time again.

I’ve fought my demons on whether I should allow him to be part of this or not. At least in the end, the part of me that Ari loved won the battle. They don’t know Rafe Caputo is still alive. Barely, but alive, he is. No one knows, not even Giovanni. This is mine. My score to settle, my revenge to have.

Unfortunately, it’s the end of the line too soon. Rafe’s cleaning lady is due to arrive tomorrow, and I can’t risk that. She comes once a week. I was given extra time as it is. She called out sick last week, but she sent him a text half an hour ago confirming she would be here at eight in the morning.

A week of firing lead into his flesh only to dig the bullet out with a dirty knife and sew him up wasn’t nearly enough of what he deserved. I thought about popping his eyeballs out but squashed that idea. I wanted him to see me with both eyes. I wanted him to see everything I was inflicting on him for what he did to my beautiful Ariana. She didn’t leave our home alive, so Rafe isn’t leaving his alive either.

As much as I’ve wanted to lay my bare hands on him, I’ve refrained. I couldn’t risk marring my own skin no matter how much I wanted to beat him with my hands, so a gun, a twelve-inch knife, and a steel pipe I found in an alley were the tools I had to work with.

Every inch of his formerly tan skin is black or blue, and a majority is covered in his own blood ranging from days-old, dry, caked blood to fresh, flowing liquid seeping out of various holes. I’m surprised he’s lasted this long and hasn’t keeled over or suffered a heart attack.

He wouldn’t give me the passcode to his phone, but luckily for me, facial recognition still works even though he’s got that busted up look going. I discovered a lot in the last week. He thought if he got Sienna and me out of the picture, then he could mold Dom and Ren into the son he’s always wanted. That just goes to show how much he doesn’t know his grandsons.

Apparently, Pops gave Salvatore the money to secure his son a bride, which means not only were the Santos in bed with the Irish, but so was Raffaele. It angers me to know my own blood was giving money to scum like Cormac Fitzgerald. It’s not surprising that Cormac would sell his own daughter. If I had to guess, he owed money to someone he couldn’t repay, so he sold Ciera to Salvatore. Now I wish I’d made those two bastards suffer.

A father doesn’t harm his children. He does whatever it takes to protect them. Gives them the tools and knowledge to protect themselves. When it came to my three, that’s exactly what I did. All three of them are like me in a lot of ways. If you try to force their hand, then they’ll rebel and do the opposite. I knew Lorenzo liked Mischa’s daughter. If she had been anyone else’s daughter, it would have been problematic, but to my son’s luck, Mischa was one of the few men I respect and someone that owed me.

“Time’s up, old-timer.” I raise the Beretta M9A3 with the suppressor already attached to the threaded barrel. “Tell the devil to go fuck himself for me, would you?” I pull the trigger, nailing him in the throat first and on purpose. I have a ten-round magazine to unload. I can’t take the kill shot out of the gate. I fire again, and then again, one right after the other until I’m left with one round in the chamber.

“Arrivederci, you piece of shit.” I fire the last shot, hitting my mark between his eyes. Goodbye, motherfucker. And good riddance. I should have done it thirty-one years ago.

* * *

31 years ago

There isno confusion or delusion on my part. I’m fully aware my father is not a good man. Hell, I recognized his brand of evil early on during my youth, but back then, I still wanted to grow up and be just like him.

Now that I’m eighteen, entering college against his wishes and trying to convince the girl I’m madly in love with to marry me, my priorities have shifted greatly. She’s sixteen, still in high school. I was promoted to a captain only six months ago, which happened a mere week before I met Ariana D’Angelo. I knew before I’d spoken a single word to her that I would make her my bride.

So, that is what I did a week ago. I took a knee in front of my family, his men, other associates, and even Ari’s parents during celebration. I wanted the world to know who I chose to be mine. Her parents were pissed, but I didn’t give one fuck. My father was pleased, but that’s because he’s under the impression my bride-to-be can be molded into a wife fit for the future underboss of the family.

I fully expect to take over that role by the time I’m twenty, but in doing so, that means Phil’s life has to come to an end. He’s a piece of shit too, so forgive me if I don’t shed one fucking tear over his pending departure to Hell. He beats his wife for sport; talks down to her, embarrasses her in front of anyone he can. Unfortunately for her, she can’t just leave him. It’s a sin punishable by death in our life.

There is a lot that Ari has opened my eyes to, but that wasn’t one of them. I’ve always thought there was no place for that rule among us. People fall out of love just as quickly as they fall in it, so why does the woman have life-altering consequences, but the man does not?

That’ll change when I’m boss one day. I’ll make damn sure of it. Ari will make sure of it. As long as I have her by my side, I’ll be a better man.

I push my thoughts to the back of my mind when I see Phil leave from the driver’s side of his Mercedes 560 SEL. I followed my father’s underboss forty-five minutes ago to Brooklyn from my father’s brownstone in the city. I was heading home after sneaking Ariana back in her parents’ home when I saw Phil jogging down the front steps like he was issued an order that had to be carried out tonight. Something told me to follow him, so here I am, parked a block behind a well-known Russian nightclub and eatery.

When Phil heads in the direction I’m fairly certain I know he’s going, I pull out the handgun I have hidden below my seat and stuff it in the waistband of my slacks before getting out to follow him. Streets are bustling, but he detours down an alley that isn’t crowded with people.

I shouldn’t be here. Hell, he shouldn’t be here, but for whatever reason, I’d bet every dollar I have stashed away that Rafe Caputo sent him here to take out a rival. For the most part, I keep my mouth shut when those orders are issued. He’s the boss whether I agree with him or not. If there is one thing I’ve learned, you don’t question the boss. Being his son, I’m no different. I’m not special. If anything, he’s harder on me than any of his other men.

I increase my speed so that I don’t lose Phil. He’s fast for a man in his forties, but then he pumps more iron than any of the rest I see in the gym.

He rounds the back of a building then cuts down another alleyway, but when he’s halfway, he ducks behind a metal dumpster, the kind that takes a garbage truck to lift in order to dump it. Brooklyn is the only part of Long Island and Manhattan that my father’s business doesn’t handle the trash pickup routes. Here, they fear the Russians more than they do the Italians. That’s a problem for Raffaele Caputo.

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