1

Niccoló

After running all night throughout Long Island, I return to Matteo’s mansion at three in the morning. The gatekeeper is awake and waves as I jog through the iron gates at the end of the huge property. The cool air invigorates me.

It’s not like I can sleep. I use life’s setbacks and plow through, although this time, life has dealt me a curve ball I never anticipated.

I’ve been battling depression over losing Chiara three months ago. Her sudden death hit me like a sledgehammer. She arrived in Sicily after seeing her father in Naples. It was late at night and when I didn’t hear from her, I went to her apartment.

I relive seeing her crimson blood at the crime scene, knowing if I touch her, I taint the crime scene. I threw caution to the wind and held her cold, lifeless body. I know what death looks like, and I called for help anyway. Was I in denial or shock?

The police theorized it was a home invasion, but she had nothing to steal. It’s as if it happened yesterday. The crime scene I discovered still gives me nightmares and serves as a reminder that our women are never safe.

I planned to marry her.

I enter the house quietly.

“Ah, there you are. I thought you might be out or at the gym, Matteo states as he’s dressed in jeans, a waffle shirt, and a suit jacket.

“What’s up? You need me?”

“Funny you ask. Yes. If you have time. It appears Santino Moretti has gone into hiding. It’s what has delayed our hit on him. However, one of Dmitry’s soldiers found one of Moretti’s bodyguards. We need answers. I thought you might like to work off some of your anger on his face.” A mischievous smile flashes across my brother’s face.

“Hell yes, I want dibs. I’d love to beat the shit out of someone; it’s better than a punching a bag like a normal citizen.”

I chuckle. As if anything can be normal about our childhood or our life.

“Great, let’s go,” Matteo says, moving toward the door. I’m surprised to find Gio standing outside. The man moves mysteriously. I assume he has an intuitive nature because he anticipates our every need and mood.

I grab a towel in the kitchen and wipe my face. I’m in joggers and sneakers. I hope I won’t have to replace either, but I can’t pass up a chance to get a piece of the Italian who is hiding the scum who thinks he can take us over.

I’m morally opposed to taking our battles out on innocent women and children and will fight until my dying day to defend them. They should be off-limits, but in today’s world, women are a commodity in our dark world. If not with sex trafficking, then it’s vengeance. Women are weaknesses that we can’t afford. I learned this lesson the hard way.

We head into Manhattan with the Escalade, a new addition to my brother’s fleet. Gio drives us as we have men on the target. We arrive at one of our warehouses. It’s refrigerated and used to cut and store beef. I love the fact that it’s noisy here, and the man’s screams won’t be heard.

We get out and hook up with one of our men in the parking lot, and he leads us into the maze inside as men work cutting beef. They divert their eyes when we walk past.  Once we reach a work area in the back. men cutting cows clear the area leave without a word being said.

“Dmitry,” Matteo nods to a Russian wearing a stern look.

“Matteo.” Dmitry nods back; his arms are crossed over his chest. He stands with his feet apart as if it’s ingrained in him from a military background.

“This is my brother, Niccoló,” Matteo states.

Dmitry nods in acknowledgment, and his eyes do a once over when he sees Gio standing behind me.

There are soldiers in the room; some are Russian, and some are Italian.

This is our first joint venture since the alliance.

“Who is he?” I ask.

“His name is ‘fuck you,’ apparently.” Dmitry cracks a smile when he speaks.

“The universal language,” I mutter. I take in the Italian who is sitting in a plastic chair, with his arms tied behind his back and his feet roped together. He’s on of Moretti’s men. I’m sure he’s thinking about his death, should it befall him now. Whether it comes today or tomorrow, I’m not sure. But his days are limited when his superiors discover he’s been captured.

“Da,” Dmitry replies and motions with his hand that tells me to take over.

I untie the rope fastening the man to the chair. When I stand next to him, I discover he’s under six feet tall. I glance at the ceiling and find a meat hook, and pull it closer. I lift him like I would deadlift weights at the gym to build my thighs. I hand him by his hoped hands knowing it will dislocate both his shoulders. I know how painful it will be. But I prefer to make this especially painful as this is personal. I’m about to convey how personal it is as the man moans, and his shoulders pull under the pressure of his weight.

He screams before his body sags.

“Tell us where Moretti is hiding,” Matteo states calmly.

“I don’t know,” he groans. His face now shows bruises, and he is turning paler as the second tick by. Looks like Dmitry’s men worked him over before we arrived. His face swells with each passing minute. Crimson red blood trickles down his chin.

I step into my punch and deliver a blow to his ribs.

“You help me, I’ll help you,” I sneer.

“Fuck you.” His voice is raspy. He will struggle to breathe soon as the weight of his body crushes his diaphragm.

“If that’s how you want to play it, I’m in,” I smile and do a one, two punch on his ribs.

I step back, and we watch his eyes roll into the back of his head.

I allow him to pass out from the pain before I nod to our soldier to wake him. The man I don’t know steps up and slaps the man’s face until he’s lucid again.

“Tell us,” Matteo demands. His voice is now a demand. He’s losing patience.

I hit the man in the gut as he considers his options. I know he’s going to die soon. Once I deliver a few more blows to his ribs, one will puncture a lung.

“All I know is that he’s cycled between safe houses. I don’t know where they are. I’m not high enough to know.”

“Who does?” I bark, ready for this to be over.

“His son and the guards who drive him to meet with him.”

“What are their names?” Dmitry asks.

“Why is he hiding?” I ask. I glance at Matteo, my eyebrows furrow into a questioning expression.

“He’s afraid to go before the judge on his weapon’s charge. He’s afraid the Feds will arrest him on RICO.” It’s freezing here, but sweat is building on the man’s forehead. “He’s paranoid,” he gasps.

I’m relieved, as there is no way he would know we were on to him unless Morretti’s wife’s twin sister told him she met with us. However, we’ve kept her in hiding to keep her safe. She’s our witness to the fact Moretti keeps his wife drugged day and night. She also knows that Moretti used a hitman in Sicily to kill Chiara after she murdered our father.

“Names,” I say to his groans as he hangs limp. “You’re going to die either way. There’s no reason to take others with you.”

“Don’t hurt my family,” he moans.

“Names,” I yell. “Or there will be another punch that will pierce your lungs and heart.”

“Dino and Givino are Vincenzu’s men.”

I turn to my brother, then to Dmitry, who nods.

I deliver the fatal blow. The man hangs limp as guttural sounds emit from his swollen mouth.

“We’ll take care of the body. We don’t want it getting around that we’re on to him. Can we make his charges go away so he’ll surface?” Matteo asks Dmitry.

“I’ll make a call to the district attorney and convince him there are more important cases to make his career over. If the Feds wanted him, they would have picked him up from that arrest. He’s paranoid and delusional,” Dmitry states as he motions to his men to take the body down.

“Great. I’ll keep my men sitting on the house. We’re learning their routine and we’ll get a tracker on one or both of the men guarding Vincenzu. It makes sense the son is carrying out orders under his father’s directives. He’s not giving up his power easily. I know first-hand how his ego works.”

“We will get him, but Alexsei wants it to be a painful death. He’s ruined his daughter’s life and their chance at happiness. He is a threat to my wife. The sooner we find him, the happier I’ll be,” Dmitry states as he extends his hand to my brother. They shake. I use the closest sink and wash the remnants of the victim off my hands before I dry them on a white towel.

Dmitry is wearing a light jacket and military-style boots that lace up the front and carry himself with his shoulders back, ready to take on the world. He’s befitting of his role as a young Don. He’ll take over after we end Moretti’s life.

Gio drive us home and I bid my brother goodnight as I take to the steps. I shower and head to bed. I have a restless sleep. I wonder if I slept at all when the I awake to the bright light filtering into my room. I look at my watch. It’s two in the afternoon. My heart is heavy. Last night is nothing new to me. I have no regrets about the man dying. I think of Chiara and the last few days we had together. I welcome the darkness as I pull the comforter over my head. I close my eyes and reminisce. I float in and out of dreams.

The alarm on my phone beeps. I hit the button to make it stop. I reluctantly get out of bed and dress for the gym. I have to put one foot in front of the other. Otherwise, I’d stay in bed all day, and it would only feed my depression. Staying busy lightens my mood.

But how happy can I be without love in my life? Moretti took that from me, just like he stole Alexsei’s lover from him.

I won’t be happy until Moretti is dead.

I linger in the kitchen with Federico as he feeds me a light breakfast in the afternoon. Thankfully, he’s used to adapting. He has Alena and Matteo’s more traditional schedule and knows I’m unpredictable. I warm up running in the home gym with light weights and get lost on my phone and looking at old pictures of me and Chiara when I discover I’ve lost track of time.

I’m running late to Ivan’s Iron Fist, a gym on the Upper East Side. I recently obtained my Lambo from Italy and I use it to drive myself to the gym where I train under Ivan’s watchful eye. He’s an old-school boxer from Russia who opened the gym after retiring from boxing in the States. He’s in his sixties now but still light on his feet. He is considered to be the best trainer in the Northeast. The fact that I’m Italian doesn’t matter. However, he knows the Borrelli’s are in an alliance with the Russians, and this makes me trustworthy. I owe that to my new sister-in-law, Alena.

I blame myself for what happened in Sicily. I know I shouldn’t, but I do. I’m just as guilty as the man who put a bullet in Chiara. I should have seen the signs that she was avoiding me. I should have asked questions. I could have put guards on her to protect her. There are a million things I wish I had done. I think she knew whoever was blackmailing her might come for Matteo or me. This might be why she never said a word. Her death was inevitable once the mafia identified her as a target.

All syndicates use intimidation and leverage to manipulate others to obtain the desired results. She was dead if she followed the orders she was given, and she was sure to die if she refused. This is how the wheels move in our world. An eye for an eye, betrayals, feuds, and, if lucky, alliances to prevent wars. Our life is filled with many players, and our future is uncertain.

After her death, I vowed never to fall in love again. I will not take a wife because I refuse to be responsible for another woman’s death. The Borrelli men are cursed. I warned my oldest brother, Matteo, not to get married.

He was already in love with Alena. As the don, he needs an heir. He can’t fool me, though. I see he desires a family with his wife under his broody nature. Having a family is something I looked forward to, but not anymore. I don’t want to bring children into my world. If I don’t turn into my miserable excuse of a father, something terrible will befall the woman I love.

It’s history, and it repeats itself. I understand Matteo’s love for his wife. It’s what I felt for Chiara. The pain I suffer from boxing is nothing compared to the pain left by the tragic loss of a woman taken in her prime. She was vibrant, soft-spoken, and caring.

Wives tend to die after they marry Borrelli men. My father killed my mother. No one can refute this. But Chiara was an innocent bystander, and I thought she was off-limits. I was wrong. I’m guilty of bringing her into our dark world filled with danger. She was forced to murder our father, and we have since learned who was behind the master plan to kill him. We believe this man might want to take over our territory in New York City. We have the Russians on our side, and they hate him as much, if not more, than us.

Chiara was killed to cover up details that might come to light had she lived. Her killer was afraid she might have identified him as a Cosa Nostra man, which would leave us to speculate that their Don was behind the hit. The hitman killed her to eliminate the potential for witnesses’. It was an ingenious plan—had Chiara not left a message behind.

I assume she must have known the end was near or a possibility. She managed to deliver a letter to her sister in Sicily. If something should happen to her, the letter was to be given to me. I secretly met her sister at her funeral behind closed doors. It was a clandestine operation, as we assumed we would be watched. By whom? We didn’t know. But we tried to be discreet as one never knows where our enemies have spies.

Since our father’s unexpected death, Matteo suspects someone might want him dead as well. He has been on high alert to protect himself and his new wife. However, we know who stands behind the sadistic plot to take our territory. Our father fell for another woman, and she may die too if we don’t act quickly.

Santino Moretti is a crazy man. He was also born in Sicily. He’s our enemy in Italy and every city where our two organizations coexist. He has everything to gain with our demise. However, since we’ve aligned with the Russians through marriage, he knows he can’t take us over.

Funny how fate works in mysterious ways at times. Especially when I was let in on the fact that Matteo and Alena met at a sex club. Neither knew who the other was, but leave it to my brother to obtain all her life’s details. His arranged marriage was to punish her father, but it was clear to me he was in love.

The odds of Matteo falling for a Russian in the Bratva family was entirely coincidental. Marrying her was his way to exact revenge on a Russian traitor who tried to screw him over. And in the process of his marriage, Matteo was cunning enough to form a significant alliance with Alexsei Sidovo.

What’s more impressive is that Santino Moretti doesn’t know we’ve uncovered his plot. He doesn’t even know he started a war with his lifelong nemesis.

 The bad blood between Alexei, the Russian don, and Santino Moretti started with Santino around twenty-five years ago. The information came to light with the discovery of his daughter, Izzy, a love child conceived by Moretti’s daughter unbeknownst to either of them.

We are both out for blood. We will find Morretti without tipping him off. It appears that Sidovo wishes to watch him die slowly. The Russians have contacts that come into play at times, and the district attorney is one of them.

Alexsei loved Moretti’s daughter, and Santino faked her death and sent her away as he hated the Russians and refused to concede to their wish to get married. If it weren’t for the faked death, Alexsei would have looked for her until the end of his days. Santino knew this. He is an evil but smart man—I’ll credit him for that.

I wonder what Matteo and Alexsei have in store for Moretti. I want it to be personal, like cutting off a piece of him at a time and sending it to his children. However, with his recent run-in with the law, it makes more sense to dispose of his body when we’re done with him.

I contemplate his demise as I make my way to the gym. For the last ten miles of the trip, I switch into gear and listen to heavy rock music to get into my zone.

I park my newly acquired Lambo in the parking lot filled with potholes. I walk into an old brownstone building that wouldn’t pass today’s building codes. It’s a four-story building made of dated brown and tan bricks. As I walk to the locker room, the stale air of sweat and talcum powder hits my nose.

“How are you feeling?” Ivan walks in as an attendant wraps my hands.

“Fine. What’s up today?”

“I have you sparring with a talented kid. He’ll give you some moves that mimic those of Nik Ramirez, the next opponent you’ll be fighting. As long as you say yes.”

“That’s fast,” I reply, amazed he thinks I’m ready.

“You worked hard. I think you’ll do well. He’s a tough boxer. You can’t take anything for granted. But if you win, it will put you on the map for bigger fights,” Ivan says.

“And more money.”

“Yes.”

       “Great. I’m not afraid of Ramirez, he’s tough, but I can take him.”

       “That’s what I thought,” Ivan states. He smiles and claps me on my back.

       “So, we have a deal?” He extends his hand.

       “We do,” I reply, taking his hand in mine. “How did you know that I’d agree?”

       “You’re hungry. You need to get this under your belt. It’s all you’ve focused on to the exclusion of everything else.” I’m about to reply when he says, “Don’t say a word, there’s no need to explain. Just remain focused. Channel your grief. It will carry you through the last round when you’re exhausted.”

       I chuckle. “You’re always thinking, Ivan.”

       “I have to. I want you to be safe when you enter the fight, which means being prepared. You have two weeks.”

       “Okay, then it’s time for more cardio,” I reply.

I shed my tracksuit like a snake and wrap my hands. Hmm, so this guy Ramirez is young. I’m getting older, but I have a few years left to fight. The fighting here is more treacherous than in Italy. Games are played, for sure. The syndicates make money off of illegal gambling, and there’s a gambler born every minute.

I fight for the love of the sport, not so much for the profit, but I used to let my brothers make money off my fights. I’m a worthy adversary, and I’ve built a name for myself in Sicily. Over time, it became increasingly difficult to find men who would box against me. I’ve decided to continue boxing here. Besides, I can’t return to Sicily. It holds too many memories for me.

I warm up in the gym by jumping rope and hitting the bag a few times. When ready, I duck under the ropes and enter the pit.

I question if the kid entering the ring is old enough to box. Is he that young or am I getting old? He’s short, but I heard he’s good. He has dark hair, eyes, and skin. He stands poised and unafraid.

“Beast,” he greets me, and his accent is difficult to place. Is he Cuban? Puerto Rican? I have no clue. It doesn’t matter.

“Shadow,” I reply. He’s young and is known for his elusive manner and defensive techniques in the ring.

We shuffle our feet to get our footing, and I take a jab. He’s nimble, like canned air, present with a punch, then drifts away. Every boxer develops his own rhythm and style.

I was called the Beast for years, but after Chiara’s death, I’ve turned to the darker side. I am now a hideous beast. I use this thought and punch the kid, making contact with his jaw. Our fancy footwork and jab continue for twenty minutes until we’re dripping with sweat, and Ivan calls it over.

“That’s a tough pace,” I murmur, out of breath.

“Yes, so get used to it. You’re not in Italy. We have men from around the world with different backgrounds and training styles. Many worked themselves up from the streets with their fists. That’s Carlo’s past. Growing up poor made him hungry.”

“Right.” He’s not calling me pampered and privileged, but he’d like to. I cool down with five minutes of low-intensity exercises before I shower.

“Let’s go to a pub around the corner,” Carlos says as he stands before me.

“I don’t drink when I train.”

“Me either, but the food is amazing.” He nods toward the door.

I can’t be lame, so I follow behind his Porsche 911. He must make good money to pay for that car. I come from wealth, so my reward comes from the satisfaction of a fight fought well.

Winning is in my blood.

And I can’t wait to take Ramirez down.