In the labyrinthine underbelly of the mafia, Romero Zaviero has been an enigma. As the only Made Man who seldom graces the high-profile gatherings of the Cosa Nostra's elite, his inscrutable presence looms in the darkest corners. His motives are con...
"I have killed no men that, in the first place, didn't deserve killing." - Mickey Cohen.
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"Dearest sister," I press the earpiece closer to my ear as I lean down to check if my latest victim is dead. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" My words are tinged with mockery, a defense mechanism I've honed over the years.
"It's time." There's a cryptic tone in her words that provokes me with more questions than answers.
"Time for what?" I ask, my voice sharp with suspicion. Aiyla never called about personal matters and a simple text usually sufficed for Business updates.
"To reap what you sow."
I furrow my brow, trying to decipher her words. But before I can make sense of them, a searing pain explodes at the back of my skull.
"Fuck!" I gasp, stumbling forward as the room spins around me. I grasp onto the wall for support, struggling to remain upright. Blood trickles down the nape of my neck but I do not let the pain slow me down.
I blink away the blurring vision as I turn to face the attacker. The hench, bald man stands before me, dumbfounded that I haven't succumbed to unconsciousness. Underestimating a person based on their size was a dangerous game. Muscles did not equal strength.
Unbothered by his frame, I stare him down as I take a step forward with confidence. My eyes focus on the Glock which is smeared with my blood. The sight of it triggers something deep within me, a fierce rage fills me and I feel my muscles tense.
Gone were the days of broken ribs, bruises, and bloody wounds.
With a swift motion, I lunge forward and strike the attacker in the chest with a powerful blow. He stumbles back, clearly taken aback by the force of my attack. I press on, striking him again and again with ruthless efficiency. Each blow feels like a release, a way to purge the pain and fear that's been building up inside me for years.
I refuse to show mercy as the man crashes to the ground, defeated and bloody. I pounce on him, my hands wrapping around his neck. Years of fighting experience and training have made this second nature to me.
I feel his pulse quicken beneath my fingers, but I do not let up. I apply more pressure, watching his face pale and his eyes bulge. With one final squeeze, he goes limp beneath me. I release him and step back, allowing myself to take a deep breath.
I do not feel any remorse for what I've done. He attacked me, and I defended myself. It is just as simple as that.
As I pat down the lifeless body, searching for any clues or information that might lead me to who was behind this latest attack, I remain unfazed by yet another attempt on my life. It's been a recurring pattern for the past two years, every time I move to a new country, someone tries to kill me. But I'm not just another pretty face waiting to be taken down. My reputation precedes me far more than that.
