Turning Point||Book 2

Salvatore

AGE NINE

"Listen up, kid, and listen good. In this dog-eat-dog world, it's kill or be killed. You gotta have ice running through your veins and steel forged in your heart."

Salvatore: "Loud and clear. Ice in my veins, steel in my heart. Got it."

AGE ELEVEN

"Chin up, Soldier. Never fucking forget: fear is your greatest weapon. Make 'em tremble in their boots, and they'll do whatever the hell you want."

Salvatore: "Got it. Fear equals respect. I'll make sure they never forget who's in charge."

AGE TWELVE

"Salvie, you catching my drift? There are no second chances in this game. You hesitate, you're as good as dead. You gotta be cold, calculated, and always one step ahead."

Salvatore: "Understood. No room for slip-ups. I'll be ruthless and stay ahead of the game."

AGE THIRTEEN

"Let me paint you a picture of darkness, Salvie. It's not just the absence of light; it's a force in our world. It's the shadow lurking in every corner, the whispers echoing in the silence. Embrace the darkness, let it consume you, and you'll wield power beyond your wildest dreams."

Salvatore: "Got it, uncle. Embrace the darkness. I'm on board."

AGE FOURTEEN

"Man, let me school you on guns. They're more than just tools; they're extensions of your will. When you hold a gun, you hold power. But remember, with great power comes great responsibility."

Salvatore: "Damnit. Responsibilities don't scare me."

AGE FIFTEEN

"Salvatore, in our line of work, blood is currency. It's spilled to make a point, to show dominance, to send a message. But remember, once blood is shed, there's no turning back. It stains everything it touches."

Salvatore: "Hmm, I like the sound of that."

Lombardi. That was the only name I couldn't forget if I tried. His words were etched in my veins, haunting me even thirty-six years after he'd started his teachings. Lombardi, the man who had imparted his wisdom to me, never lived to see me put it into action. Wanna know why? My bullet found its mark in his fucking groin.

I wasn't no backstabber; I was just a student of Lombardi's twisted philosophy. Kill or be killed, that was the creed. His words dripped with venom, urging me to embrace the shadows, to spill blood without remorse. And when the time came, I did just that.

My first shot at nine hadn't been fatal, but at fifteen, it was treacherous. Lombardi Bianchi—my father's damn brother—met his end in a lake, courtesy of a bullet from my gun. He likely drowned before the bullet could finish him off because I knew Lombardi had indulged in women, power, and violence, had learned to kill and leave no trace, yet he had neglected to learn how to swim. A bloody mistake. He should have heeded his own advice—acquire no weakness.

Who on earth could be vile enough to take down the man who raised him, taught him the game, and kept him flush with cash?

Me.

I left a trail of darkness wherever I went, sucking the life out of everything I touched. Some days, it was a choice; other days, it was like I was cursed, draining the world of its color. Blood, guns, violence—I pranced in the shadows like I was born for it. Fear? Nah, that's for the weak.

I never doubted my kills; they all had it coming. If you questioned that, you were next on my list.

Weakness? Never felt it.