Mercenary (Gangsters of New York #3) - Bella Di Corte Page 0,1

took out the made man’s kneecaps. I was next to him, watching. This fucking guy had sent it to a few people.

I smiled at him in the glow of the moon. Once his eyes focused, he noticed the tattoo on my hand and on my neck.

“God h-h-help m-m-me,” he said, making the sign of the cross.

It was game over for this guy, but it was only the beginning for me. The full moon over my head was the start of something much wilder than I could’ve ever imagined—I felt the madness moving in my blood, urging my finger to move, to put pressure on the trigger.

Bing.

Bam.

Boom.

Game over.

The scorpion wins.

2

Corrado

Music floated from outside of my grandparent’s house as I pulled up. One of my old uncles sang a classic Italian ballad from the backyard. I had the windows rolled down in my ’58 Cadillac Coupe Deville, trying to rid it of the smell of my cousin Adriano’s cheap cologne.

Another one of my cousins had gotten married, and for a man dressed in a pricy custom-made suit to attend the event, Adriano had no taste when it came to cologne. It was fucking offensive.

The thing about Italian families—they are usually large. It doesn’t matter how far down the line the cousin or whoever is. Fourth? Great-great? Still as close as first. Numbers don’t matter when it comes to family. A title is a title. Just like a leaf on a tree is still part of that tree, no matter how far from the root.

Bugsy once told me, “We don’t have friends. We have cousins.”

It seemed like the entire famiglia had come out to celebrate my cousin Bianca’s wedding. There were too many people to keep count. They were vetted at the entry gate, and then led to an archway that led to the backyard. Guests were backed up, all trying to get to the source of the music at once.

Basically, Sunday dinner on a more lavish scale.

My grandparents had spared no cost when it came to this wedding. They had three daughters. Two were no longer living, and the third was dead to my grandfather in a sense.

Bianca’s mother had suffered a stroke and died not long after. My grandparents felt it was their duty to step in and take care of what my aunt couldn’t.

My mother hadn’t stepped foot in this house since a couple of days after I was born. My grandmother went to see her occasionally, but the relationship between my mother and grandfather was nonexistent. They didn’t speak. Hadn’t since she left his house and never looked back.

Neither one of them would tell me the reason. I got the feeling it had to do with me, but neither would speak on it.

One of my cousins had told me it had to do with my mother getting pregnant out of wedlock, but her husband had married her, so I couldn’t see my grandfather refusing to speak to her because of it. Not after all of this time.

I called my father “her husband” because he was never a father to me. He treated me like the bastard son of an enemy, so I never felt he deserved the title. It was earned, just like everything else in this life.

He was straight with the title, too. So that was how we addressed each other. Her husband. Her son.

My grandfather was more of a father to me, and after he heard the way her husband had been treating me when I was a kid from an older cousin, her husband stuck to himself, and we rarely spoke a word to each other.

My mother got the message. If there was something she needed help with, in regards to me, my grandfather handled it. He even changed my last name to his.

“Oh, mamma!” the cheer went up from the backyard. La la la la la followed right after.

I watched the flow of the crowd, already starting to clap even before they made it to the center of the celebration. I was watching for Bugsy.

After we returned from the desert, the night the moon was full and blood was spilled underneath it, there was already a message waiting for me at Paradiso. My grandfather had sent an order, one word—home.

I was ordered to go straight to the Primo Club, a place where he frequently did business. After I’d met my grandfather there, we went straight from the club to his home, where he had me sit across from his desk. He eyed the tattoo on