His Cruel Victory - Bonus Prologue - Faye Pierce

His Cruel Victory – Bonus Prologue

Emanuele

Blood. Sweat. Tears.

I’m ready to spill them all in order to protect la Famiglia. To protect what has been given to me to look after. And every bloody tortured soul that I have sent to hell knows I will go above and beyond for what is mine.

Especially before.

I flick open my customized gold electronic lighter and close it. The clicking sound has a way of bringing my mind back to the present and keeping it grounded on things that are important.

There was a time when this problem would have been met with the same severity the Bratva is conjuring. A time when I could afford to follow them to hell and have our demons dance the dance of death.

Back when it was easier to fight a war, knowing I had nothing but my life to lose. It was easier to be the first one to lift a sword and slash when it was just my life on the line. It was a time when I was that man who swung into action and let mayhem rain. But that was until I found out how much I had to lose ten years ago.

I flick my lighter again, and this time, I take it to the cigar between my lips and light it up. Then, I flip it closed, savoring the smoky leather taste and the smell of the cigar.

This time, I choose the pen, and by the Saints, I pray the screwball, Boris, doesn’t reach for the sword as is expected of him.

I adjust the French sleeve of my black dress shirt and clip the diamond cufflinks in the buttonhole.

I drag and puff, using the corner of my lips to blow out flurrying leather-scented smoke.

An Apocalypse.

That is what I’m fighting against.

No matter the amount of heat from my long enemy, Boris, I won’t shrink away. I detest the fucking fact that he is still standing. Boris is the kind of enemy that has woken me up every day with cuss words on my lips. He has been tossing problems my way constantly. He is like a cancer to my soul. He keeps reoccurring when I least expect it.

Now it’s a fight for dominance and the bloody fact that the screwball is ruining business for me in Los Angeles. That thing of the sky being wide enough for every star isn’t something the bastard has heard of.

I stare blankly at my reflection in the mirror, with a scowl forming on the corner of my lips as I clip in my other diamond cufflinks.

The problems won’t stop coming. And the solutions are radioactive. Bloody questionable by reasonable standards.

I snort and pick up my black suit hanging on the armrest of the black leather sofa beside me.

I don’t have a problem with what we are about to do, but I hate that Boris is influencing it. I don’t like to be pushed into making decisions. I don’t like the bloody idea of feeling cornered and having my options narrowed down to one.

I slip my hand into the sleeve of the suit.

Or maybe it’s the fucking fact that I now have to depend on some girl, who reeks of trouble from the little I know about her, to bring salvation to the whirlpool of madness Boris seems to keep sending my way.

I slip my second hand into the sleeve of the suit and adjust it to sit properly on me, then button it.

I do deserve him.

I can’t deny that.

A man like me does not have the luxury of saying I did something in a previous life to deserve being fucked over continuously in this one because, I have already done too bloody much in this one, and if I’m being honest, I can admit the punishment is still too small.

A measly punishment for the havoc I rained when I was much younger and power-hungry. The benefit of which the Teso clan still enjoys to date. I planted the seed with my ruthlessness, and we are enjoying the shade from its branches.

I pick up my black diamond-encrusted wristwatch on the armrest.

He is goading me. Every time he strikes, he is closing the walls around me. He wants the same thing I want, which is war, but he doesn’t have the same thing I have to lose, which is a family I care about. Maybe I can allow my son Salvatore to find his way in this world of shadows, but what about my little girl, Eva?

I clip the wristwatch in. Glower at my reflection. I’m draped in black. A perfect contrast to the clinical white walls of the hotel room I’m standing in. The color has been mine for ten years now, and I’m not done with it. I don’t think I will be any time soon.

“Ready?” Salvatore, the son I have been sourly displeased with, pokes his head into my room in a crisp white shirt and black dress pants. An undone tie hangs loosely from his neck. Strands of his unruly black curls bounce forward to cover his bushy eyebrows.

I have tried in every way to make a proper man out of him. And I am not even asking too much. I can’t ask him to be perfect because who am I deceiving? I know he has his demons. I can see the darkness in him through his eyes as clearly as mine. But he can start by dressing up to look less like a delinquent.

“Come here,” I twirl the ring’s band on my index finger to position the bezel so that the sign is visible.

He grumbles, as expected, and strides toward me.

“If you don’t know what to do with a tie, it’s not a must.” I don’t have time to help him, a fucking twenty-eight-year-old man knot his tie. I will not do that. Not on a day like today, when he is supposed to step up and make an attempt to show he is man enough for the type of deal we are going to discuss.

“Thank God.” He throws the tie on the bed.

“Thank God?” I knit my brows together. “If you can’t knot a damn tie, how are you going to hold your home?” My cold tone is nothing like the fire in my stomach because of how much he has consistently disappointed me.

“We measure that with fashion know-how now?” He has the nerve to snort, “Dad, anyone can learn it, but it doesn’t make them a proper man.”

“It’s a start,” because hell, the journey of a thousand miles starts with one fucking baby step, and this son of mine won’t even crawl for me to begin the journey. By the bloody Saints.

“I’m here at least, I’m doing this.”

“You think you have a choice?”

“Isn’t it a good thing that I know I don’t, and I’m acting accordingly?”

As much as every father wants to have a child who is compliant, it wouldn’t hurt to sometimes see their child speak up and fight back. The only bloody time he fights back is when his sister has something he wants. What leader will he be if he can’t ever speak up against a decision I’m making for the clan? They have not all been good, and sometimes I deliberately suggest some bad ones to see if he will rebel. But he never does.

I arch an eyebrow, “Button up, we can’t be late,” I strut past him and out of the room. I can’t stand him any more than I can stand his choice of cologne. He smells like dust and spice.

He takes his time but does as told. I’m almost at the elevator when I hear the sound of the room door closing and Salvatore hurrying behind me.

“Listen,” I turn to him, and he halts, close enough to me to show me that the only thing he takes after me is his height. “Stay calm, stay collected.”

“I can do that,” he shrugs.

He can. He is good at that— perhaps another thing he got from me.

I don’t have unrealistic expectations for him, I just need him to show me he can be the leader that I have invested time and resources trying to groom him into. He is unfailing with his disappointment, and I have it up to my neck with him.

I have lived through every bloody hell imaginable for a human, and I can’t say I’m grateful that I’m still alive because it only means getting tortured over and over again in every way possible.

Salvatore is one of the many torture weapons inflicted upon me, and every shortcoming of his digs into my skin no matter how thick I’ve coated it with layers.

I nod curtly and turn to press the elevator button. It opens, and we both walk into the steel box. Father and son. But today, I’m going as his consigliere.

I push for the seventh floor which is the exclusive restaurant of the hotel where we will be meeting with Massimo to discuss the offer he is making, which we need more than anything at this point to help with the Bratva situation. It is for this reason we came from the city of angels to the city that never sleeps. I still feel jet lagged from the late-night flight from LA to New York. But I’ve had worse days. And I will have more if we don’t fix this problem soon.

The elevator opens, and we walk out to find Massimo already seated on a leather sofa with a bottle of whiskey and a glass.

His piercing light blue eyes make and hold eye contact with us as we walk to him, his one hand resting on the armrest of the sofa, and one leg stretched under the table authoritatively. The air around him is charged in a way I’m hoping Salvatore will manage someday.

The restaurant is dusky, with only a warm light from the chandelier hanging over Massimo’s head. And empty, cleared out for this meeting. There’s a waiter behind the bar in a mushroom shirt who doesn’t look much like a waiter, more like a bodyguard doubling as a waiter for the meeting, now arranging two more whiskey glasses on a tray.

“Salvatore,” Massimo looks at the gold wristwatch he has on, “right on time,” he lifts his chin, showing something akin to a smile. “Emanuele,” he nods slightly in acknowledgment of my presence.

“Massimo,” Salvatore reaches for a handshake and sits opposite him.

“Massimo,” I nod curtly and take my seat beside Salvatore.

The waiter walks out of the bar to us with the whiskey glasses and sets them on the table.

“I’m hoping we have the same preference, but if not,” Massimo uses his head as a pointer to gesture we can make our orders.

“We do,” Salvatore smiles, and the waiter pours him a drink. Too agreeable. He hates whiskey, and I only know because I heard him grumbling to a friend about it on the phone when he was twenty-one. Every single time he comes to my study, I offer him whiskey, waiting to see the day when he says no and has the balls to demand the drink he wants. So here we are, with him being handed a glass of whiskey. I might as well kiss the wish of his competence bloody goodbye.

“I have a family to get back to,” Massimo picks up his glass of whiskey, “we are going for a vacation,” he slides to the edge of his seat and leans forward, “so I will make this quick,” he sips his whiskey.

“Only someone like you would end a merger like the one Giuseppe proposed,” Salvatore leans back in his seat and crosses a leg over the other.

“What can I say, the heart wants what it wants,” Massimo does his chin-lift smile again, “You should try that sometimes, Salvatore.”

Brutal.

Bloody brutal.

But where is the fucking lie?

“Vittoria tried to sell my wife to the Camorra, and as much as I would think death was an appropriate retribution for such an act, starting a war with Giuseppe after rejecting his daughter and having a family with the woman I rejected his daughter for, won’t mix,” Massimo drops his glass of whiskey, “I know there’s something you need that Giuseppe can give you with ease, and my connection can strengthen your hand here in New York.”

“The Bratva is a pain in the ass,” Salvatore chimes in, “business is hard with them around.”

“You won’t have to worry about them to do your business, not when you have a man like Giuseppe by your side,” Massimo continues. “This way, everyone gets what they want,” Massimo twists the signet ring on his left index finger. “He is looking to marry her off for a good deal, so with this arrangement he gets his daughter married into a reputable family that he can get a better deal from than mine, and you have your problem fixed because he has a connection with La eMe. You can continue business better with the alliance, and I…” he chuckles, “I get what I want, too.”

“To have her married to me?” Salvatore blows, “I must be a horrible person if you think marrying me is enough punishment for what she did to you.”

“Is it not?” Massimo drops his head to the side to look at Salvatore with narrowed eyes. “You are the kind of horrible, using your choice of word, that she needs.” He leans back in his seat, resting his elbow on the armrest, “to put it plainly, Salvatore, tame her, break her wings, and choke her with her bitter herb if you are up to the challenge, because Vittoria Mancuso is no easy one.”

“At least I get something worth the while,” Salvatore sips his whiskey, “I will have fun with this one.”

Problem solved.

Salvatore seems like he is doing this more for himself than for the reason we set out to do this, and I can’t say it doesn’t make me relax a bit. I’m still his father, after all, and if this Vittoria can assist with bringing out this side of him, then I’m all for it. If he can show me he has balls and he can tame a wild one like her, then he will pass the test of leadership, and I won’t hold the past failures against him.

“Good luck with her,” Massimo smiles now.

“I need it, don’t I?” Salvatore chuckles dryly.

There are no normal men in this business. Everyone has their demon. It’s the perfect balance. The Ying to whatever little bloody Yang we have left. It is where you channel the bloody thing that makes any difference.

“We can say we have an understanding,” Massimo lifts his glass of whiskey.

“I assure you we do,” Salvatore lifts his glass of whiskey, too.

They make a silent toast, and both sip.

One down. One more to go.

We have a meeting with the Mancusos next.

This new deal looks easy on the eye. Having an alliance with a family like the Mancusos is one way to solve the problems of our business constantly being interrupted by Boris and his beavers. But the problem with things that look too easy is that they’re often the tricky ones.

Vittoria feels like a rose with thorns sharp enough to cut through steel. She can save my clan or she can bring us down. My gut tells me she will unquestionably opt for the latter.

Bloody Saints.