The first time I killed a man, I was fifteen
I didn't cry, didn't tremble, didn't run.
I remember how hi's body slumped against the concrète, blood pooling under the collar of his cheap leather jacket.
He was just a small time extortionist trying to squeeze my uncle for protection money, thinking he could punch upwards and walk away with teeth. And… He was wrong.
That night, the rain soaked the Neapolitan gutters. The streets reeked of gasoline and regret.
That night, I became my uncle's heir.
Now, I'm twenty-three, and silence still wakes me up more than gunshots.
I don't remember the last time I slept a full night. In this life, you don't earn rest. You buy it with blood, and mine's not clean enought to afford it.
I leaned back into the leather seat of the Maserati, my fingers absently playing with a cigarette I had no intention of lighting. Not since my mother. She died slow, her lungs turning to rot while I stood powerless beside her hospital bed. That was the last time I begged anything in this world.
"Boss", Marco's voice came low from the front seat, pulling me from thought, "We're five minutes out."
"Mm." I didn't look up.
The street of Naples rolled by in shadows and golden streetlamps. I always hated this part of the city… Too clean, too fake. All the tourists and cafés and kids dreaming of future they will never touch. They didn't see the knife behind the smile. They didn't see men like me.
We were headed to La Traviata, One of my fronts. Jazz bar on the outside. Arms dealing hub underneath. The music there was always too soft, like it was trying to apologize for the screams echoing under the floorboards.
Tonight wasn't about music,
It was about betrayal.
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three days earlier ,
my cousin Luciaono had turned up dead in public square. Throat slit. Tongue removed.
It was a message, and not a subtle one.
Someone inside my circle has sold us out. And whoever it was… they knew the old rules. The tongue was a message:
you talk, you die.
I had a list. Fives names. All men I'd grown up with. One of them was a traitor. The others were just collateral.
La Traviata was closed for the night. But that didn't stop the soft rythm of jazz seeping thought the alley as we approched. Soundproofing never works the way people think. Secret bleed.
(HELP MY FINGERS PLEASE!! OH MY !!!)
Marco opened the door for me and I stepped out, coat fluttering in the wind like wings made of sin.
Inside the smell of smoke and schotch hit me first. Then the music. Live saxophone. Probably Stefano again. He never asked questions and never stopped playing, even when people screamed.
"Boss." Enzo, one of my oldest enforcers, met me at the back hall, with arms like meat hooks. "They're all here. Back room."
I nodded once and kept walking. My footsteps on the wooden floor sounded like echoes from another life.
The back room was dim. One table. Five chairs. Five men. All eyes on me.
Sandro, Matteo, Rocco, Giulio, And Tomas.
I'd know them since i was ten. We'd bled together. Buried bodies together. Betrayed people together. But only one of them had dared to betray me.
"I appreciate you all coming." I szid quietly, pulling out the sixth chair and sitting. "This won't take long."
No one spoke, that was wise.
I pulled a photograph from my coat and laid it on the table.
Luciano. Face frozen in a death mask. Blood on the pavement. His eyes were still open.
"You all knew him. He died with a knife in his throat and no tongue. That tells me one thing."
Still, no one moved. Only Rocco looked down, like the guilt might drag him under.
"You all know what happens next."
Giulio tried. He tried to stand, tried to speak.. some nonsense about loyalty and family.
I shot him before he got a word out. One round. Between the eyes.
The others didn't flinch flinch. That told me more than words ever could.
"You have one hour to prove yourselves."
I rose from the chair and tucked the gun back into my coat. "Find me the one who talked, or you all die."
I left the room, before anyone could beg.