Chapter One – A Capo's Power

CHAPTER ONE…CAPO'S POWER

New York

Ten Years Later…

Everyone have different ways of dealing with grief.

Some bawl their eyes out. Some shed crocodile tears. Others go into deep depression.

Few people show no emotion.

Even if the pain threatens to claw its way through their insides and make itself known, they show no emotion.

And I am "few people".

I watch as his coffin is being lowered into the hard, unforgiving Earth.

My father.

My mentor.

My anchor.

For the past ten years, he and Ricardo have been the only constants in my life. It feels like I've always looked up to him my entire life.

Hell, I was practically always glued to his side. But it all ended too soon. Way too soon.

We had ten years together. Ten very short years.

I thought he was invincible. He had undoubtedly shown me over the past few years of our time together that he was the hardest man to kill.

But he did not see it coming. No one did.

The bullet hit him square on the head, completely shattering his skull structure and embedding deeply into his brain. I hired the best doctors money could buy, but they all said the same thing.

Reconstruction surgery could be performed on his forehead and the bullet removed from his brain but he would never be the father I knew.

According to the doctors, the bullet had damaged some very important nerves, meaning he would not be able to perform basic activities like eating or even going to the fucking restroom on his own.

He could lose function of his limbs completely, becoming a total invalid and I know my father would never have wanted that.

Though Father never lacked a smile and his good ol' charm, he hated weakness – every form of it.

He shot one of his underbosses point blank in the head once for attempting to defend his thieving mistress because he "believed" he was falling in love with her.

I can still remember the sinister grin that lit his features as blood and bits of the man's brains exploded all over the expensive Chinese doors of his office.

The decision to take him off life support was not an easy one. But I freed my father from a life that would have made him totally dependent on others for the rest of his stay on Earth.

I killed my father.

Now, I watch as another person dear to me lies in the cold hard ground, killed by a Bratva bullet.

Fury simmers in my veins and I clench my fists as hot blood roar in my ears.

I launched various attacks on the Russian Mafia as soon as I recovered from my days in their hellhole of a prison.

I destroyed their torture cells and bombed their underground brothels. I killed thousands of their soldiers and destroyed their warehouses filled with cocaine and cannabis.

They call me Blackstone because I am their fucking worst nightmare, but it took a single bullet from those dickless assholes to destroy everything I held dear, to kill my father.

I still remember that day, ten years ago, on the plane bound for American soil, when he fixed his dark blue eyes on me and said those things that strengthened my resolve to destroy the Bratva.

"Yulia was a beautiful woman. I met her on one of my undercover business escapades to Russia. She was shy too, almost couldn't look me in the eyes. I wooed her into my bed three nights later. Longest time it has ever taken to get a woman butt naked in my bed, if I must say.

I spent the entire night with her, woke up the next morning and she was gone. I was due to fly back to New York the same day so I left. It was getting increasingly dangerous to remain in Russia.

I received a letter from her three months later. According to the letter, she was pregnant and the child was mine.

I came back to reason with their Pakhan, Capo-to-Capo, only to receive news that my Yulia had been whipped for sending a letter across the border. A fucking letter!

Your Capo did not let me take her back to New York. He didn't let me claim you either. I chose to remain patient.

An outright disobedience would have meant war for the Familia and I could not risk the innocent lives of my people.

I was only allowed to come for you after sixteen years. I waited patiently. I even ticked days off the fucking calendar. I did not launch any attacks on Bratva soil because they had my son.

I sent supplies to her every month. Toys, food, clothes, money, anything I could think of, only to come back after sixteen damned years to news that my woman and child lived in a fucking shack and lived off stolen goods.

They sold all the items I had sent from New York and brought you to me battered, cold and almost fucking dead.

But I'm taking you back with a smile, son. You know why? Because no matter what he does, that dickhead, Russian Pakhan will never manage to wrangle any emotions of distress from me.

But I will unleash my reign of terror on the Bratva. One that would cripple them entirely. They might just never recover."

And he kept his word. With him by my side, we wrecked havoc on the Bratva.

But I had one regret.

My search for Romanov Anton, the damned Enforcer that tortured I and my best friend, Ricardo in prison has turned up futile so far and it is getting increasingly frustrating by the day.

"Sir?"

My silent reverie is interrupted by the thick voice of the Familia's priest.

The corrupt scum behind flowing white robes that father paid money to, to sing his praises during early morning mass.

Masses my father never attended.

"It's time to shovel in the first sand"

I give him a hard look and watch him visibly shrink into his robes. I accept the shovel he holds towards me, my heart aching as I thrust it into the heap of sand and empty it on the see through, Italian glass coffin I had custom made for dad.

I drop the shovel on the dirt ground and turn to leave, trying to stiffle the emotions of pain, anger and annoyance that swamp me.

My men and other underbosses of the Familia flank me as I make to move towards my car.

I pause, turning towards them.

"Where do you all think you're going?" I ask, my voice deathly soft.

"We're accompanying you..."

My cold gaze lands on the man that dares to speak.

Peter Sullivan, underboss of Chicago.

He and his merry band of supporters have not missed any opportunities to show their dislike for the Capo's illegitimate son.

Now that my father is gone, the devious gleam in his eyes confirms my suspicions.

He will be a problem for me. And my father had taught me only one method of dealing with my problems.

Squash them.

I cover the short distance between us, my Oxfords sinking into the wet dirt of the cemetery, and look down my nose at him.

Though a good one inch shorter, Sullivan stands his ground, unwavering. Typical of all underbosses trained by my father.

But I know how to tweak the weakness of my enemies. I learned from the maestro after all.

"I do not recall asking you to speak, Sullivan."

His eyes flash at the obvious disrespect in my tone.

"You asked a question. I only assumed you would want an answer."

My jaw ticks.

No one ever dares to speak to a Capo or future Capo in that tone, unless he is an open contender.

I know Sullivan and a few others are vehemently against the idea of me being Capo, but I did not expect their animosity to begin playing out so soon.

I clasp my fingers behind my back and narrow my eyes at him.

"Assumptions and an always running mouth would only get you killed, Sullivan. The only thing that stops me from rearranging your deceitful face with my fists is the dead body of my father, lying just a few feet away.

Now I did not request for any form of company from you," I look up, my gaze raking over all the other underbosses,

"Or any of you. Now I suggest you show a little respect to your dead Capo and remain here until his burial rites are completed."

Murmurs rise amongst them and my men move to stand before me, guns raised and cocked.

I take an observatory look at the small gathering. Noting with interest, the face of every single underboss that even dares to narrow his eyes at me.

The burial of a Capo is supposed to be treated with reverence, but instead, opposing sides draw guns over my father's grave, the ultimate sign of disrespect.

Unlike my father, I never learned to take in aggression from my enemies with a smile. Instead, I give every single last one of the underbosses a cold stare until one by one, they return to the graveside and the priest begins the final prayers.

I turn away and begin the short trek to my car. I try to distract my self from my conflicting thoughts by wondering just how many people have cried by these gravesides.

I finally make it to the car.

The driver opens the door swiftly and I slide into the buttery leather seats. He closes the door with a slight 'click', leaving me in the car with my dark thoughts.

Somewhere out there, that scum of the Earth enforcer still roams freely.

I grip the vacant seats of the Limo, images of my mother's lifeless, empty eyes assaulting me.

I rack trembling fingers through my already disarrayed hair and take long, deep pulls of the cold air blasting from the Air con. in an attempt to dispel the poisonous anger that flows through my veins.

That miserly Enforcer and his entire family have no right to be alive and I swear on my dead mother's lifeless eyes that they would suffer.

I will bring every single last one of them to their knees.

***

My death day is approaching.

I feel it as surely as I know my sadistic nature cannot be controlled.

I look over at my sleeping daughter. She's the only reason I went into hiding.

I cannot risk Luca Blackstone finding out about her existence. I shudder with the thought of what he would to her.

The Bratva is not for the weak. Men sacrifice their families for high positions in the world of organized crime.

From the moment Skylar was placed into my arms and I looked into her beautiful, baby blue eyes, I felt the walls around my toughened heart begin to crumble. There and then I made a promise.

My baby will not be touched by the sin that was the Mafia.

She's mine and I intend to make sure she remains mine for the rest of her life.

I've honoured that vow even more than I've honoured my own life for the past nineteen years, making sure she is kept far away, pure and untouched by the evil that burns within her own Father.

But it's finally feeling like all my hard work and protection are going down the damned drain.

She's turning twenty in a few weeks and only her personal maid and I are aware of her existence.

As days pass, the Familia is closing in on me.

Just recently, I heard from my sources that Blackstone has placed a five million dollar bounty on my fucking head and the heads of my family members.

The Russian Pakhan has denounced their protection after suffering unimaginable losses because of Blackstone's obsession to make me pay for my sins.

My day of reckoning is near. I can feel it. I only hope my daughter would escape from the coming inferno unscathed.

***

Monday morning has me sitting in my father's custom made, hand hewn seat. Ready to start my duties as New York's Capo.

I look out of the floor to ceiling windows that take up the whole of one wall, gazing intently at the wide expanse of the city...my city.

New York would no longer be under the reign of a care free, jovial leader. An unfeeling monster rules them now.

Every single last one of them would have to bow to their new King.

Jolted from my reverie by the sound of the office doors slamming, I turn sharply, my senses already honed and ready to take on an attacker.

Standing before me, however, are the six underbosses of New York. All meticulously chosen by my father and still very loyal to him.

That would have to change.

I cannot afford to keep any disloyal men on my payroll.

Judging from the looks on their faces, they do not appear to be here for idle chit chat.

Fuck! This confrontation is a week too early.

"Gentlemen," My voice rings loud and cold,

"I've been expecting you. I thought lessons on punctuality came with the job but that asides, why don't you seat. We have alot to discuss."

They all stare at me, eyes narrowed and probably armed to the teeth. A true member of the Mafia never ventures out without his guns and knives. Damn, we sleep with those things on, honouring the Familia's motto of "Ready To Fight And Never To Die, Always To Conquer By Fear Or Foul."

"We're not here to sit around and twiddle our thumbs, Russian boy."

I am only half Russian, but now does not look like a good time to remind them of that tiny detail.

And that voice.

I close my eyes for a split second, sending a silent prayer to whoever cares to listen for strength.

Peter Sullivan. I swear this douchebag dies today.

"Sullivan, if you've got something to say, you might as well come out and say it. Cease with the temper tantrums."

Peter's fist clench and unclench, his finger tightening over the safety of his gun.

The rest of the underbosses slowly pull out their weapons. I have more inside enemies then I thought.

This could turn into a fucking bloodbath really quickly.

I narrow my eyes. My index finger hover over the tiny red button my father had shown to me a month before his death.

Built into the opaque, glass table, it sends signals that opens up tiny holes on the titanium fortified walls of the office.

Those holes contain automatic guns that release bullets at a velocity that is capable of killing Flash in motion.

These men are not aware that they are practically standing in a suicide chamber. They can be reduced to simpering pools of ash before me within seconds.

"Oh, I've got something to say" Sullivan finally speaks up.

"Infact, I've got a lot of things to say."

He hands his gun over to one of his men then sinks into one of the guests' chairs, propping his damn feet on my father's table.

Those feet are the first things I would shoot off his body when I get the chance.

I turn away from the little group and make my way over to the bank of windows, my hands firmly clasped behind my back.

I'm not worried about being shot in the head while my back is turned, of course.

This room is also equipped with state-of-the-art motion detectors.

A feature I had discreetly turned on when my enemies decided to pay me a visit. Now, any sudden movement would trigger an emergency response and the defaulter would be missing a head before he even takes two steps across the room.

A sudden thump has me turning just in time to watch the papers Sullivan sweeps from my table land on the polished marble floor.

"Didn't your father teach you to respect your elders? How dare you turn your backs on us?"

That's it.

"You know what, Sullivan? My father did teach me to respect my elders. But I adopt an advise only if it suits me just fine. If you are an example of an elder I need to respect, I guess I'll take my respect and reserve it for someone that actually deserves it."

I look up at the faces of every single underboss in the room.

"You wanna know what else my father thought me? He taught me never to let a challenge slide. This here is an opposition...an open challenge. One that I very much intend to squash."

I take out my gun and make sure it's cocked.

"Now, gentlemen, I believe we've talked enough about the weather. Why don't we get down to the business of the day, shall we?"

In one swift move, I shoot Sullivan on the knee, shattering his kneecap.

I derive deep satisfaction from the surprise that lights his features before he falls to the ground, clutching his injured knee in a mess of grunts and groans.

I look back up at the rest of the underbosses,

"Anyone else has something to say? Don't be afraid. It's time to air out all our thoughts."

"What are you waiting for?" Sullivan wheezes through gritted teeth,

"Finish him off!"

His men swing into action, moving swiftly across the vast office, guns drawn.

I cannot help the sinister smile that stretches my lips.

A low click sounds and the first man falls to the ground, his lifeless head rolling away from his still shaking body. His vacant eyes lie wide open, as if in surprise.

The advancing men stop in their tracks, their lips forming a silent 'O' as they watch blood spurt from the dead soldier's severed neck.

"Traitor! Traitor! He just murdered a soldier of the Familia in cold blood"

I turn to the source of the voice, take one look at his injured knee then shoot bullets into his brain.

Peter fucking Sullivan.

Now the fucker is silenced forever.

I turn back to the underbosses, raking them with a cold, silent gaze.

"Now I suggest you all go back to your cities and inform your people that New York has a new Capo, and his name is Blackstone. Anyone who dares to challenge me on my turf will meet the deadly end of my sword. Am I clear?"

I can already see the looks of surrender on the faces of the underbosses.

They are smart men. They know what is at stake.

"I said, Am. I. Clear?"

"Yes boss." Comes the defeated chorus.

"Now leave. And send in a crew to clean up this mess."

"As you wish, sir."

They all exit the office, leaving me alone with the blood and bodies.

It is only convenient that a little blood be spilled if the people are to accept me as their Capo. Like father always said, the people need a fearless leader.

This is a new era.

And strength is a quality I am never too shy to exhibit.