6. Another turf war?

Three days prior...

At the young age of eleven, I was thrust into the secretive world of organized crime, a dark and treacherous path that would shape my life into something unrecognizable compared to the innocence of my youth. The memories of my initiation into this sinister realm lingered in the recesses of my mind, a disquieting ritual that unfolded when I was only twelve years old.

By the time I turned eighteen, I had become a harbinger of destruction, ruthlessly shattering a man's spirit and body with calculated precision as I climbed the ranks of the merciless criminal underworld. At nineteen, I solemnly embraced the realm of murder, extinguishing the life of a treacherous enemy—an initiation that marked my passage into a world of darkness. Yet, it was at the age of twenty-five that time seemed to freeze, crystallized by the cold-blooded murder of my mother—a haunting reminder of the malevolence hidden within, poised to steal one's soul.

Pushing aside the ominous thoughts that threatened to consume me, I found myself standing near the window, summoned to my father's opulent residence. His grand office overlooked a tropical pool and cabana—an illusory facade of tranquility that concealed the sinister operations transpiring within its walls. The California breeze created a deceptive ripple in the crystal-clear waters below, a stark contrast to the nefarious dealings orchestrated by my father.

This was no casual invitation, but rather a summons into the twisted and brutal world my father reveled in. His so-called "functional necessity in a dysfunctional world" involved lending to the privileged, a euphemism for malevolent transactions with steep repayments, be it in cash or blood. His influence reached far and wide, entangling with the very fabric of authority—the police, the mayor's office, and even the entertainment industry.

As my father's heavy footsteps approached, I tightened my grip on the expensive glass of scotch, catching his somber expression in the reflection of the bulletproof glass. Suppressing the urge to snarl, I acknowledged the presence of Grinder, my father's presumed second-in-command—a man I held no fondness for. His imposing figure loomed in the doorway, a silent enforcer of my father's will.

Tension thickened in the room as my father's voice sliced through the stillness. "So good of you to come, Victor. You can leave us, Grinder."

Grinder departed, his lingering gaze fueling the underlying tension. Despite our differences, my father and I always clashed, regardless of the subject at hand.

"How many times have I asked you not to use my given name, Ricardo?" I retorted, addressing my father by his first name—a reminder of my rebellion against the outdated traditions he clung to.

Ricardo Racini, a man shaped by the darkened streets of Italy, had risen from the depths of poverty and violence to reach America. But his journey had stripped him of his humanity, leaving behind only a distorted sense of family values and an insatiable thirst for revenge.

As the illegitimate son, I was a source of mockery among his esteemed mafia peers, despite my success in the film industry. To him, I was the heir apparent who cared little—a thorn in his side. Taking a sip of scotch, I savored the burning sensation as it glided down my throat.

"If you think I'm going to use the ridiculous name Kelan Rock for any reason, you're wrong," my father declared, breathless and exasperated—a recurring disagreement between us.

The sound of ice clinking in his glass caught my attention, and his urgent message piqued my interest. "What do you want, Father? I have a premiere to prepare for."

His deep voice resonated in the spacious room, tinged with an undercurrent of worry. "If you devoted more time to your family responsibilities and less to that nonsense, we might not be in this mess!"

Suppressing the tempest of anger swirling within me, I turned to face Ricardo Racini, a man deeply entrenched in the shadows of organized crime. The air thickened with tension, an unspoken understanding passing between us as we navigated the treacherous waters of our conversation—shrouded in coded language.

"What mess are we talking about this time?" I inquired calmly, well aware of the prying eyes of his capos and the ever-looming threat of the FBI. The walls held secrets, and caution was the currency of survival in our world.

Ricardo took a deliberate sip of his drink, the amber liquid swirling in the crystal glass. Drawing nearer, he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial tone. "Grinder and Tony caught wind of an impending takeover attempt."

The weight of his words hung heavy in the air, foretelling danger that tightened my senses. Two of his most trusted capos, handsomely rewarded for their loyalty, had become the bearers of imminent threat.

"Takeover? By whom?" I questioned, mymind already racing through the intricate network of connections I had with the other four mafia families in the United States. None dared encroach upon my father's territory, fully aware of the ruthless force he could unleash when provoked. A single bead of sweat traced a path down his face, a visible manifestation of his unease.

"A faction of the Massimo family," he confessed, his admission casting shadows across the room. The Massimo family, a name synonymous with power and influence, had set their sights on a territory that bore my father's indelible mark.

He tossed a copy of the morning newspaper in my direction, a scornful sneer etched on his face. Unfolding the pages, I was confronted with sensationalized headlines that screamed of impending chaos.

Homicide: Is Los Angeles Prepared for Another Gang War?

The words leapt off the page, a macabre dance of ink designed to stoke fear. I sighed, recognizing the narrative woven into the story—a deliberate attempt to exaggerate the specter of organized crime. Two lives extinguished outside a notorious nightclub, an establishment my father frequented, now immortalized in a photograph that would undoubtedly grace the front pages.

"Two of your men?" I asked, the gravity of the situation sinking in. The chessboard had been set, and the pieces were in motion, each carrying the weight of consequences yet to unfold.