Phantom

August 21, 1944

There’s a reason even the godfather of Seattle respects Orazio Caserta’s rules.

He’s always been a ruthless son of a bitch. Despite his affinity for peace in his restaurant, he is very much capable of destruction.

Truthfully, I never thought I’d see the day where anyone disrespected his rules, but part of me is glad I lived to see it.

The photographs splayed out on Angelo’s desk would have a weaker stomach purging. Evidence of Orazio’s work on Manny Baldelli’s oldest child, Nico, and Marco Viscuso himself.

Turns out, when we had dinner with the Viscusos at Caserta’s, Marco had already pledged his loyalty to Manny in exchange for his son, Gabriele, to keep his mouth shut to the fuzz about Marco’s operations. But for Manny to accept his pledge, he had one requirement of Marco.

Whack Angelo.

That day at Caserta’s, Marco made one last effort to gain Angelo’s approval to ice Gabriele, but Angelo refused and unknowingly sealed his fate.

So, although it was Marco’s men who pulled the trigger that day, it was Manny who put out the contract.

Orazio took that as a great insult and punished both families for daring to cross him at his restaurant.

“Kid just turned eighteen and was gettin’ ready to be shipped off to war,” Angelo says, slapping yet another photograph onto his ornate wooden desk before Alfonso and me.

Such ugly images to lay upon such grand furniture.

Angelo has always had expensive taste. Rococo ornamentation engulfs the office in intricate golden designs that crawl up the white walls to a plafond ceiling. Built-in golden shelves span the wall behind his desk, save for an alcove in the center where a copycat painting of the Mona Lisa hangs. Miniature statues and old books inherited through his family fill the shelves, and Roman mythology paintings make up several art pieces and murals around the room, completed by a diamond-pattern tile floor, each piece a different shade of brown.

Angelo Salvatore is a devout Catholic man, which is why he turns away his religious statues when it’s time for his cocaine fix.

“Seems that would have been a mercy,” Alfonso drawls, inhaling his cigarette as he stares at the images with detachment.

It would have.

Orazio’s father, Paris, loves horses, so much so that he owns two derby-winning stallions. He bets on them, too, and so far, he hasn’t gone home empty-handed.

Growing up, Orazio was a jockey in some of those races and became very well-acquainted with the beasts. Paris used to call him the horse whisperer for his knack for taming them and getting them to do exactly as he asked.

A skill that seems to have stuck with him, seeing as how he got four horses to rip Nico and Marco into pieces.

“Orazio made it clear it wasn’t a quick death,” Angelo says, chuckling. “Apparently, the horses didn’t run. They walked. Slowly rippin’ off the limbs from their bodies.”

I cock a brow, aimlessly rubbing my thumb across my bottom lip as I stare at the photos. The men’s torsos are in the middle, and each of their limbs is placed several feet from where they’re supposed to be. I don’t need to see the photographs in color to know that barely a speck of the grass beneath them is still green.

Somehow, that’s not the worst part. No, the worst part is the tourniquets wrapped around each of their remaining stubs, cutting off the blood flow and subsequently keeping them alive for longer.

“Did he say how long they were alive after?” I ask, focusing on Angelo. Yet the sight of Nico and Marco each ripped into five pieces is one that will forever be burned into my memory.

“Little under two hours.”

“Jesus,” I mutter beneath my breath. “Marco deserved that fate. But Nico?”

“Don’t feel too bad,” Angelo drawls. “Manny raised Nico to think that whatever he wanted, he got. That included girls.”

My thumb pauses on my lip. “He raped them?”

“Manny had complained on many occasions about payin’ a few parents hush money to keep their daughters’ traps shut.”

I nod slowly while Alfonso mutters, “Those are just the ones who accepted it. The parents that didn’t? Their daughters were silenced.”

Rage burns in my chest, and my finger twitches with the need to unload a few bullets in Manny’s goddamn head. “So, Marco and Nico were whacked,” I state plainly, needing to push the conversation along before I give into my urges and go looking for Manny this goddamn second. “You put a contract out on Manny the moment you heard he was behind the hit, and no one has gotten close enough to get the job done. We’ve gotten ourselves into several shoot-outs over the past few months. And now that Orazio got one over on his kid, he will consider them even. You want me to clip him?”

Angelo glowers, but I know he’s reserved all his wrath for Manny.

“An enforcer from the Russo family clocked Manny at a rental on the outskirts of town two hours ago,” Alfonso supplies woodenly.

The Russos are a good family, and they’ve stayed loyal to us throughout this war Manny began. If they’re sure of Manny’s presence, then I believe it.

“I want him dead, Ronnie,” Angelo bites through gritted teeth.

“Are you askin’ me or tellin’ me?”

Angelo shoots back his whiskey, hissing through his teeth. When he sets the crystal glass down, he meets my stare.

“I’m tellin’ ya.”

I stub out my cigar, smoke billowing between us, but it does nothing to hide the murderous delight shining within Angelo’s and my eyes.

“Then I’ll take care of it.”

August 22, 1944

Manny Baldelli’s snores could wake the dead.

I don’t know how his wife sleeps next to him, but she lies just as still as he does.

Wouldn’t surprise me if she’s merely a corpse he keeps next to him. He’s always been off his rocker, and it’s not something I’d put past him.

The bedroom they’re staying in is on the bottom floor, with one wall entirely a window, giving me a perfect shot of him. He and his wife, Carmen, sleep on a four-poster bed, Manny closest to the window and his wife barely visible behind his large body.

Normally, a wanted man would never think to leave himself so exposed. But Manny has always had more ego than brains, and he believes he’s in a hidden location surrounded by several guards, which gives him a false sense of security.

Unfortunately for him, those guards are all dead.

I took out each one quietly when the others were out of view. A simple rope around the neck prevented them from making any noise while I choked the life out of them.

A mere appetizer to the entrée.

There’s a buzz beneath my skin, demanding more blood on my hands. More souls to release into the ether. Nothing will satisfy me more than watching the life drain from Manny Baldelli’s eyes.

My tommy gun is strapped on my back, so I quietly remove it and take aim, uncaring if I hit the possibly alive wife or not. She’s collateral damage and nothing more.

And then I unload, the unmistakable sound of dozens of bullets firing through glass, shattering it and startling Manny and his wife awake, their eyes nearly popping from their skulls.

The two of them roll toward the other side of the bed and out of shot, though I don’t let up on spraying metal, even as I kick at broken glass, making enough room in the window for me to step through.

Just as I enter the room, the magazine runs empty. Instantly, I slip the tommy gun to my back and pull out my pistol, taking aim just as Manny jumps to his feet, his own gun aimed my way.

Glass shards catch on my clothing, a few pieces slicing through flesh. But I hardly feel it.

I’m quicker and shoot the second he’s within sight.

My bullet hits him directly in the chest, though he manages to squeeze off a shot of his own that comes within millimeters of my face.

I don’t even blink.

The following silence is almost deafening save for Carmen’s soft cries. I’m unable to discern if they’re from pain or terror or maybe both, but she is the least of my concerns.

Carefully, I approach them. Many have gotten themselves killed thinking they completed a hit, only for their target to still have enough breath to fire off one last fatal shot, determined not to meet hell’s gates alone.

Manny lies on his back, his eyes closed and chest unmoving while Carmen cradles his head in her lap. Her response to my presence is delayed, but the moment she notices me, she curls herself over him, renewed cries spilling from her lips. She doesn’t appear to be hit anywhere, though I can’t say I would consider her lucky.

“Please,” she whimpers.

I raise my gun and fire off another shot in Manny’s chest. His body automatically jerks as the bullet sluices through his muscles and organs, and it evokes a sharp scream from Carmen’s throat. Her trembling hands cover her ears, and she begins to rock back and forth, her husband’s head still cradled in her lap.

Carmen Baldelli is no saint.

She’s known for beating her staff to death over simple mistakes, and the ones she doesn’t kill, she makes them wish she had.

Carmen has enough innocent blood on her hands to warrant a single bullet through the brain.

So that’s what I give her.

Her cries silence, and so does the buzz beneath my skin as I finish taking lives for the night.

I roll my neck, releasing the tension that has gathered in my muscles since the moment I left Angelo’s estate.

Then I slide my gun into the back of my trousers and head back out of the broken window, feeling lighter than I’ve felt in months.

Tucking my hands in my pockets, I whistle a Frank Sinatra tune as I stroll toward my car, thinking of nothing more than seeing Genevieve Parsons again.