FEDERICO

No one is innocent.

It has become a ritual to repeat the words which have been ingrained into my head since I was six years old. The road leading to this point in my life has not been easy. I've made mistakes and let my anger rule over me. I lost control and let it overpower me. But with time, I've learned to channel it. Mostly.

However, on days like today, I enjoy being able to unleash some of the simmering anger I contain daily, on those who deserve it.

"We're here, Boss." Mostro parks the car outside the rundown apartment building, in the poorly kept area of the city. It's hard to tell which makes up the most of the population here; the homeless or the stray animals that overrun the streets and empty buildings. The inadequately lit streets have a muted orange glow from the trash can fires lined up sporadically along the sidewalks .

I slip my leather gloves on and lift my dark Ray Bans to my face concealing my identity partially; not that it matters. My reputation wasn't built on rumors but facts. Facts cemented by the lives I've ended. The lives of those who tried to come against me and those who have been long overdue on their penance.

I step out of the car and enter the deteriorated and neglected building. The stench from stale cigarette smoke coupled with the putrid odor of urine, saturated with the remnants of human defecation on the soiled and foul carpet in the lobby, make for one stomach turning experience.

Blaring TV's compete with the loud voices of tenants arguing, fighting or laughing as we make our way up the carpeted stairs. A fight spills out into the long corridor and Mostro moves in front of me, drawing his gun in anticipation, but as the men look over at us, they stop and watch as we walk past them.

We come to a door where the partial number of the '3' of 13 is missing. Mostro knocks once and the door behind us opens. An older woman with curlers in her graying hair, wearing a tattered robe, eyes us.

"Yeah?" she scowls at us. The cigarette dangling from her lips is on the verge of falling. It's almost like she forgot she was smoking and it's hanging there like an afterthought.

Mostro glances at her and knocks again on the door across from her. "We knocked on this door, Ma'am."

"Then whatcha looking at me for?" she narrows her eyes at him and then shifts her focus to me. "What are you, Feds?"

"No, Ma'am," Mostro answers.

"Gloria! Who you talking to?" A gravelly voice calls from inside the apartment.

"Your mother!" she shouts back. While I'm wondering how the fucking cigarette is still attached to her mouth, Mostro begins to pound on the door.

"That shit ain't funny, Gloria!"

"Ah, go back to your shit-show, Wally!" she grabs at the dangling cigarette and takes a deep puff, before she wags her finger-cigarette in hand at us. "I've seen yous before. Not a lot, but I remember." She taps her head and ashes scatter over her robe.

"Who the hell are you?" The man who I assume is Wally peeks his head out the door. His scraggly beard has food particles in it. "We don't have shit, we ain't seen shit and we don't know shit." He nods his head as if to prove his point. He focuses on his apparent other half scratching at his overgrown belly over what I assume used to be a white tank top. "Gloria, for Christ sakes, how many times I gotta tell you not to open the fucking door, huh?"

She ignores him and focuses on me. "What's the matter, gorgeous, cat got your tongue? Want me to come find it for ya?" she grins, giving me a near toothless smile.

"I'm fucking standing right here, at least wait until I'm six feet under, dammit!" Wally explodes.

"Why? You sure as hell didn't."

"It was one fucking time!" Wally yells. "Had I known you were going to hold it over my damn head for over fifty years I never would have asked you to take me back!"

"Yeah, well, you did!"

Tired of their arguing, I cock my gun and hold it up against Wally's head, the quick action causes them both to freeze. The cigarette drops to the floor.

"You say the word Ma'am and I'll happily dispose of him for you." I smile at Gloria. "I mean, you clearly can't stand the sight of him."

Gloria shakes her head. "No, no, no. I–I–I...it–it's just some-something we do, don–don't we, Wally?"

"Y-yes," Wally shuts his eyes tight.

"Hm, are you sure?" I shift the gun and they both gasp.

"Yes, p-p-please Mr," Gloria pleads with me.

I tilt my head to the side observing them. "I'm not truly convinced but you've wasted enough of my time, so I will let it go...for now." Their eyes stay focused on my gun as I lower it.

"In the future, Gloria, do not bother yourself with the comings and goings of this apartment." I gesture in the direction of the apartment across from theirs. "And Wally has a point, you should never open the door to strangers. You never know who will be on the other side. Thieves, criminals, killers, psychopaths..."

I tuck my gun behind my back. "Now..." I step forward and they shrink away, holding on to each other. I look down as I snub Gloria's cigarette with the toe of my shoe before I raise my gaze. "You do not want to see my face again. I like Wally's statement from earlier: you ain't seen shit, and you don't know shit."

They nod and Wally reaches a shaky hand for the door knob and closes the door. "They're probably going to die in their sleep from the fright you just gave them, Boss." Mostro chuckles, turning to pound on the door with his meaty fist.

The door swings open and Ciccio leans against the door, panting and face flushed. Sweat glistens on his brow with some of his hair sticking to his forehead. "Sorry Boss," his eyes skirt away from my hardened gaze. "Had some Thai food, and it ain't sittin' well," he hits his chest with a fist a couple of times as he burps.

"Disgusting, bro," Mostro mutters, walking past him.

"Bitch, you fucking blew up the bathroom here last week after you ate that curry." Ciccio scowls at him.

"Enough." I rub my temples, having to hear one set of squabbling idiots already and now these two. "Where are they?"

"Bedroom, Boss." Ciccio gestures with his chin.

I walk to the back bedroom and open the door. The air is stale, humid and hot, with the swamp cooler kicking on, creating little air flow in the stuffy room. I flip on the light switch and a man and woman are sitting in the center of the room, in chairs. Their backs are against each other with their hands tied behind them. The woman makes whimpering sounds as I approach, then reach to remove her blindfold.

Her face is streaked with mascara running from her tears and sweat. I pull down on the gag in her mouth before I begin. "Please, please," her voice cracks, trying to hold in her emotion. I appreciate her attempt to appear in control rather than be in hysterics as most women tend to be in this type of situation.

"Ms. Lovato, what does the word Omertà mean to you?"

Her head drops in response. So, I continue on, "People say there is no honor among crooks, criminals, what have you. The Russians have one thing we Italians seem to lack. When they get pinched, they remain loyal to each other, but will easily sellout an associate, or their partners; it's rare they turn on each other. We could learn a thing or two from them in that respect."

"I swear, I haven't said anything."

I remove my glasses. "Strike three, Ms. Lovato." I pull out my gun and she begins crying when Mostro tosses me the silencer piece to attach to my gun. "Your first strike was stealing from me."

She shakes her head and starts to speak again, but I hold my hand up to stop her. "I was willing to let it slide. Everyone makes mistakes after all, but that got you on my radar. Your second strike was getting popped, leading to you speaking out against the family to the cops." I stand in front of her. "You should have come to me first. Believe it or not, I was still willing to give you a chance to explain. But now you lied to me. You have said things. A lot of things, Ms. Lovato. You see, I have someone on the inside." Her eyes widen at the information.

"I'm sor–" The muffled gunshot cuts her off and she slumps in the chair, while the man on the other side shakes, pulling at the ties on his hands and screams against the gag.

"Don't worry, Judge St. Claire, I'm all about equal treatment." I pull off his blindfold followed by his gag.

"Pl-please, you-you're making a mis-mistake," he sputters. His face is bruised and cut up courtesy of Ciccio and Mostro.

"Do you know who I am?"

The judge's eyebrows pinch as he observes me and shakes his head. "Y-you look familiar but no, I'm sorry sir," he apologizes. "If this is about the Falco kid. I had to throw the case out, I had no idea that son of a bitch was going to escalate the way he did and go after the kid. I'll be the first one to admit, our system fails sex crime victims all of the time."

The name Falco catches my attention. I glance at Mostro and Ciccio who are standing on either side of the judge, they seem as interested as I am as the judge breaks down. 

"You handled the Joey Falco case?"

He pauses from his sobbing. "Isn't that what this is about?"

Well, this just got better.

"My name is Federico Di Maggio."

I've come to enjoy this part, as realization sets in. The moment their mistakes flash before them and they face their judgment. "You played a role in my father's death and subsequently my mother's."

"I had nothing to do with Alessio's murder or your mother's for that matter, please. I'm telling you, you are making a mistake! Your father was acquitted."

"Lying at this point is fucking pathetic, Judge St. Claire. But it seems you don't learn from your mistakes. Looks like this will be solving two outstanding grievances, which means there must be more." I lean against the window sill across from him. "Joey Falco's father, Joseph Sr., has worked with my family for some time now. His son's death has affected many, especially after what the boy survived at the hands of that piece of shit you cut loose on a fucking technicality. What did you expect would happen?"

"I-I swear I didn't want to. But don't make things worse for their family. If you kill me, who do you think they will look at first, Mr. Di Maggio? You? You do this and you might as well kill the Falco's next; save them from more heartache that will follow when they find me dead."

I smile, pushing away from the window. "You sound confident you'll be found." His eyes widen as I lift my gun and squeeze the trigger.

"Clean this up."

"Yes, Boss." Ciccio begins untying the woman's hands and she slumps onto the plastic covered floor.

My phone rings and I take my gloves off to answer it. "Pronto." (Ready)

"You want the bad news or the really bad news?"

"Don't fuck around, Domani," I respond, tugging at my tie, wanting some relief in the unbearably hot room.

"Fuck, usually you're less grumpy after you handle someone, with two, I thought you'd be at least content. We've got a problem."

"I pay you to take care of problems, Dom."

"Here I thought you kept me around for my good looks," he replies. "I'm fucking kidding, damn." He adds when I don't respond. 

"Orsino Borelli is back from his trip to Italy."

"How is that a problem? We can move forward with the second part of the plan now," I state, walking to the kitchen and grab a water bottle from the fridge.

"No, we can't. Orsino didn't come back alone. There's talk that he's in negotiations for Tiziano to ally with the Clemenza family in Italy."

"I'm failing to see how this matters or why we care. The Clemenza's are in the oil business. They're probably partnering up on investments–"

"The Clemenzas' have connections to the Castello's."

I stop chugging the water, setting the bottle down. The Castello's are notoriously becoming one of the most ruthless families in Italy. "Tiziano wouldn't associate himself with them; he's too honorable." I swallow the bitter taste after the words leave my mouth.

"He would if he's desperate," Domani counters. "It seems the plan has definitely worked. Maybe too well, and Tiziano jumped the gun quicker than we anticipated. The rumored negotiations are to unite their families through marriage, Rico."

Fuck.

"Here's where you realize you could never replace me, cuz," Domani assures me with confidence. We refer to each other as cousins every now and then, even though we're more like brothers, considering we grew up together when I moved to Italy to live with my Aunt. But for this charade, he will be posing as my cousin.

"I've arranged for you to attend an event at Luca's hotel under the guise we've discussed previously. I've confirmed the Borelli daughters will also be in attendance and you can sweep in with your brooding charm and somewhat good looks to win one of them over before they marry them off."

"What event?" I disregard his insult, hoping it's not the one Luca and he were joking about one night after we had a few drinks.

"Does it matter?"

"Domani," I grind out his name through my clenched jaw.

"It's the annual speed dating event Luca's family holds. And before you say no, remember time is against us. And you've always said you would do whatever is necessary to take down Tiziano Borelli. So, suck it up buttercup." He hangs up.

***