Burned Dreams: A Forbidden Mafia Bodyguard Romance (Perfectly Imperfect Book 7)

I click on the gray icon in the corner of my laptop screen. A box reading “Connecting . . .” pops up. Ten seconds later, the computer desktop fills with a mosaic of a dozen small windows, each one showing a different camera feed from the Pisano mansion.

“Is it working?” Felix asks from the other end of the phone line.

“Yes. I’m in. If I run into problems, I’ll call you.”

“Don’t you fucking hang up on me!” he barks. “I want to know what you’re planning.”

“Nothing that should concern you.”

“We had a deal, Az. I help you get off Kurger’s radar, and you stay low.”

“I am staying low, Felix.” I click on the window showing the front gate and observe the guards amid shift change. “I’ll need you to get me a body.”

“A body? What kind of body?”

“The dead kind. Male. Late thirties. Caucasian. Black hair. Six foot seven. Around 250 pounds,” I say. I haven’t measured myself lately, but it’s a good guess.

“Absolutely. When do you need it delivered?”

How much time is needed to destroy a man’s life?

“Two months,” I answer.

“Sure. And what about eye color? Do you have a preferred hairstyle, maybe?” he sneers through the line. “Do you think I’m running a fucking ‘dead people to order’ service? Where the fuck would I get you a body?”

“You know people, Felix. Find a way.” A smirk pulls at my lips. “As long as it’s close enough so it can pass for me, it’ll work.”

“You’re going to fake your own death?”

“Yes. As soon as I’m done here.”

“Done? Done with what?” Felix snaps. “If you—”

I cut the call, throw the phone on the bed next to me, and focus on the laptop screen. There are more than ten cameras installed around the exterior of the house and six more on the property’s perimeter walls. But there is only one on the inside, mounted above the front door. It’ll be a helluva lot of work overriding them all when the time comes, but not impossible.

My phone pings with an incoming message. It’s Mrs. Pisano’s schedule for today. Shopping, three hours. Lunch at a restaurant, one hour. Visit with her mother, one hour. There is an address next to each listed activity. The message ends with a note in bold.

I expect a detailed report tomorrow.

Surveillance of the guard shifts will have to wait until another day, apparently. I take my holster off the nightstand, put it on, and, with my jacket in hand, leave my place.

I arrive at the Pisano mansion half an hour earlier than I need to and use that time to walk around the property, observing the layout and camera placements.

Two over the front entrance—one pointed at the door, another aimed at the driveway. Three more—one on each side—covering the flanks of the house. Pretending I’m taking a casual stroll, I follow the narrow path between the trees scattered around the grounds and continue my inspection. I spot cameras on each corner of the perimeter wall and a couple at the guardhouse and gate. Returning to the main house, I find more overlooking the patio and the nearby lawn.

There is only one other building on the property, fifty or so yards from the mansion. It looks like a garage but it’s too large. I step off the path and walk across the grass, getting closer to the entrance so I can have a look inside through a raised bay door. It is a garage, and five cars are parked inside. The Cosa Nostra men love to gossip among themselves, and I’ve often heard them talking about Rocco’s obsession with expensive cars. The rumors seem to be true because, by my quick assessment, the vehicles here are worth at least two million. He probably won’t take well to losing these. I head left and circle the garage. Only one camera, just above the bay door. Good. Turning around, I stride back to the mansion.

I reach the foyer just in time to see Mrs. Pisano descending the stairs. She’s wearing an elegant outfit of brown pants and a silk shirt in the same color, with a long white coat over it. Her hair is in a high bun again, and big brown sunglasses are covering half of her face.

The door to Rocco’s office opens, and he steps out, hurrying across the foyer to meet his wife at the foot of the stairs. My hands clench, itching with the need to wrap around his neck and slowly choke the life out of him. I hoped it would be easier to control myself in his proximity, knowing that his demise is coming soon. Last night, I dreamed that he was suspended upside down from the ceiling while blood trailed down his body and dripped into the puddle on the floor, each drop making a wet splashing sound as it landed. It was the best fucking dream I had in ages.

“Slept well, bellissima?” Pisano smiles and lowers his head to place a kiss on his wife’s cheek.

“Yes, thank you.”

“Good. Enjoy your day and don’t forget to buy that gold bracelet we liked. Giancarlo’s wife has a similar one, but smaller, and we can’t have Elisabetta wearing better jewelry than you.”

“Of course not.” Mrs. Pisano smiles. “Thank you, Rocco.”

I head back to the front door and hold it open for her. As she passes me, a faint powdery scent invades my nostrils. For someone like her, I would have expected something pungent and musky. Something that draws attention and lingers long after she’s disappeared from sight.

Mrs. Pisano walks down the stone steps ahead of me and toward the silver sedan on the driveway that I assume to be hers. With my height, there is no way I’m going to fit into that fancy shitbox.

“We’re taking my car,” I say.

Mrs. Pisano stops and turns around, watching me. It’s impossible to decipher the look on her face behind those ridiculous glasses. I nod toward my SUV parked further to the left.

Heading over, I open the back door for her and wait. She approaches the car and stares at the seat. With non-stock tires, my vehicle sits significantly higher than standard cars. No use being an asshole just because I’m planning to kill her, so I extend my arm, offering to help her up.

As strange as it may seem, my hatred toward Ravenna Pisano is not personal. She had nothing to do with my wife’s death, but she represents everything that her husband had stolen from me. People say that time heals all wounds, but in my case, it’s been the opposite. With every passing day, my anger and the need for retaliation have only grown stronger. Revenge against Rocco Pisano has become my life’s purpose, the sole reason for my existence, and the driving force behind why I spend every breath seeking to spill his blood. Before, I might have cared about an innocent becoming collateral damage. Not anymore.

Mrs. Pisano tilts down her face, looking, presumably, at my outstretched hand for a couple of seconds. Then, she grabs the back of the seat and hoists herself up, ignoring my offer of assistance completely. I close the door behind her and walk around the car with my jaw tightly clenched. She might not like me, but it doesn’t come even close to what I feel for her or anyone else connected to Rocco Pisano.

Ravenna

My bodyguard doesn’t utter a word during the whole one-hour drive. I wish he would because he has a very nice voice. Deep and hoarse. It suits him. He doesn’t even look at me while we’re headed to our destination, not even a passing glance in the rearview mirror. I, on the other hand, spend the entire time watching him. Good thing I’m wearing sunglasses, or he would probably think I’m some kind of a creep for staring at him nonstop.

I move my eyes to his hand as it rests on the stick shift. He tried to help me, offering me that same hand when I was getting into the car. When Rocco does it, I have to swallow the bile before making myself touch him. Not taking my husband’s hand would be out of the question. He is obsessed with portraying our marriage as perfect and loving, especially when there is someone around. Rocco only shows his true self when we’re alone.

When I saw Alessandro’s outstretched hand, I didn’t dare to touch him. There’s a camera that monitors the driveway, and Rocco checks the recordings often. I don’t want my husband to hurt Alessandro just because I allowed my bodyguard to touch me. I don’t know what the deal is between him and my husband, but Rocco doesn’t seem to be concerned about Alessandro. That’s unusual. With all my previous bodyguards, Rocco would go ballistic when he thought that they looked at me a certain way or, God forbid, touched me.

I wish we were somewhere else when Alessandro held out his hand, anywhere where cameras aren’t present. I wanted to take it, maybe because his animosity toward me isn’t hidden behind a fake smile. I’m so sick of this farce my life has become, that I began to believe there isn’t a single sincere person left around me. My bodyguard doesn’t like me, and he’s not inclined to pretend otherwise. I respect that.

My eyes shift up Alessandro’s thick arm and stop on his profile. He’s very handsome—in a harsh, unconventional way—and he’s definitely bigger and brawnier than any man I’ve met before. Rocco is tall, but he’s rather lanky. Alessandro towers over my husband and outweighs him by more than seventy pounds. He certainly looks like a professional bodyguard, but I have a feeling he’s not just a regular muscle for hire. There was something in his eyes when our gazes met yesterday, something under that deep loathing that I initially thought was directed solely toward me. But he had the same vehemence in his stare when he looked at my husband earlier. It was almost as if he was barely restraining himself from killing Rocco on the spot. I don’t think Rocco even noticed it. Or maybe he just didn’t pay him any attention. My husband rarely looks the staff in the eyes even when he talks to them since he considers laborers beneath him.

Alessandro parks the car in the mall’s underground garage and comes to open the vehicle door for me. He doesn’t offer his hand this time. I exit the car and head toward the elevator, and he follows a few paces behind. When I enter the elevator cab, I hit the button on the control panel for the third floor and plaster my back to the wall, keeping my eyes fixed on the row of numbers over the threshold with the lit one indicating the level we’re on. Alessandro steps inside, his huge frame barring my view. The elevator cabin is not that small, but with him inside, it feels tiny. As the door closes, I squeeze my purse to my chest and swallow.

“Can you please move to the side?” I mumble, hating myself for having to ask. My body is not the only part of me that my husband has battered.

Alessandro takes a half step sideways. I can see the right part of the door, but it’s not enough. The walls of the elevator seem to be closing in on me, threatening to squash me. I need to see that door unobstructed! My eyes flit over the numbers again. Just one more floor. A moment later, there is a ding announcing we’ve reached our destination. I take a deep breath and wait for the door to open. Nothing happens. There is a button on the panel to open the door and I hit it, twice. Another ding sounds, but the door remains shut. A strangled sound leaves my lips. No. No. No. I hit the button again.

“That’s enough.” Alessandro’s fingers wrap around my wrist, pulling my hand away from the controls.

“I need to get out,” I whisper.

“You will.” He presses the emergency button. It didn’t even occur to me to do that.

Another ding. Then, one more. The door stays closed. I look up at my bodyguard, ready to ask him to open the door by force, just as the light inside the elevator flickers out. The words die on my lips. I have my phone in my purse, but I can’t make myself move to take it out and turn on the flashlight. The only thing I can manage is quick, shallow breaths. Alessandro’s palm is still wrapped around my wrist, and I anchor myself to his touch.

A strange clicking sounds a moment later, and orange light spurts to life in front of my eyes. I stare at a small flame coming from the Zippo lighter in Alessandro’s other hand. It flutters lightly from our combined breaths. Slowly, I glance up, and our gazes lock. The reflection of the glow makes his eyes look like they are on fire, as well.

“Let’s count,” his deep voice says.

“What?”

“Odd numbers only. Backward. Start at seventy-one.”

I blink in confusion.

“Sixty-nine,” he says. “You’re next.”

I take a deep breath. “Sixty-seven.”

Alessandro nods and releases my wrist. “Sixty-five.”

No! I reach out and grab the sleeve of his suit jacket and, keeping my sight fixed on his, move my hand down until I can feel his hand in mine again. The skin of his palm is rough as if he’s spent years doing manual work.

I hook my pinkie with his. “Sixty-three.”

He narrows his eyes at me. Is he going to ask why I’m freaking out? Will he laugh at me? Or remove his hand from mine? My breathing escalates.

“Fifty-nine,” his voice fills the space around us.

“Fift—” I shake my head. “You skipped sixty-one.”

“No.”

“Yes. Mine was sixty-three.”

“It wasn’t.”

The flame flickers again, its movement rearranging the play of light and shadow on Alessandro’s face. His jaw is tightly pressed, and there is that malevolence in his eyes again, clearly visible even in the dim illumination. This man hates me, and I don’t understand why. What I do understand even less, is the fact he’s still holding my finger with his and, obviously, is trying to ease my panic by distracting me. Because I’m sure he missed that number on purpose.

There is a barely audible click, followed by a sudden brightness as the overhead light comes back on. A ding rings out and the elevator door opens, revealing a man in a maintenance uniform on the other side. He’s saying something about a circuit glitch and apologizing for needing to turn off the light while overriding it, but I keep staring at my bodyguard. He’s still holding his lighter in front of me.

“You skipped sixty-one on purpose,” I say.

Alessandro tilts his head to the side. “And why would I do that, Mrs. Pisano?”

I can hear a subtle hostile undertone in his voice. He closes the Zippo, extinguishing the flame, and pulls his hand from mine before he steps out of the elevator.

Alessandro

You can learn a lot about a person by simply watching them, especially when they don’t know you’re doing so. Mrs. Pisano has been perusing the shelves in various boutiques for almost two hours, and I’ve noticed a very unusual thing. Every time she enters a shop, she walks amid the racks, pulls off a thing or two from each, then continues to the next one. She doesn’t try any of the items on, and she barely even looks at the stuff she picks. And then, just before going to the checkout counter, she approaches the exclusive section.

All the clothes in these shops are pricey, but the apparel in the exclusive sections is a different level of crazy. In the first shop we went to, she purchased boots that cost six grand. In the next one, she bought an extremely ugly purse for twice that amount.

Now, I watch as she approaches a rack with coats and starts looking at the labels. She never does that when she’s browsing the rest of the shop, but for the higher-end items, she checks every single price tag.

She pulls off a long coat with faux fur trim over the collar, checks the size label, and then heads to the cash register. She didn’t even try it on, but even from a distance, I’m sure that it’s at least two sizes too big. I focus on her feet. Now that I think about it, the boots she bought earlier seemed rather large, as well.

Mrs. Pisano places the heap of clothes on the counter next to the cash register and looks at me. I take out the credit card Rocco gave me yesterday. As I’m passing her the plastic, our fingers touch, and it’s as if a hot iron sears my skin. Just like when she hooked her pinkie with mine in the elevator. I don’t like it, but at the same time, I can’t make myself move my hand. Mrs. Pisano looks up, but I can’t see her eyes. Those dreadful sunglasses are still hiding most of her face.

I let go of the card and collect the bags after the attendant packs up her purchases, but the feeling of her skin against mine still lingers, tingling the tips of my fingers.

When we leave the boutique, Mrs. Pisano heads right toward the jewelry store at the other end of the mall, walking a few steps in front of me. She left her coat in my car, so I’m gifted with an undisrupted view of her perfect round derriere. I’ve never understood the fascination some men have with female asses, but as I watch her buttocks shift under the soft fabric of her brown pants, I have the urge to place my palm on her behind and check if it’s as firm as it looks. Disgusted with myself for my thoughts, I quickly look up and focus my gaze on the back of her head.

She looks so regal as she walks down the promenade with her focus fixed in front of her, while her four-inch heels make a distinct tapping sound on the tile floor. Every man who passes her, no matter their age, stares at her with wide eyes. Even those accompanied by their girlfriends or wives. It’s as if they can’t help but be drawn to her.

And it seems I’m one of them, as well. I should be paying attention to our surroundings, but I find myself unable to move my eyes off her. Ravenna Pisano doesn’t appear to notice the uproar she’s creating. Majestic and controlled, she keeps strolling with her head held high, absolutely unperturbed by what’s going on around her.

It’s such a difference in her behavior compared to how she acted in the elevator earlier. At first, I thought she freaked out from having me so near in the small space. Most women tend to be intimidated by my size. But then, she grabbed my hand, holding onto it as if for dear life. That’s when I realized that it was the enclosed space that triggered her. I should have exploited that fear.

But I couldn’t make myself do it.

Just as Mrs. Pisano reaches the entrance of the jewelry store, a man exiting stops at the threshold. His lips curve upward as he gives her an undisguised once-over.

“Well, hello there.” He smirks as he stands there, barring her entry.

He’s one of those hipster types—expensive suit with too-short pant legs, a neatly trimmed beard, and blond hair slicked back in some moronic style. I set the shopping bags on the floor and take a step forward until I’m standing right behind my charge. Wrapping my arm around her waist, I move her to the side. She lets out a small yelp of surprise, which quickly transforms into a muffled cry when I grab the fancy idiot by the knot of his yellow silk tie.

The man’s eyes flare in shock as I pull him out of the way and nod toward the escalator on the left. “Get lost.”

I let go of him and keep his retreating form in sight as he hurries away, then collect the shopping bags and stretch out my arm in the go-ahead gesture. Ravenna Pisano blinks at me, then quickly looks away and enters the shop.

How is it possible to want to kill a person, and feel the urge to protect them at the same time?

* * *

We’ve nearly reached our next destination, Mrs. Pisano’s mother’s house, when I feel a light touch on my shoulder.

“Can you make a stop here? I need to get something from the pharmacy.”

I pull over and park, and then walk around the car to open the back door. The sidewalk is in bad condition, and there’s a puddle and half-frozen mud where the mess has collected near a curb drainage grate under the car. As my charge starts to exit the vehicle, my eyes fall to her shiny white heels. Without a thought, I lean forward, grasp her waist and lift her out, setting her onto dry ground. The moment her feet touch down, I release her and close the car door.

Why the fuck did I just do that? Why would it matter to me if she got her fancy shoes wet? I turn and head toward the pharmacy. Mrs. Pisano’s heels click on the pavement as she tries to keep up, but I maintain my steady pace, mad as hell at myself.

I hold the pharmacy door open for her, making sure my gaze is focused straight ahead and over the top of her.

When she passes me, I post myself by the door and clasp my hands behind my back. I won’t be looking at that woman again unless it’s absolutely necessary. Forming any kind of connection with a person you intend to eliminate is never a good thing.

My resolve falters barely a minute later when I hear her voice. She is speaking in an even, casual tone, but there is a faint note of distress in it. I turn my head to the side to see her standing at the counter, speaking with the pharmacy employee.

“I’d really prefer to have Melania help me. Please.”

“Ma’am. I already told you. She went to the back room to take a private call,” the male on the other side of the counter says in a condescending tone. “If it’s just a prescription, I’m completely capable of handling that for you.”

“I . . . I’ll come back later. Thank you,” Mrs. Pisano says and turns to leave.

“Ravi?” A woman in her early twenties comes out and then turns toward her colleague. “I’ve got this, Charles. Go take your lunch break.”

When the guy disappears out of sight, Mrs. Pisano places a paper on the counter. “How are you, Melania?”

The girl takes the prescription but instead of checking what’s written on it, she glances in my direction, then quickly looks away. “I’m great.” She smiles, but it seems artificial. “And how are you? Everything okay at home?”

“Of course,” Mrs. Pisano says.

The girl nods, reaches into the drawer under the cash register, then places a white paper bag on the counter. She hadn’t even looked at the prescription note.

Mrs. Pisano takes the package, but instead of saying goodbye, she remains in place. Nervous energy seems to radiate off her, matched by the pharmacy girl on the other side of the counter. The moment is brief, barely a few seconds, but it feels like the two are having a wordless exchange. And I doubt it has anything to do with settling the payment, either.

“Thank you.”

There is an unusual tone to Mrs. Pisano’s words when she finally says them. It doesn’t sound like a simple courtesy.

“Any time, Ravi,” the pharmacy girl whispers and places her hand over Mrs. Pisano’s. Her eyes once again dart toward me before she quickly slides the prescription note off the counter and stuffs it into the pocket of her lab coat.

My charge walks past me on her way out, and I can’t help but wonder what she just received in that package. Because I’m willing to bet it sure as fuck wasn’t what was written on her prescription.

* * *

I don’t know what I expected when I parked the car in front of the building where Mrs. Pisano’s mother lives, but it wasn’t a place that looks like it’s barely holding together. The elevator is out of order, so we climb the four flights of stairs and head down the narrow hallway with cracked and peeling paint and a scuffed linoleum floor. Some of the bulbs are out or missing entirely from their fixtures, the dim light only accentuates the derelict conditions. The stench of body odor and piss that hangs in the air is hardly a selling point here, either.

Mrs. Pisano stops at the last door and reaches to take the bags I’m holding. She insisted on bringing all twenty of them inside, saying that she wanted to show her mother the new clothes she bought.

I look around the place and feel disgusted. Instead of spending the thirty grand on the clothes she seemed to care little about in the first place, Mrs. Pisano could have moved her mother out of this shithole and paid rent on a new place for an entire year with that money. Is she really this selfish? What the fuck is wrong with her? Why would she let her mom live here and also feels the need to brag about the crap she’s just purchased? I wish I can see her eyes to get a sense of what’s happening in her head right now, but she still has those fucking sunglasses on. She hasn’t bothered taking them off even in this murky hallway.

“You can stay here,” she says, tugging on the bags. “I won’t be long.”

I keep a tight hold on the bags and knock at the door.

The woman who opens it is a spitting image of Mrs. Pisano, only older. Black hair speckled with grays, the same green eyes, and an identical small nose. There’s a twinkle in her brilliant depths as they land on her daughter, but as soon as she notices me, that glint disappears.

“Mamma. This is Alessandro,” Mrs. Pisano says. “May we come in?”

The older woman nods and steps aside. When we enter, I let Mrs. Pisano take the bags and shift to stand by the wall, right next to the door, focusing my gaze on the window across the room. Even without looking around, I can see that the inside of the apartment, although clean and tidy, isn’t much better than the building itself.

The mother and daughter sit down on the beat-up sofa and start looking at the clothes. Every few moments, the mother throws a quick look in my direction.

“This one is beautiful, Ravi,” she says but her tone doesn’t seem to match the sentiment. “Oh, and look at that skirt, you’ll look stunning in that.”

Mrs. Pisano doesn’t say a word, just keeps taking out the clothes. In fact, the whole scene feels off. Staged somehow, as if they are acting for my benefit. I turn my head to the side so I can see them better but pretend that I’m still looking at something beyond the window. I school my expression to appear vacant, bored even, so they’ll stop paying me any attention.

Mrs. Pisano reaches for the largest bag, the one that holds the faux fur coat, and quickly pushes it behind the sofa, out of view. Then, she takes out a few of the blouses and passes them to her mother, but when she comes to the expensive purse, that ends up tucked behind the sofa, as well. When they finish perusing her purchases, she puts everything back into the bags. The boots, however, are nowhere in sight.

“How are you doing?” her mother asks offhandedly as she takes a small folded piece of paper off the coffee table and leans toward her daughter as if to straighten the collar of her blouse. The folded paper changes hands in a split second.

“I’m fine, Mamma.” Mrs. Pisano smiles. “How’s work?”

“The same. I’m going to clean Mrs. Natello’s house tomorrow, and again on Friday.”

“I’ll drop by before Friday, then.”

Mrs. Pisano adjusts her sunglasses, which she still hasn’t taken off, and glances over her shoulder. “Where’s Vitto?”

“You know your brother. He stayed at Ugo’s last night.” The older woman shrugs.

“They still hang out?”

“Yes. At least he stopped playing cards after . . . you know.”

“Good. Do you need help with anything?”

“I’m fine, Ravi.”

“What about your back? Still hurts?”

“It’s good, but I think I pinched a nerve this morning when I tried to wash the windows.”

“Geez, Mamma.” Mrs. Pisano shakes her head as she stands up and retreats into a small kitchen on my right.

She takes out an old rag from a drawer and grabs a spray bottle from beneath the sink before depositing both on the counter nearby. Then, she rolls up the sleeves of her silk blouse and climbs onto a rickety old chair she’s pulled away from the small kitchen table nudged against one of the walls. As I watch, Ravenna Pisano, the wife of a Cosa Nostra capo, picks up the cleaning items and starts washing her mother’s windows. I stare at her, stunned, for almost an hour while she finishes the glass, then wipes all the kitchen counters and cabinets, and, finally, mops the floor.

* * *

When I get home that evening, I spend an hour going over the Pisanos’ garage blueprint Felix had sent me. It looks like it was a small service building at one point that was later expanded and renovated into a garage. It has an alarm installed, but it’s nothing complicated enough to present an issue. The electrical panel is located inside by the side door, making the wires heading toward it easily accessible. Perfect.

Picking up the blueprint off the table, I walk into my bedroom and pin the paper to the wall, next to the printout of Rocco’s bank account. Then, I step back and take a long look at the sight before me. The entire surface of the wall is covered in a mosaic of papers, photos, and notes.

I know every single detail pinned to this wall. Over the years, I’ve collected countless tidbits of information—some with Felix’s help, and some I extracted either through bribery or by force. Many were dead-ends or false leads, but I kept them anyway. I don’t like staying in one place for too long just in case Kruger may still be looking for me, so I’ve moved frequently over the last eight years to make sure he doesn’t pick up my trail. Each time, I’ve removed the items off my revenge wall and meticulously repined them—in the exact same pattern—at a new location. Every action in that process reopened the wound in my chest, but the pain is good. The ritual helps me maintain my focus.

The first item I always place at the center of the wall is a photo of Natalie. In it, she’s wearing an orange dress that has white polka dots all over. I thought that thing was atrocious. But the bright pattern made her whole face light up when she saw it, and we ended up buying the dress. Pinning her smiling face to my revenge board is always the hardest part. With each relocation, it feels like a sledgehammer hits me right in the chest, reminding me of what was taken from me. Every. Single. Time.

After that, I add the doctor’s report detailing what they tried to do to keep her alive at the hospital, and the police report on the traffic incident which was labeled as a hit-and-run. The next items to go up, surrounding the focal point, are the scantly written witness statements claiming that they didn’t see anything, not even the color of the car. It took Felix several months to obtain these for me because someone conveniently forgot to input the info into the system, and he had to pay off the clerk to find the paper statements made by the two people who were present during the collision.

When I finally got the chance to speak with the two witnesses directly, both admitted that they saw a red sports car but couldn’t remember the make or model.

It took me almost a year to find the mechanic who worked on the banged-up red sports car around the time Natalie was killed. Seems he ran a custom body shop in Jersey but was paid generously to fix up a busted front end and windshield of an Audi R8 at his private garage. He didn’t seem interested in sharing much info at first but changed his mind after I broke his legs. We had a rather productive chat after. I left his place with a couple of important details.

The man who showed up with a smashed car was in his late twenties, clearly intoxicated, and seemed a bit shaken up. An hour later, an older man arrived, and they argued in Italian. The mechanic didn’t speak Italian, but he remembered the older man saying famiglia several times which he recognized by being a big fan of The Sopranos. The old guy then put a gun to the mechanic’s temple and instructed him to fix the car and to keep his mouth shut. Although the shit-for-brains couldn’t provide the men’s names, I got enough. The guy responsible for my wife’s death was a member of the Italian Mafia.

My father was Italian, so I thought it would be easy to get into Cosa Nostra, especially for someone with my skills and the background Felix fixed up for me. I was wrong. The establishment changed less than a year before, and the new don was very strict on who was allowed inside the organization. It took me nine months to get in. Four more years passed before I worked my way into the inner circle and got the opportunity to dig deeper. Time didn’t matter, though. I was hell-bent on finding the man responsible for my wife’s death no matter how long it took.

I knew I was looking for someone from the higher-ups, a lowly soldier wouldn’t have had money or influence to cover up Natalie’s death. As years passed, I still couldn’t find out who it was. But I stayed. And I listened. When you don’t talk much, people tend to forget you’re in the room or believe you’re not interested in their conversations. I don’t say much. Never have. But I hear everything.

A month ago, I was playing poker with some of the men—mostly lieutenants working under a couple of different capos. I always make sure to lose more often than I win. People like that. They get excited. And when they’re excited, they talk. Carmelo won the last hand that night, and he was yapping about smashing into a store window when he was drunk and tried to park his car a couple of nights prior.

“Maybe I should ask Elio to fix that for me,” he said, “like he did with Rocco’s run-in with that woman at a crosswalk. God, remember that? Rocco was so shitfaced, too.”

I still don’t know how I managed to keep my ass in that chair instead of storming out to slaughter both of those motherfuckers. But I made myself stay there the whole evening, feigning calm and disinterest, while the rage brewed inside me. When I got home that night, I added more photos to my wall.

Rocco Pisano—my wife’s killer. I pinned his photo above Natalie’s and drew a red X over his face.

Elio Pisano—Rocco’s father, who helped him cover up the crime. Another X.

Those two weren’t enough, though. I needed to hammer it home. An eye for an eye.

So, I added the third photo.

Ravenna Pisano. Rocco’s wife.

My payback.