The Taste of Revenge (War of Sins Book 1)

Bringing the whiskey glass to his lips, he watched the people walking up and down the road, their bodies tiny dots from where he was standing.

Since he’d taken over the family business, he’d found that he did not want to remain in the house that served as a reminder of his failure—the very definition of his nightmare. As soon as he’d had full control over the Guerra assets, he’d started a crusade of eradicating everything that reminded him of the past—of his childhood and of his teenage years when he’d been little else than a stain on the carpet for everyone to step on.

A slow smirk pulled at his lips as he remembered how they had all reacted when they’d suddenly found themselves on their knees and swearing allegiance to him. And he’d made that one ceremony even more memorable by having each man previously under his father’s command crawl to him to kiss the ring that designated him their de facto ruler.

He’d taken a knife and plunged it deep in the core of the organization, cleaning it and getting rid of everyone who’d had something against him.

Once he’d felt satisfied with the results, he’d rewarded himself, tearing down the Guerra house and moving into a penthouse in one of the most exclusive areas of the city.

That was why his routine of watching people from his lofty place —those ant-like figures down below—brought him so much satisfaction. It was the physical evidence of everything he’d accomplished in such a short time. Of everything that should have been his from the beginning.

His fingers tightened over the glass as foreign thoughts intruded in his mind. A few years had already passed since he’d gotten rid of those who’d mocked and scorned him. Yet why didn’t he feel completely at peace?

Why was there still a gnawing feeling within him? One that clawed deep at his conscience and urged him to do more—hunt more, kill more, destroy more?

He reckoned it was a side effect of finding out his dear brother had returned home. He’d heard the rumors a long time ago. Rafaelo was currently affiliated with an unknown cartel that went by the name of Fenix.

But it was more than that. It was the fact that he’d dared to come back and challenge him. Because his mere presence in New York was a challenge in itself.

When he’d gotten word of Rafaelo’s new friends, and the fact that he’d made his new home somewhere on the border between Mexico and New Mexico, he’d been pissed. Royally pissed. After all, he’d gone to great lengths to ensure that his brother never saw the light of the day again.

And he’d been ready to let go.

If only Rafaelo had stayed put.

After the anger at his failed plan had subsided, he’d been smart in ensuring that while alive, Rafaelo would never be a danger to him—by putting a bounty on his head.

Every assassin on the East Coast had been notified of the price on Rafaelo Guerra’s head, and Michele had been satisfied in knowing that no one would ever dare to face such danger.

It seems he’d misjudged his brother.

He pursed his lips, a small frown marring his perfect features.

Truth was, he’d made all his calculations on the meek persona Rafaelo had projected to the world, and that had been his mistake.

He’d known, for years, that there was more to his brother than met the eyes, his sudden speech impairment rather fortuitous considering the circumstances of the time. But while he’d suspected Rafaelo wasn’t who he portrayed himself to be, he’d never thought he would be this shrewd. Foolish might be a better word for it, since only fools knowingly head straight for the guillotine.

He had to admit to himself that while the threat of the bounty was hanging over Rafaelo’s head, and with him tucked away to God knows where but away from him, Michele hadn’t planned on further retaliation. Which, he suspected now, had been a critical miscalculation.

Because had he eradicated the problem from the root, he would not be dealing with this right now. He would be able to enjoy everything he’d so hard toiled to achieve and get on with his other plans.

Allowing himself a minute to get his anger under control, he started plotting again. He might have taken mercy on Rafaelo once before. But now that he was on his territory, he was going to have to play by his rules.

And Michele wasn’t known for playing fair. Far from it. He was known for chaos and disorder, his mercurial moods legendary among his men. And given his reputation…one thing was for sure.

This war would not be fair.

The corner of his lip curled up in anticipation, the smell of blood already flooding his nostrils, his brother’s screams singing in his ears.

This time he’d make sure that Rafaelo never saw the light of the day again. And after he was done with his brother, he could continue his other order business—the remaining pièce de resistance.

Downing the remnants of his drink, he flexed his arm, throwing the glass at the wall-high window, shattering it to pieces. The whiskey glass fell to the ground below, the sound of a car alarm going off as it signaled it had gotten hit.

Almost entranced, he watched the hole in the window and how it increased in size, fractures appearing around the rim, the entire glass becoming a liability. One kick, just one kick, and the entire thing would fall.

He was almost inclined to see it through, but before he could take one more step, the door to his office opened, one of his men striding inside.

‘There’s someone to see you, sir.’

He turned, one side of the face bathed in shadows while the other was suffused with sunlight.

‘Who?’ He asked, almost whimsically.

‘Your sister, sir,’ the man gulped down, looking anywhere but directly at Michele.

Since he’d taken over the family, rumors had abounded about his personality and his explosive temper. More than a few men had experienced on their own skin what it meant to get on his bad side, and since then everyone took to handling Michele with kid gloves—always careful not to incite his ire.

And as the man’s eyes skittered to the hole in the window, he was suddenly even more afraid he’d popped in at the wrong time.

‘Show her in,’ Michele shrugged, turning from the window and coming around his table just as his sister, Gianna, appeared in the doorway.

‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’ he drawled, taking out two more glasses from his drawer and filling them with whiskey.

Gianna narrowed her eyes at him, regarding him as skeptically as he’d come to expect of her.

She’d left the family more than a decade ago, and she was the only one he’d never blamed for his descent in Tartarus. On the other hand, she’d also not been there to save him from it.

He couldn’t fault her for leaving, though. Not when their illustrious father planned to sell her to a vile man more than twice her age. That she’d fallen in love with someone else along the way had been rather fortuitous.

She’d been the only one to see him as a human, not as a monster, and for that she’d always have his loyalty. In fact, it could be argued that she was the only person towards whom he’d ever acted in a selfless manner.

Alas, that was a lifetime ago, and many, many things had changed since then.

Not least of all him.

After he’d dispatched their father, Benedicto, and step mother, Cosima, he’d reached out to Gianna, extending her an invitation to return to her rightful place. She hadn’t wanted to do that, and he’d respected her decision.

That hadn’t stopped her, however, from continuing her communication with him.

And he knew why, too.

She could see the instability in him that sought to be released—the fact that he was a ticking bomb. She noticed something wrong with him and sought to correct it, thinking her degree in psychology made her an expert on his psyche.

And he’d let her. He’d even indulged her, every now and then, because in his mind, she was the only link to normality he still had. The only remnant of his old life—one where he’d been happy, albeit briefly.

‘What did the poor window do to you?’ She shook her head as she stepped deeper into the room, placing her bag on a chair as she quietly assessed him.

‘Here,’ he handed her a glass, swirling around the amber liquid in his own as he waited for her to get to the point.

He knew exactly why she was here. The only reason she’d come to his home.

They stood in silence for a moment, each taking a sip of their glass, their eyes meeting in a small confrontation.

‘Raf is back,’ she finally said, and he barely stopped a smile from overtaking his features.

He’d been right.

‘So?’ He raised an eyebrow.

‘I want to ask you to leave him alone.’

Gianna strengthened her back as she looked him straight in the eye. She was one of the few people who didn’t cower in front of him, even though it was only a front. He knew that inside, she was terrified.

He could see the slightly erratic pulse at the base of her throat. She wasn’t fooling anyone with her bravado, though he could admire the attempt.

‘Why?’ He simply asked, leaning back against his desk and assuming a relaxed stance.

‘Because he’s your brother, Michele. I know Benedicto and Cosima deserved what they got, but Raf?’ She shook her head. ‘What did he ever do to you?’

He stared at her in silence for a second before he burst into laughter.

‘What he did to me?’ He laughed, turning so only his profile was visible to her.

That one question had the power to destroy his carefully curated calm.

What did he do, indeed?

‘You forget, Gianna,’ he started, walking towards the broken window and tracing the fractured glass with his fingers, the sharp edge cutting into his skin and drawing blood, ‘that he’s not my brother. Not really.’

‘Michele,’ she tried to protest, but he shushed her, turning and raising his bloody hand towards her.

‘He’s not my blood, is he?’ He continued, his nostrils flaring at the thought.

‘You grew up together…’

‘So?’ He tilted his head as he looked at her. Really looked at her.

His sister’s beauty hadn’t waned over the years. If anything, it was even more striking, her face the definition of symmetrical perfection. It was something they had both inherited from their mother, but whereas Gianna had also inherited her blonde hair from her father—like Rafaelo—he hadn’t. He’d inherited his father’s black hair. And that was the root of all evil.

He turned sharply, advancing towards her and noting the slight twitch in her eye—she was afraid.

Lifting his fingers to his mouth, he licked the blood, all the while never breaking eye contact.

‘You should go, sister,‘ he said, his tone crisp and clear. ‘You won’t find here what you’re looking for. My problem with Rafaelo does not concern you.’

She blinked, her body stiff. He recognized the inner battle within her as she tried to keep her ground and not show any fear.

‘No. I’m sure we can talk about this like adults, Michele. I know about the bounty on his head… Please call it off.’

‘Fine,’ he answered, watching her expression closely. One small pause and immediate relief infused her features. The corners of his mouth tugged up in a sick smile as he leaned down, breathing down her neck. ‘I’ll kill him with my own hands this time. To make sure he’s truly dead,’ he spoke in a chilling voice.

‘Michele… This isn’t you.’

‘That’s where you’re wrong, Gianna. This is me. This is the only part of me that’s left,’ he told her, his expression changing to one of disgust as he took a step back, shaking his head at her. ‘You left. You got your happily ever after. You don’t get a say in what happens now when you weren’t there.’

Guilt marred her exquisite features as she looked away in shame.

‘You know I couldn’t stay. And you…’ she trailed off, swallowing hard. ‘I wanted to take you with me. You know I did.’

‘I know. And I would have,’ he admitted ruefully. ‘But both of us would have never made it.’ He turned away, lest she see the truth in his eyes. ‘You got out. So stay out. It’s not your business anymore.’

‘What could Raf have done to you that’s so bad…’ her voice was full of anguish as she took a step towards him, her hand on his shoulder in a gentle touch.

But even that soft caress elicited a shudder out of him, something so deep and ugly it threatened to make him ill.

He caught her hand in his gloved one, holding tightly as he looked into her eyes.

In another time, maybe he could have felt something for the affection he gazed into her eyes.

In another time…

Now, he only knew chaos—mind-numbing chaos that threatened to erupt out of him and ripple through his surroundings.

‘You want to know what your precious brother did to me?’ His mouth curled in a twisted smile as he pushed her, crowding her with his body and relishing the way her face finally gave way to fear, her entire body trembling under his.

‘He made me half the monster I am today,’ he said when her back hit the wall. Stooping down, he brought his mouth to her ear, whispering all the crude details of what had happened—why Raf was not just guilty by default. He’d been tried and judged, and his sentence had been chosen carefully—oh, so carefully.

Her eyes widened in shock, before she bent forward, retching and emptying the contents of her stomach.

That’s when he let go. He stepped back, slowly getting the anger rolling off him under control.

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I’m so very sorry, Michele.’

He was already far away. Both physically and mentally.

Shrugging his glove off, he slid his hand through the broken glass, trying to feel the pain as shards of glass became embedded in his flesh. Her platitudes were just like the pressure of the glass—there, but ultimately immaterial, for they couldn’t break through his armor anymore.

He was quiet for a moment, and as he heard the door open, his sister almost on her way out, he finally spoke.

‘So you see, Gianna, I cannot help you. His fate is sealed, and that of anyone who will try to help him.’