Mistress of Vendetta

CHAPTER THREE

Sonny stood and walked to the shelf behind him to pour himself a drink. “If you f*ckers are talking like that, it means you already have something in mind.”

“If we don’t, we’re of no use to you.” Bill smiled, and some of the soldiers chuckled. “Ricky met with Vallario and got the green light.”

Sonny lifted a brow. Carlo Vallario was the Consigliere of the Bertolucci family, the right hand of the boss. Not a man who gave permission lightly.

“Alright then,” Sonny said, putting down his glass and leaning back against the table. “Let me hear it.”

Ricky cleared his throat. “We are… taking a truck, you know, just diverting the route.” The crew whoops and cheers, the kind that came from men who’d been doing this job long enough to enjoy the sound of risk.

Sonny took another sip and nodded. “Good men. Nice work on the intel. What’s it worth?”

“Oh, tons of electronic appliances. All different varieties,” Bill said. “With our fencers, both trucks are worth well over six figures.”

“I like that,” Sonny said. “We roll tonight?”

“Shipment’s coming through today,” Ricky said.

“Perfect.” Sonny downs his drink and claps loudly. “Perfect. Just in time before we present ourselves to the new boss of the Bertolucci family.”

When the meeting dispersed, Sonny found himself sitting alone thinking through the possibilities. He wasn’t sure if he wanted the underboss position for himself or if it was only because other men wanted it. Thirty-three was young for a capo, unheard of in some families. But it never mattered when the boss liked you. Power bent in your direction.

Except when other people agree to work together to whack you.

Sonny’s walkie talkie crackled.

“We good, Ricky?” Sonny asked.

“We’re good. It’s time.”

“No, Ricky. It’s showtime.” Sonny pulled the balaclava down over his face, checked his revolver, and stepped out of the car. The night air felt cool across his neck as he joined the others. They were five in total, two men setting up the construction roadblock while the rest of the crew lie low, waiting.

Sonny and Ricky crouched behind the wall of a*****e, their breathing controlled as the first truck approached. Ricky leaned slightly, keeping his voice low.

“Cool head, Sonny. Smooth and cool.”

“Smooth, Ricky. I’m the f*cking coolest man in this whole block.”

The truck slowed to a crawl as the drilling machine vibrated through the pavement. The two soldiers wore protective headgear and didn’t even glance up when the driver leaned out of his window.

“Hey! Some of us have deliveries to make. Open one side of the road!”

The complaint was their signal. Sonny and Ricky moved toward the back of the truck silently. They waited for the driver to lose patience, which took only a moment. He swung his door open and stomped down from the cab, muttering to himself.

Sonny stepped up quietly behind him, and struck him at the back of the head with the butt of his pistol. The driver dropped instantly. Ricky ran over while Bill came around from the other side.

“Twenty-minute window, boys. Let’s move,” Sonny said. Ricky helped him carry the man off the road while the soldiers pulled back the cones and the fake construction signs, so Bill could maneuver the truck to the side before the next truck arrived.

They reset the scene and returned to their positions. The drilling began again, the steady rattle filling the silence. When the second truck appeared, Sonny watched the headlights slow, then the driver thrashed his arms in the air, irritated by the delay. It took longer for this man to react, nearly five minutes before he finally threw open his door and Sonny took his position behind the truck. He could almost taste the success on his lips. When he heard footsteps underneath the drilling sound, he came out of hiding, but this time he didn’t need to creep.

The truck driver was standing a few steps from him.

Sonny paused only a fraction of a second before charging. He spotted the sawn-off shotgun a heartbeat too late, already raised toward him, and dropped low as the shot fired. The blast tore through the air above him as he ducked. The recoil staggered the driver, and Sonny used those two seconds to close the distance. He slammed into him, sending both of them to the ground. The shotgun skidded away on the pavement.

They grappled and rolled, the driver swinging wildly. Sonny got his arm around the man’s throat and tightened, using his full weight against him. Ricky reached them and raised his revolver.

“Don’t worry, Ricky. I’ve got him,” Sonny said through his mask, his voice muffled but sure. The driver’s fight ebbed and then stopped altogether. Sonny shoved him aside and lay on his back for a moment, catching his breath, the vibration from the drilling echoing through the pavement beneath him. The soldiers were still drilling, oblivious to the gunshot.

Ricky dragged the unconscious man away while Sonny lay there, laughing under the balaclava, his chest rising and falling as he stared up at the night sky.

* * *

The Bertolucci family had always taken pride in protecting several casinos across the city, but Slim’s remained the unofficial favorite, mostly because the club tucked beneath it offered a place where made men could drink, brag, and blow off steam without needing to watch over their shoulders. When Sonny and his crew stepped inside, the music continued, though the cheers rose loud enough to cut through it. Everyone present belonged to the Bertolucci family in one way or another, whether as made men or trusted associates, and tradition dictated that any major earner deserved a celebration in their honor.

“Hear you did good. Congratulations,” Albert “Bert” Dellacroce said as he greeted Sonny with the traditional kiss on the cheek. Albert, the oldest caporegime, always looked as if he was calculating two conversations ahead.

“Thank you. Just happy to do my part,” Sonny said.

“Yes, yes,” Albert replied as he took a sip of his drink and leaned in a little closer. “You should go see the boss. He’s delighted.”

Sonny studied Albert for a moment, weighing the tone behind the suggestion, then turned away when Ricky approached him.

“We should sit down with Albert soon,” Sonny said under his breath. “He smells like he’s got something brewing.”

“I don’t disagree,” Ricky answered. “Let’s not keep the boss waiting.”

Across the club, the boss spotted Sonny and waved him over with a welcoming gesture. Sonny made his way through the crowd. Another set of cheek kisses followed.

“Sonny, good work, son. Knew you could pull it off. Sit,” the boss said. Sonny handed a briefcase to Carlo Vallario, the Consigliere, who opened it without ceremony and inspected the contents.

“Here, have a drink. Any trouble?” the boss asked as one of the bartenders poured two glasses.

“No trouble at all, smooth. Even the fencing guys were ready. Buyers were lined up. It all went through easily.” Sonny collected his glass and raised it. “A toast to you, boss of the Bertolucci family. Congratulations.”

They clinked glasses, and Sonny watched the boss carefully. The smile seemed sincere enough. Or practiced enough to look that way. Hard to tell.

After stepping away from the table, Sonny downed a few more drinks—whiskey, vodka, whatever someone placed in front of him. He could still walk and still drive, although the warmth in his chest hummed louder than he planned. The satisfaction of the night settled over him. Everything seemed lined up. The plans. The positioning. All of it.