The Mafia Loves Me.. OMG (Book I of the Brancaccio)

SMACK... SMACK... "WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?! TELL ME!!" SMACK... SMACK... SMACK... Blood sprayed against the cold, gray floor of the warehouse with every hit. The man tied to the chair groaned, barely able to lift his head anymore. He was already broken, yet Frank kept going. His fists moved with mechanical rhythm—years of experience behind every blow. Each strike was precise, meant not just to cause pain but to shatter the man’s will. I stood in the shadows, unmoved. "Enough, Frank," I said sharply, spitting to the side as I straightened up. My voice was calm, low, and final. I didn’t shout. I didn’t need to. In my world, the quietest words carried the deadliest weight. Frank paused, stepping back as I walked toward the steel door, the heavy clang of my shoes on the concrete slicing through the silence like a blade. I didn’t even look back as I added, "Just finish him." There was no hesitation in Frank’s response. "Yes, boss." I heard the familiar sound—metal scraping against leather as he pulled the gun from his holster. BANG. The shot echoed through the dimly lit space like thunder in a storm. The man slumped forward, lifeless. I didn’t flinch. This wasn’t the first time I’d given the order, and it sure as hell wouldn’t be the last. As Frank dealt with the cleanup, I stepped outside. The night air was cool against my skin, laced with the faint scent of oil, steel, and smoke. A thick tension hung in the air, as if the city itself held its breath whenever I walked through it. My car was waiting—a sleek black Mercedes, polished to perfection. I slid into the backseat, slamming the door shut. The driver didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. Sitting beside me was Benjamin Castellazo. Most people called him Benji. He was my right-hand man, my shadow, my confidant. If I told him to burn the world, he’d ask if I wanted gasoline or diesel. But even he knew tonight wasn’t the time for jokes. Eight months. Eight long, infuriating months since John Azzarelli had disappeared. The bastard vanished with my money, my trust, and worst of all—Anthony Licata’s life. Anthony wasn’t just one of my men. He was family. Blood or not, that man had stood beside me in wars, bled for me, killed for me, and I’d do the same for him. And now he was gone—stabbed in the back by the very snake I once welcomed into our home. Benji’s voice broke the silence. “Don’t worry, Aiden. We’ll find him.” I turned my head slowly, my eyes locking onto his with a stare cold enough to freeze hell itself. "You MUST,” I growled. He nodded, saying nothing more. My name is Vicenzo Brancaccio—but people call me Aiden. The name alone makes grown men tremble. I’m the head of the Genosees Mafia, the most feared organization in Italy. That title wasn’t inherited—it was earned, soaked in blood and built on a foundation of power, ruthlessness, and calculated silence. My father, Andrew Brancaccio, handed me the reins when cancer began eating away at him five years ago. The old man taught me everything—how to read a room, how to command fear, how to never show weakness. I took what he gave me and forged an empire even he hadn’t imagined. But there were rules in this life. Loyalty above all. John Azzarelli broke that rule. And there’s only one punishment for betrayal in my world. Death. He came to me like so many others had. Hungry. Desperate. Promising loyalty in exchange for protection and a better life. I believed him. I trained him myself. He learned quickly—sharp, obedient, eager. Maybe too eager. In hindsight, I should’ve seen it. The way his eyes lingered too long on the money. The way he always asked too many questions. I should’ve seen the snake. Instead, I let him in. And he bit. He didn’t just steal from me—he butchered Anthony and vanished, taking with him millions that weren’t his. No traces. No contacts. Just a cold trail and a bleeding wound in our family. The car hummed along the road, city lights casting streaks of gold and red across my window. But I wasn’t looking. My mind was elsewhere, drifting between rage and memory. I thought of my mother—Bellarosa Brancaccio. The only softness left in my life. She was the soul of our family, even as cancer wore her body thin. Every time I visited her, I saw the quiet pain in her eyes and the pride she still held for me, despite the world I ruled. She once told me, “Don’t lose your heart in this life, figlio mio. If you lose that, you’re no different from the monsters.” I hadn’t listened. At least, I thought I hadn’t. Until Anthony died. Until I looked into my mother’s fading eyes and realized I had to make this right. For her. For him. For me. Benji’s phone buzzed beside me, breaking the silence. He answered, voice curt. “Yeah?” I stayed quiet, eyes still locked on the blurred cityscape outside. “Uh-huh... yeah. He’s here. Got it.” He hung up. “It’s Stephen,” he said, finally turning to me. “You know he’s been in the States, right?” “And?” Benji leaned forward slightly, his eyes hard. “He saw him.” I didn’t respond. Not right away. My gaze slowly shifted to meet his. “He saw that bastard, Azzarelli. In Florida.” Silence. Then— A slow, deliberate smile spread across my face. The kind that chilled bones. Florida. So that’s where the snake had slithered off to. “That’s why we couldn’t find him in Europe,” Benji continued. “The bastard ran. Thought he could hide in the land of palm trees and tourists.” I leaned forward, the air inside the car suddenly heavier. “What are we waiting for?” I said, voice low, lethal. “Let’s go pay our dear friend a visit.” --------------------------------------------