Twisted Obsession (Underworld Kings)

By the time I reach the entrance, I find two of my father’s men standing near the office door. My father’s sanctuary, which will soon be my own, has always been a place I have always felt at peace. The soft lighting with dark wood called to me from a young age. Father would allow me to sit in an armchair and I would read while he worked.

I overheard conversations no child should, knowing that one day I would have to be the cold, ruthless killer my father was. It was only later in life that I learned that Salvatore De Rossi never got his hands dirty. He had men for that.

I on the other hand, love it.

The slippery crimson fluid on my hands has brought me a constant feeling of satisfaction. I don’t just kill anyone either. I ensure they deserve it. And the more deserving, the better. I allow my sadistic side to shine through while I slice flesh from bone.

“What’s going on?” I ask my father’s confidante, Valentino, when I step into the office. The older man looks up as I walk in, but stays silent. It is my duty to know what’s happened since I’m the Underboss, the second in command, but as I near the heavy oak desk, I realize that whatever has happened is bad. Very fucking bad.

For a long while, Valentino doesn’t respond. The silence hangs heavily with foreboding. He doesn’t need to speak because even before he utters the words, I know what he’s about to say. That intuition I’ve trusted all my life burns me from the inside with the truth about what I’ve walked into.

The stench is obvious the deeper I move into the room. I stop at the armchair I’ve claimed as mine, my hand gripping the backrest as my fingers dig into the leather. A smell I know so well permeates the air. Moments pass as I breathe in the scent of death.

Valentino steps aside and my head spins with the sight before me. My eyes lock on the sight and my stomach rolls as the acid rises to my throat. I swallow back the lump in my throat, and my nails rip at the smooth fabric of my favorite chair.

“Who was it?” I don’t recognize my voice as rage takes over. My heart thuds against my ribs in a painful rhythm of torture as I take in the horror. A sigh from Valentino causes me to snap my gaze to his, and once again, I grit through clenched teeth, “Who the fuck was it?”

I hear footsteps behind me, but I don’t turn. I can’t look away from my dead parents behind my father’s desk. Salvatore sitting in his enormous black leather office chair, with my mother sitting on his lap as if they were sharing a joke.

Only, they’re both bleeding from multiple stab wounds. There’s so much blood, my mother’s blouse is stained deep red, and my father’s crisp linen shirt is nothing more than ribbons from the blade. They’ve used a blade, a knife, my weapon of choice for completing my jobs. This feels as if it’s personal.

The sight before me blurs.

My lungs struggle to pull in air.

“We have reason to believe it was the Cavallone clan,” Valentino finally speaks. He has worked for my father since they were both teens. Dad took over from his father when he was only nineteen. And now, at fifty, he’s nothing more than a corpse.

“I want every man on this,” I tell Valentino. “I want to know all there is to know about the Cavallone family. I don’t care how long it takes.”

Realization takes hold of me as Mario’s hand lands on my shoulder. My best friend. My confidante.

I will now have to step into my father’s shoes and run the business. I already know the basics, how to read the books and deal with money. He said I would be ready for the upcoming challenges I may face. But this is too soon. It should’ve been years from now.

I graduated from Columbia with honors. But being top of my class was irrelevant right now.

Nothing could have prepared me for this.

Not any of the classes I attended. Not any of the parties I frequented.

My father stood watching the day I collected my degree. I don’t know if he smiled in that moment, or if he even applauded my achievement. The black suits that surrounded him ensured he was hidden away.

Everyone in New York knew who Salvatore de Rossi was.

And everyone stood at least a few meters from where he stood.

They gave him wide berth, for good reason.

And now, I stand before him, and I must find it in my heart to say goodbye.

Valentino motions to the soldiers, who enter the room and stop on either side of the desk. Guards stand vigilant, but they don’t speak. The air is heavy with sadness. I can feel their eyes on me, and even if they want to sympathize, they don’t. I am the Underboss, and that position commands respect.