Caged: A Dark Mafia Romance

Prologue

Nayla Bell

The chorus of today had become one of gunshots. A rapid, metallic song of pop after pop. Cries of pain and death accompanied this melody, forming the dark and morbid soundtrack.

I could almost smell it coming as the hairs rose on the back of my neck. My fingers, intertwined with the rosary I held as I sat in the pews of the Church of the Sacred Heart in the Bronx, New York, shook in anticipation. I sat among fellow prosecutors for the D.A. as well as police officers, detectives, FBI agents, and family grieving a young undercover agent who didn’t deserve to die.

I could hear the staccato of death in the distance. One bang, then two. They were coming for us.

We should have all known better. We should have known that even a funeral for a man who died in the line of duty would hold no sacred ground. No. In the turf war between the Vasco and the Moretti families, there was no mercy. There was no time-out. There was only opportunity for more bloodshed and carnage. Even in the house of the lord, there would be no peace between the two mafia kingdoms and their enemies. Wealth, power, pride, and a thirst for revenge were the tenets of their religion. We had done their families wrong by recently putting many of their men behind bars, and now they were going to make us pay for our persistence for justice.

Was it the Vasco or the Moretti family attacking us?

Did it even matter?

It was the mafia.

The fucking mafia was here to seek vengeance on all who dared to stand against their street authority. We may have won in court, but they were here to show us who the true victors were.

“Get down,” I said, barely louder than a whisper, to one of my coworkers who sat beside me dabbing her eyes with her lace handkerchief. “Get down!” I screamed as the blast of gunshots announced the assassins’ presence as they charged through the double doors.

Turning to see men with AK-47s, Colt M1911A1s, and other weapons of destruction enter the church shooting with vengeance and zero mercy, I reached for the woman’s hand. I pulled her down while other agents and officers jumped out of their seats, drawing their own guns to join in the killing sonata. We were paying the price for all of us foolishly sitting in the same room at a funeral for unfortunate Officer Antonio Ricci. We, of course, had security at the doors, snipers positioned on surrounding rooftops, and every single law enforcer was armed to the teeth. But that only added to the rain of bullets falling upon the poor Catholic Church that would surely be the location where many would die today.

Falling to the floor to shield the stunned lawyer I had barely known personally, though I had spent countless hours working with her, I tried to hide from the massacre. I watched as the priest giving the funeral service was shot in the arm as he crawled for cover, only to then be fatally shot in the back of the head before he was able to reach safety.

The sick melody of my life continued on as volleys of bullets ricocheted off the walls, the pews, and even the Virgin Mary was marred by the attack. Stained glass shattered all around as people screamed while ducking for cover.

“Get further under the seat,” I ordered, struggling to push her body beneath the pew.

I wanted to fight these bastards too, but carrying a gun as the assistant district attorney would never be allowed. I was not a cop even though there had always been a secret part of me that had desired that occupation. But no, never. Nayla Bell, the Harvard graduate at the top of her class, would never be anything less than a someday district attorney—or at least in the eyes of her parents. I had been groomed my entire life. And I was close… so very close to reaching my goals. Unless, of course, today was the day I died.

When I was met with resistance from my coworker, and she wasn’t listening to my command, I shouted again, “Get under there.” Bullets were blanketing the church, shards of glass were flying, and splinters of wood from destroyed pews made every inch of space a battleground.

With another shove, I pulled my hand away in horror to see my recently done French manicured nails covered in this woman’s blood. I turned her limp body in my arms, looking into her face. Her body was still warm yet she was clearly dead as her eyes stared up at me void of any life.

My cries blended with the last of the gunshots as the lullaby of this nightmare slowly came to an end when the remaining Mafioso attackers retreated back to their hole.