Sometimes Jovi walked through the crowded squares of Palermo or drove past the beaches in summer. They were always teeming with people having their coffees and their harder drinks. Talking loudly, waving their hands in the air. Clustered together over tiny tables in public spaces or flung about in abandon on the sand, entirely unaware of their surroundings or what sort of monsters might be waiting there, watching.
Looking for a chance to strike.
He could not understand it.
Yet Jovi knew his cousin not only understood these things, but enjoyed them. Carlo maintained his never-ending stream of mistresses despite the carefully selected bride from a Calabrian family he’d married so ostentatiously in the cathedral in Palermo. Despite the vows Jovi had heard him make with his own duplicitous mouth. And the babies his dutiful wife, raised by men just like the one she married, had already provided him—three sons and counting.
Jovi did not make vows. He kept promises.
And he was not given to acts of sadism the way his cousin was.
He was Antonio’s favorite form of detached and dispassionate justice, meted out in the face of betrayal, a broken word, or a disrespect too great to be ignored.
Or sometimes simply because Don Antonio felt like serving it to his enemies, with impunity.
Jovi was the final solution to problems that torturers and deviants like his cousin failed to solve.
Carlo knew as well as Jovi did that even Don Antonio took care to aim his best weapon carefully. What mattered was that Jovi was loyal. The son of a known traitor had to demonstrate his honor and devotion, without fail, forever. Even more so than the rest of the family. When he was young, Jovi had done what was asked of him—whatever was asked of him—because he’d had no choice if he wanted to live.
These days, everyone was aware that Don Antonio’s orders to Jovi were a lot more polite than they had been. Or than they were to anyone else.
That was the trouble with crafting a perfect weapon. There was always the worry that it could be aimed back at oneself.
Most of the time, Jovi simply waited, letting the ice in him grow thicker by the day, feeling nothing at all.
This was not to say that he was a saint or a monk. He fucked. A lot.
There was no shortage of women who were drawn to him as surely as reckless moths to an indifferent flame. He took what he was given, left them in pieces, and never took the time to learn their names or commit their faces to memory.
Sometimes, in the middle of the night, he would dream of the boy he barely remembered, a creature of heat and need, flesh and yearning. He dreamed of a bright, wild, intense boy who had delighted his father and made his mother laugh as she pretended to look to the heavens for the intercession of the saints.
But thinking of these things in the light of day was like telling himself fairy tales, anodyne little ditties about obedience, and Jovi could not relate to them. They were not the memories he allowed himself.
Because there was nothing in him that burned. He breathed destruction and delivered pain.
There was not one part of him that was not cold.
Even Carlo, who claimed he feared no man and was the scourge of many, was always wary in Jovi’s presence.
Perhaps more than simplywary, Jovi thought.
Clearly disliking the quiet, Carlo outlined the situation that his father had sent him to share. It was no different from every other task Jovi had been set over the years. The particulars changed, but the outcome was always more or less the same. There were many men who played these games, who waged these wars in the dark shadows where fallen men created their empires, ripped down others, and were kings in all but name. There were many men who preened in their own power, little realizing that power, like any other commodity, could be bought and sold.
Because there was always more power. There was always someone more desperate to claim it. A circle without end.
These same men never understood that they as good as signed their own death warrants the moment they started throwing their weight around, because there were always higher bidders with deeper pockets. There were always new markets with more motivated sellers.
It was only a matter of time until they were all worth more dead than alive.
“We want him to hurt,” Carlo said of the man in question today, some or other arms dealer in Eastern Europe. It didn’t matter who he was, only that he’d decided he was more powerful than Il Serpente and could dictate his terms. “Eventually, he’ll pay the price for his disrespect but first, a little pain.”
Carlo carried himself as if he was a man of supreme beauty, though it was difficult to tell if his mistresses cared at all about his supposed good looks when his wallet was so well-upholstered and infinitely deep. He was not afraid to fight with his own hands—and, indeed, preferred it—a rarity at his level in an organization like theirs.
See again: sadist.
Accordingly, he kept himself in shape as if he anticipated that fight occurring at any time, despite his exalted position as his father’s right-hand man.
It had been a long time since Jovi had heard his cousin complain to the rest of their cousins that it was difficult to keep up with his fitness when he was Sicilian, and there were too many delicacies forever on offer. Many a man had fallen into softness thanks to the preferred cuisine around the family tables and the local cafés, called bars.
