Francis’ memories of the family that he hadn't seen in months consumed his thoughts, reminding him of a simpler life. His parents and siblings reminded him of a peace that he hadn't felt in years. He found himself not only admiring the majestic lands but missing his kinfolk. He couldn't wait to tell them about his woman and his bambino. He wanted to wait until Tracy traveled to his homeland, but he was so excited that he knew he wouldn't be able to contain his enthusiasm. He had to tell them. His mother, Rosa, would be so happy. She wanted nothing more than for Francis to settle down and reproduce. His sister, Teresa, was unable to have children, and Vincenzo was simply not willing. He was thirty-six but not ready to have a family. Vinnie vowed to be the last playboy standing.
Francis could relate. He’d had plenty of women, some that could be considered the most beautiful in Europe. He’d even had an impressive roster of beauties in America. But no woman that he’d been with had ever made him want to settle down, let alone father a child. Right or wrong, to Francis, women were possessions—like cars. When first purchased they were shiny and new, but after time they were no longer as appealing. Then, Tracy, the stubborn, beautiful, feisty, super curvy vixen entered his life and altered his whole perspective of women, and what they were to him. Francis had actually fantasized about his future with her. It was unchartered territory for him. But Tracy was different. She’d suffered a great loss; enduring the unbearable heartache of losing the man she’d planned to marry. She’d also watched her friend survive the worst. She’d been attacked and violated in the worst way. And through it all, she remained strong and resilient. Strangely, she had no idea of the strength she possessed, but she would learn soon enough. Unfortunately, her association with his family, along with Victoria and Natasha, would allow her very little peace. All of their lives were very complex. Now, because of her associations, Tracy’s life would be just as chaotic, but Francis knew that his woman was strong enough to handle the hand she’d been dealt. He would do whatever it took to make her life easier, safer, and happier, and Francis was planning to give her and his bambino their heart’s desire. His goal was simple; make them happy.
Francis had grown up observing the love and partnership of his parents, Luciano and Rosa Savelli. He planned to have the same love and understanding with Tracy. He understood that since she was American, he would have different challenges, but he was willing to adjust and work through whatever cultural obstacles that they would face.
The serenity of Calabria and thoughts of his new family had Francis in a place of peacefulness that he had never experienced. Sadly, his bliss was short lived when his beloved Maybach exploded in front of him. He didn't even know which one of his men were in the vehicle.
The powerful blast rocked the SUV that he was in, the noise so loud that the earth shook. There was no way the men in inside had survived. Before he could mourn the loss of his favorite car, or his loyal men, shots rang out. Francis could hear the ping of bullets hitting the Land Rover.
Through the rain of bullets, Paolo had thrown himself over Francis. Although he was only doing his job by protecting the boss, Francis was irritated.
“Get the fuck off of me!” Francis commanded.
He reached under the passenger seat of the Land Rover. No matter what vehicle Francis rode in, his men knew to place his trusty shotgun within arm’s reach. To avoid flying debris, the driver slammed on the brakes, bringing the SUV to a screeching halt. Paolo removed himself from atop Francis’ back and grabbed the semi-automatic .45 from the back of his pants. He scanned the area for the threat before climbing out of the vehicle. Francis exited after him and looked over at what used to be his luxury car. It was in a ball of flames.
Francis trudged along a cobblestone road, kicking remnants of the wreckage out of his path. Thankfully, the lead vehicle had not been hit.
His men filed out of the SUV, weapons hot. Like Francis, they searched the area for combatants. Whatever, or whoever, had caused his car to explode had to have been close by. Security at Francis’ villa was more than sufficient, so a car bomb was highly unlikely. Something had been launched at his vehicle by someone who assumed that Francis would be among the passengers.
“Stai bene, Piero?” Francis asked as the driver approached.
“Si, boss. I’m good.”
Francis ran his fingers roughly through his hair as he looked at the carnage. His men had been murdered, and he had been a heartbeat away from meeting his own end. He took a brief moment to think of their families. And brief it was because the sound of bullets whizzing past his head quickly shifted his focus from his dead soldiers to his own survival, and the survival of the rest of his men.
Francis shoved Piero behind the Land Rover. He positioned himself behind the wheel and readied his shotgun. Piero pulled out his own weapon, racked the slide, and peaked carefully around the SUV. Seconds later, he turned to Francis with concern etched on his face.
“Two vans,” he told him. “I can't tell how many men.”
Francis nodded and lowered to the ground on his stomach. He pointed his shotgun in the direction of one of the vans. He would be aiming for the gas tank. The quiet was eerie as they prepared themselves for battle, but the sound of shots, suddenly fired, broke the silence.
Observing from beneath the Land Rover, Francis realized that it was Paolo and a few members of his team firing at their adversaries. They had somehow positioned themselves behind their enemies. It was all the incentive that Francis needed to open fire.
He fired his twelve gauge at the van furthest from Paolo, igniting the gas tank. The explosion wasn't as dramatic as Francis would have liked, so he dropped his shotgun, pulled out his .45, and positioned himself on the hood of the Land Rover. There he began to fire at human targets. Piero did the same.
One by one, he and his men took out their enemies until there was only one left. The shooter looked around at his fallen comrades and dropped his weapon. He lowered to his knees and placed his hands on his head.
Francis walked around the SUV, and as he strolled toward their captive, he could hear the worthless pleas of a man who was already dead. Francis stepped over the dead as he approached. He had never seen any of the men before, but their features were telling; surely of Eastern European descent.
Russians.
Francis studied the so-called hitman. He couldn't have been more than twenty years old. He was utterly terrified and shaking uncontrollably. With a wide-eyed look of terror, the young Russian looked as if he was ready to shit his pants. Francis shook his head. His enemies had sent boys to do the job of men.
“Bring him,” he ordered over his shoulder after turning away from the boy.
A quick death would be the merciful thing to do, but Francis wasn't in a charitable mood. Before a very unpleasant death, the survivor would be a useful source of intel.
