Prologue
Every Don has his day.
Dontrell Bonetti Sr. had already spent his.
Rain the size of tears fell gently into the grass as his casket sank gently into the ground. Front row, nine women in black stood perfectly still, grief polished and dressed in expensive satin gloves. Designer tears. A silent lineup of everything he loved too much.
They comforted each other, standing together at the center of the man that made all of their lives easier. Across from them was Dontrell Bonetti’s wife. She was on her knees in all white, broken down for all to see. Lucille Bonetti was his backbone, a force that you didn’t want to fuck with. She was the heart, soul, and spine of Bonetti Mafia.
Dontrell was her best friend and protector. She came from nothing; her mother was a Black and beautiful prostitute raped by one of her Mexican tricks. By the time Lucille was born, her mother couldn’t stand to look at her. She was placed in the system with no family. By the age of sixteen, she walked thestreets of Fig until she mastered hoeing. She ended up killing her pimp then stepping into his shoes, which put her in position to meet the Don of Cali.
Lucille ran drugs out of her hoe house; she started skimming off the top, saving money in order to cut the middleman out. At nineteen she sat down with a table full of killers. She worked her smooth mouthpiece and sex appeal until the Don himself appeared at her doorstep to meet the woman who got over on the men underneath him. From that point on, the two of them fell in and out of love over decades of time. At the end of it all, they remained best friends, husband and wife. No other woman nor man could come in between the partnership they shared.
Dontrell and Lucille had a bond and understanding that women of her age would never accept unless it was for the money. She made his empire expand and sent many snakes to their graves. Dontrell’s only problem was women.
The proof of his downfall was present at his funeral and cemetery. Dontrell had a taste for women of all flavors, shapes, and unique looks. Not all of them were beautiful in Lucille’s eyes, but there was always something about any woman he chose that made him want whoever he deemed as his. Dontrell carried his generational curses into his future. He was a replica of his father Di Luca Bonetti.
Amid the rumble of thunder and the steady rhythm of the rain, an uneasy silence settled over the cemetery. The air was thick with tension, not just from the grief but also from the unspoken rivalries and secrets that hovered between the gathered mourners. Lucille’s presence in white was more than a statement—it was a challenge. She didn’t flinch, not even as whispered insults floated through the damp air. The memory of Dontrell Sr. lingered like the smell of cologne, bittersweetand suffocating. It wrapped itself around everyone there and reminded them of the power and cost of loyalty in their world.
“For goodness’ sake, she’s wearing all white when that man was nowhere near angelic.” One of Dontrell’s mistresses whispered harshly.
She’ll pay for that shit later…hating ass bitch.Lucille glanced up at Patricia. Till this day she never did see or understand what her husband saw in Patricia. She was a colorist, the type that thought only light skin was the right skin to be. She looked down on others since she came from a family of extended wealth.
“Lucille…” Di Lucas’ old and weary voice was low but loud enough to caress her ears.
“My son’s spirit is uneasy with you down on your knees in the dirt. P—lease—” Di Lucas let out a violent cough.
His gold cane sunk deeper into the mud as he leaned on it with all of his weight for support. At eighty-six years old, he aged gracefully with years of pain and demons stacked on top of his shoulders. After his wife passed away six years before, he was certain that one of his son’s would bury him and not the other way around. Di Lucas’ heart hurt, his body felt tired. His blueish gray orbs were heavy with unshed tears.
It took every tired bone in Di Lucas’ body not to turn everyone sitting around into a distant memory. He could do it, he had the power, the hidden men waiting on a sign, his sign. The sign he used during his powerful reign that made grown men piss themselves, tremble before him then beg for mercy. His son was the golden child, a man like no other in Di Lucas’ eyes. He was a better man than him, and it just wasn’t his time to go…this was forced.
No one except one person could be trusted, and Di Lucas planned to stick around. Observe and wait to report all things to the one person who reminded him of his Dontrell.
“You get up soon when you feel ready. Remember, everyone is watching. I can sense the traitor amongst us. Your intuition will reveal who that is. Hopefully, it’s revealed soon. In the meantime, those women of Donny love watching you bow in front of them. They see weakness, and so does every blooded man that can witness you on your fuckin’ knees.” He spat gravely.
Di Lucas removed his cane from the mud before two of his men moved to either side of him, waiting for him to take his first step away from Lucille. Before he made a move, he pressed two fingers to his thin lips and kissed them. Di Lucas pressed those same fingers to Lucille’s forehead then walked away slowly.
Lucille knew that Di Lucas was right. Dontrell’s women hated her, and she didn’t care for any of them either. Now that her husband was dead. Most of the mistress’s were ready to test the waters to see just how far they could go with Dontrell’s sweet Lucille. To them, she was nothing more but a mixed, privileged, fair-skinned bitch. They knew nothing of her traumatic past and how hard she had it before Dontrell. A couple of them knew how evil Lucille could be whenever lines got crossed, while the other mistresses were only exposed to the sweet and generous side of her.
She never cared about his flock of women, she felt like nobody would ever understand the deep connection she and her husband shared.
As Lucille struggled to steady her breath, the sound of the rain became her only anchor. She glanced around, her gaze icybeneath the veil of grief, she took in the faces of those who had gathered. Every eye on her was filled with judgment, curiosity, or fear, yet she refused to let any of it penetrate her armor. In that moment, she vowed to protect everything she and Dontrell Sr. had built, no matter the cost. The Bonetti legacy would not falter; she’d make sure of it.
Lucille ignored everyone that witnessed her breakdown. The only comfort she had was her second-born son who stood a couple of feet away shackled from the waist down. Dontrell Jr. aka her Di Luca Bear. He stood out amongst the men in tailored suits and overcoats.
These important men hailed from forty states, each one of them a boss, a Don. They were all united by power. They also wanted to see who would step up and become the next Don of California. Lucille looked past them all, her tear-stained eyes landed on her son Dontrell Jr. She already put up half of the Bonetti’s fortune to have her baby pardoned soon as her husband was murdered.
That was another side of Lucille that her husband adored. Her beauty and brains put her in positions that most women dreamed about. She had the gift of the gab and maintained solid friendships with other powerful men and women, including politicians. A lot of the other Don’s from all over respected and loved her more than they did Dontrell Sr.
At this moment, she became impatient with the process of getting her son pardoned. Lucille cringed at the cuffs that dug into Dontrell Jr.’s wrists. His head was bowed; his rain-soaked dreadlocks shielded the hurt behind his deep-set eyes. Two police escorts flanked him with uncomfortable facial expressions. The cops knew they were outnumbered, unsafe, and out of their comfort zone of control.
Even in what was considered rags of clothes that Dontrell Jr. stood tall in, his aura radiated power. Men avoided his presence like he was the Grim Reaper standing in shackles and cuffs there to collect their souls. To others, it looked like his eyesight was shielded by his dreads, but Dontrell Jr. saw everything and everyone. He wasn’t moved by shit but the death of his father. He looked at his mother and felt her pain; he expected more answers than tears.
How the fuck did this happen?
Like her husband, Lucille’s reputation preceded her; even amongst those who had never truly known her, heard of her. Each glance exchanged in the rain spoke volumes about the silent calculus of power and survival within the Bonetti circle. Every decision she made in the wake of Dontrell Sr.’s passing would ripple through the lives of everyone standing there, friend and foe alike. She understood that the empire’s future depended not just on strength, but on her ability to outthink every opponent, no matter how close they might be.
A couple of these muthafucka’s ain’t right…I can smell it. Half of them plotting some bullshit, but I got them exactly where their wrong at.
