Page 2 of Revenge on the Mafia

Juan moved away from the cupboard to the front of his desk. He counted his blessings that his wife, who suffered bravely with schizophrenia and youngest daughter were not home. He’d kept his eldest to prepare her for the recital. He’d called her irresponsible and lazy. Regret filled his chest at his mistake. With his fingers curled around the desk, his chest facing the firing squad, he prayed that his little girl would be spared. “Do it then.”

The Don cocked his head. “What? No argument from the great maestro?”

The Don had already made up his mind. Any answer of Juan’s would be squandered.

The Don’s lips curled into a hatred-filled smirk. “Even more evidence of your theft.” He picked up the framed picture of Juan’s family on the console next to the door. Juan’s nails dug into the wood. The Don blew smoke toward his family’s untainted picture. “You should beg, at least. I might change my mind.”

Juan shook his head. He knew better.

The Don threw the frame onto the floor. Juan was relieved that it was out of his hands. “All right, then. Your choice.”

He yanked the boy behind him and pushed him to the front, shoving a gun into his hand. “Show the man what happens when you steal from me.”

A bead of sweat formed on his forehead. Juan held back the urge to comfort him. He was blessed with daughters. The boy was the son he had never had. How cruel life was. Juan’s death would destroy the boy as well as his daughter.

In Juan’s eyes, he was still a boy, but he was fast growing into the man he would become one day. The way he held the weapon against his thigh, pointing towards the floor, it might as well have been leaden. His eyes met Juan’s. The boy’s words filled with conviction.

“He’s not a thief.” His voice didn’t command obedience. The stamina, the range, the clarity would one day demand it, even from his father. But it would not be today. Today, it shook. Emotion threaded through every word.

The Don circled the boy. He dropped the cigarette on the wooden floor. Instead of crushing it, he left it to burn against the planks Juan had laid out, on his hands and knees, for four Sundays in a row. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a weapon that glittered in the sunlight. The boy winced, and Juan knew it was a knife pressed to his spine. “Are you disobeying me, Son?”

His tone was cold. Dead. The hand holding the gun shook.

He breathed down his son’s neck. “It’s time to show your fucking loyalty.” When his lips were right next to the boy’s ear, he roared, making him startle. “It’s a fucking order. Now!”

Juan’s breathing shallowed. His death was a certainty. There was nothing he could do to change fate. But the path of the young man and his daughter’s life he could change. He must change.

The Don gripped the boy’s hand and aimed it at Juan. “If I tell you to shoot, you fucking shoot.”

The young man’s hand fisted around the gun. His jaw tensed, and his decision crossed his face. No, Juan mouthed. He wasn’t ready yet. He was twenty-one. It wasn’t the right time for him to step out of his father’s shadow. Juan’s fingers took a life of their own. Over and over, he traced two letters on his desk, AV. The boy followed the movement of his fingers, and when Juan’s gaze flicked just for a second toward the cupboard, he followed it obediently. His face paled.

“Te perdono,” Juan encouraged him. He forgave him.

The boy swallowed thickly. His father watched closely behind his shoulder. With a stiff nod, he lifted his hand and aimed the weapon at Juan. Juan’s life flashed past him. Memories of his wife. Brave and loving. “You make the voices nicer.” His two girls, laughing and playing. “Papá. Papá. You’re the best in the whole wide world, Papá.” The boy, in his study, for months on end. Learning the numbers with him. “You’re learning so fast.” The boy’s eyes trustful and eager. Blue, like the ocean outside. “It’s because of you. Sometimes I wish you were my father.” I wish the same.

The shot rang like thunder. He fell onto the desk, his breath halting. The scent of burned gunpowder filled the room, his heart pounding like a caged animal. Why is it beating? He turned, and behind him the wall was splintered, a bullet molded into it. Mierda. He had missed. He never missed.

He turned around to see the gun clattering to the floor. He drew a ragged breath. The Don would not forget this.

“Fottuto stronzo.” The Don shoved the boy to the side, and the next instant a sharp pain sliced into Juan’s neck. He staggered. His breathing shallowed. Slowly, he touched the side of his neck. His fingers traced cold metal. Warmth spilled where it jabbed into his skin, and when he looked down, his white shirt was staining red.

A muffled cry.

Mierda. No. His little girl.

“Who the fuck is here?” the Don yelled. “You told me no one was home.”

The third man said something.

With all of Juan’s strength, he shoved the desk back, creating noise, burying his daughter’s pain. His knees buckled, and he dropped to the floor. Music notes floated around him like angels before falling to the floor. White sheets. Black notes. Red stains. He was cold. So cold. What did it feel like to be warm?

The sound of the alarm pierced the room. Why was it going off? His vision lost focus.

“What the fuck,” someone yelled. Moving feet. Away. Away from him. Gray blobs danced before his eyes. Growing bigger and bigger. Changing his view. Covering it. He tried to move his head. Maybe he did, or maybe it was a nightmare. He could see the slatted cupboard again, but this time, the slats were open, and he looked right into brown eyes, no longer innocent. Darkened with terror. No!

“Papá?”

There was so much he wanted to tell her.