The Taste of Revenge: Chapter 5

Taking my sunglasses off, I glance around the bustling street. My nostrils flare as I inhale the characteristic New York smell—piss and gasoline.

Alas, I am home.

As I nod at Carlos, we both step towards the imposing brownstone located in the heart of Manhattan. Unlike the other families who prefer the upstate area, DeVille is the only one that has its main residence in the city.

One of the nicer areas on the Upper West Side, the brownstone is roomy enough to house the current don and his immediate family.

The moment we ring the bell, we’re received by an elderly woman who looks askance between the two of us, her eyes stopping over Carlos’ scar before quickly remembering herself and inviting us in the hallway.

‘I’ll let Signor DeVille know he has guests,’ she mentions in a disapproving tone.

‘Ten dollars he’s gonna try to kill us,’ Carlos adds suspiciously.

‘Fifteen he might succeed,’ I mutter, scanning the surroundings. With how confined the space is, the chances of an ambush are high, especially since we are on territory.

I might have only recently become versed in physical combat, but I’d spent the better part of my teenage years engaging in strategic multiplayer games from the confines of my room. Maybe not as outstanding as having an impressive body count by the time I’d turned eighteen—as is fitting for any mafioso’s son—but it still gives me an edge over others. Considering how asocial I’d been—trying to seem as inoffensive as possible so as not to draw unwanted attention—I’d had enough time to excel at the theoretical side.

The moment I take in the layout of the house, I’m already mentally mapping all the places that could serve as spots for potential assailants. And as I see the slight reflection of silver glint in the sunlight, I tug Carlos to the side, the bullet whizzing right past my head.

‘Damn,’ he mutters.

‘Silencers,’ I smirk. ‘What else to expect when you live in the heart of the city,’ I joke just as I duck, more bullets flying towards us from another direction.

One nod to Carlos, and we split, each tackling one of the men.

Most of our training sessions had been together—as a team. We’re both very well acquainted with each other’s weaknesses and strengths and we’d striven to complement one another on the battlefield.

Given my lack of experience in the field, though, my strengths lie in my strategic orientation, speed and relative strength. My weaknesses, however, are my decreased stamina—a side effect of the drugs I’m on—and an inability to multitask when faced with several opponents at the same time. On the bright side, these are all things Carlos is an expert on, having trained as a fighter for most of his life.

Once we both have eyes on the shooters, it’s only a matter of avoiding a direct hit and reaching them before they do any damage.

I keep my focus on the barrel of the gun hiding behind what I can only assume is a door leading to the basement. And as I duck once more, rolling on the ground before getting to the door, I orient my feet forward, using the strength in my lower body to kick against the door, making the shooter lose his balance.

A soft thud announces the fall of the person behind the door, and I quickly jump up, my hand on the handle as I open once, kicking the person again, before finally wrenching the door open to come face to face with a man currently fallen on his ass, his eyes wide as he looks at me, his gun a few steps away from him.

There’s a second where we both stare at each other before we dash towards the weapon, making a run for it. According to my great teacher, Thomas, my speed is something I’d been blessed with genetically, only enhanced by rigorous training and his masterful tutelage. Case in point, the other man is barely halfway there by the time I wrap my hand around the gun, quickly pointing it towards him.

But I don’t press the trigger. That would defeat the entire purpose, since we did not come here to wage war.

Instead, I keep the gun in one hand, using the other to offer to help the man up.

His brows are drawn up in confusion, but he doesn’t refuse my help.

‘No offense, it’s not personal,’ I tell him as I lead him back to the main hallway, the barrel of the gun pointed towards his temple.

Carlos is already there, his own on the floor, the butt of the gun aimed towards his forehead.

‘Nice,’ I wink at him as we round both men up.

‘What now?’ he asks, but before I can answer him, the sound of someone clapping becomes louder and louder before we see a man descending the stairs.

In his late thirties, Cisco DeVille has an olive complexion complemented by black hair and a pair of mismatched eyes—one brown, one green. Though there are no reports of his physical prowess or combat history, he has the physique of a fighter—one who works out on the regular.

‘I trust you’ve had your warm up?’ He casually inquires when he steps on to the landing, coming face to face with us.

He reaches with both hands as he cups the barrel of the guns, lowering them to the ground. ‘We won’t be needing those,’ he smiles, giving a stern look to his men and waving them away.

I frown, a little taken aback by his response. He certainly hadn’t reacted as I’d expected him to.

Bringing his gaze to mine, he takes a moment to survey me, those mismatched eyes seemingly seeing right through me.

‘Rafaelo, isn’t it?’ His lips tug up, his eyes crinkling in feigned amusement. ‘Why don’t we retire to my study? My wife is pregnant and she hates loud noises,’ he shakes his head, nodding towards the end of the hall and barely sparing a glance to us before moving forward.

‘Hasn’t anyone told you not to turn your back to your enemy?’ Carlos grumbles, almost as thrown off as I am by DeVille’s behavior.

He doesn’t react to the taunt. He merely stops, a few steps away, his head turning slightly, only his profile visible.

‘Is that what we are?’ he asks in a knowing tone. ‘Enemies? Hmm,’ he hums, marching forward and disappearing around the corner.

I give Carlos a shrug, following suit. He groans behind me, and I know he’s not the best when it comes to diplomacy, so I just motion for him to keep his mouth shut and let me do the talking.

The room DeVille had disappeared into is a spacious library with a conference table in the middle.

Seated at the end of the table, he only nods for us to sit down too, his eyes never leaving us as he’s clearly assessing our weaknesses and strengths.

‘Surprising to see you here,’ he smirks.

‘Is it?’ I raise an eyebrow.

I’d done my homework on the man.

Not only have our families been rivals for more than a century, but there’s something to be said about the way a Guerra is taught to hate a DeVille since birth—and vice versa.

Still, in the past I hadn’t given that much thought aside from the backhanded comments my father would make about them. After all, I’d been trying my hardest to stay out of the politics of the family, putting on a smile and trying to get overlooked as the useless son.

And it had worked for a while.

But I can’t dwell on that. Not when I have to bring my best arguments to the table to convince this man—admittedly our family’s official nemesis—that we could both benefit from a partnership.

Cisco DeVille. Thirty-eight. Ruthless.

He took the reins of the family business when he was in his early twenties, his father too ill to continue overseeing things. And according to all reports, he’s ruled with an iron fist ever since.

Some might say he’s unyielding—too set in his ways. But his personal life shows that he does in fact make allowances—pretty big ones too.

He’d married his wife while his father had still been alive, and the outrage had been far-reaching. I remember my father commenting on the issue and hoping the conflict would cause a rift between father and son and thus change the line of succession. Because even then, two decades older than Cisco, my father had been afraid of him.

Certainly, after how the disaster with my sister had played out, he’d had every reason to. We’d plunged into such a deep financial turmoil, it had taken us years to regain a semblance of balance.

He chuckles, reaching for a pack of cigarettes and placing one in his mouth.

‘I have to admit, my wife and I were placing bets when you were going to reach out.’

‘And? Who won?’ I ask, a smile on my lips.

‘She did. She always does.’

Carlos narrows his eyes at him.

‘Now, I have to say I did not expect ‘ he motions in the direction of Carlos, blowing out smoke as he sizes him up and down.

‘Why is that?’ I counter.

‘You’ve grown, Rafaelo. Now you’re making alliances,’ he laughs, taking another drag of his cigarette. ‘That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?’

‘If you already know, then we can cut to the chase,’ I say and his eyes widen briefly.

‘Please do.’

‘I think you’re aware of the situation with my family,’ I start, watching for his facial cues.

‘Indeed. Your brother’s been rather…’ he pauses, his lips pursing, ‘loud. He’s certainly made sure everyone knew he was in charge of the family, the implication that he killed Benedicto out in the open for everyone with a brain cell to figure it out.’

‘He’s never been able to help himself,’ the corner of my mouth pulls up. ‘He’s always been an attention whore, but now it’s more than that, isn’t it?’ I probe, knowing I hit a spot when Cisco sets his eyes on me.

‘He’s not only loud. He’s looking for trouble. The kind of trouble no one would want.’

‘Go on.’

‘From what we’ve been able to gather, he’s been looking to bring outside influences in the city.’

‘Is that so?’ Cisco asks, raising an eyebrow, a cloud of smoke all around him.

I recognize what he’s doing. He’s trying to intimidate me, perhaps even making me cower under his intense stare.

But it won’t work. After all, I’ve been through, I doubt anything would work at all.

When you experience the worst humanity has to offer—hell on earth, so to speak—there’s little that fazes you anymore.

Cisco might be a smart man, and he might lead a powerful organization, but all that power means nothing for a man who has nothing to lose—just everything to gain.

‘He’s already in contact with Ortega, with whom I suppose you’re familiar,’ I add, noticing a twitch in his jaw.

Since DeVille’s money comes mainly from casinos, a lot of them scattered all across the East Coast, there’s absolutely no way he hadn’t butted heads with Ortega when he’d been under Jimenez.

In his heyday, Jimenez had been famous for his casinos and clubs that offered . He’d mixed every vice possible under one roof and he’d given everyone a run for their money with how he managed his businesses. The only advantage the Italians had over him had been New York, since that had been Jimenez-free for the longest time.

When he’d finally infiltrated the city… That had gotten everyone’s attention.

And as his eyes flicked to Carlos, I know he’s thinking the same thing.

‘Ortega,’ he muses. ‘I thought he would have gotten the clue that he’s not welcome in the city.’

‘He did. When he had no other recourse and was basically chased out of the city. Which is why he’s looking for an .’

After Jimenez’s empire had fallen apart, a power vacuum had been created, and people had fought to control any small bit of business they could get their hands on. It’s not a secret that Ortega had been left with a big chunk of Jimenez’s investments.

‘So you’re saying I should help you because Ortega will form an alliance with your brother, therefore threatening my own business?’ He asks, languidly, almost as if the entire thing is one big joke. ‘What about big boy over there?’ He motions to Carlos. ‘Why isn’t he dealing with Ortega?’

‘I’m in the process of doing that,’ Carlos grits out, and I can feel the tension radiating off him, the topic a sore spot, so I quickly intervene.

‘It’s not just the threat to your interests. I’m willing to add something else to the deal. If you’re willing to work together, that is,’ I smile.

‘Hmm,’ he drawls. ‘I’m listening.’

‘The end of Guerra. I kill my brother. But I won’t take his place. I’m willing to serve Guerra to you on a platter. What you do with what will be left of it, I don’t care,’ I shrug, enjoying the look of surprise that crosses his face.

‘You’d go as far as selling out your own family?’ He leans back in his seat, his gaze on me as if he’s finally taking me seriously.

‘The family sold me out first. I have no loyalty to it. Just a thirst for revenge. Michele falls, and so does Guerra. That is my offer.’

‘Intriguing.’

He narrows his eyes at us, popping another cigarette in his mouth and lighting it.

‘What do you want?’

Of course he’d jump at the chance. Given the infamous Guerra-DeVille conflict, if he is the one to end Guerra, it will go down in the history books. It will also give his reputation an edge. All things that I’m noticing Cisco cares very much about.

‘Protection, for a start. Michele put a bounty on my head. And in order to solve our little problem, I’ll need to be able to move unencumbered around the city.’

‘Easy,’ he exclaims, waving his hand in front of us dismissively. ‘Now, tell me what you had in mind,’ he smiles wolfishly at us.