Burned Dreams: Chapter 1

Eight years ago

“Az.”

I remove the last of my guns and look up at Felix, who’s standing by my locker.

“Kruger wants to talk with you,” he says. “It’s urgent.”

I nod and remove the bulletproof vest, wincing as the pain from the hit I took spreads through my chest. It was supposed to be a simple recon mission, but we were ambushed by the security team twenty minutes in. Belov caught a blade across his arm, but considering it was just the two of us against fourteen guards, we did well. I close the locker and peer at the blond man sitting on the bench by the wall. Sergei Belov is staring ahead with vacant eyes, and if his chest wasn’t moving, I would think he’s dead. Of all the guys who were dragged into this fucking program, he always seemed like the most normal one. Until he started going nuts a few years ago. He probably never hurt anyone before Kruger inducted him and shaped him into a cold-blooded killer. Just as he did with the rest of the boys who ended up in the Z.E.R.O. unit.

“You need to get Belov out,” I say.

“I know.” Felix sighs and squeezes the bridge of his nose. “I’m working on it.”

I give the old man a once-over. The relationship between the operatives and their handlers in our unit is supposed to be strictly businesslike. Typically, handlers provide support from a base of operations—mostly data collection and surveillance during the mission—but the relationship between Felix and Sergei has always been different. I doubt anyone besides me has ever noticed, the old man is too careful to never show favoritism, but Felix cares about him, and not just as an asset. He looks after Sergei as if he is his own kid, making sure Belov doesn’t snap and start killing people left, right, and center whenever he gets into one of his fucked-up moods.

“Work harder.” I grab my jacket and leave the changing room.

Flickering lights cast long shadows on the bare concrete walls as I walk down the hallway leading to Captain Kruger’s office. You’d expect the headquarters of a secret military base—one that has been in operation for over a decade now—to be a bit more polished, but instead, it’s just concrete walls, electrical wires fixed to the walls with plastic hooks, and the pervasive smell of mold. It’s better on the upper levels. These were used as sleeping quarters for the new recruits when the program first came into existence, but they haven’t been occupied in years.

The Z.E.R.O. unit is a highly classified project, kept off the books, that has a single purpose—to dispose of people deemed unwanted by the government or by Captain Kruger. Quickly, efficiently, and without a paper trail. It started as an eleven-man unit—five operatives, five handlers, and the captain. Now, we’re down to six. Three operatives, two handlers, and Kruger. It doesn’t appear like they’re planning on taking on any new recruits, so the program will probably be shut down when Sergei, Kai, and I end up dead.

I’m halfway to Kruger’s office when the elevator doors down the hall open, and a man steps out. The coat he’s wearing is unbuttoned, revealing a white shirt covered in blood stains. Kai Mazur. The last in our trio of operatives.

He turns left and heads toward Kruger’s office as well, his long jet-black braid swinging like a tail across his back. I always wondered why Kruger allowed him to keep his hair that length. The success of our missions relies on being covert, and it’s really hard not to notice a six-foot-five guy with a braid hanging down to nearly his waist.

As he walks down the corridor, blood drips onto the floor from the brown paper bag in Kai’s right hand, leaving red splotches on the concrete. Looks like the captain wanted a souvenir again, and judging from the size of the bag, it’s probably someone’s hand. When Kai reaches the office door, he drops the bag, and it makes a disgusting grotesque sound as it hits the floor. It might not be a hand after all.

Kai nods at me as we pass each other, and I notice a badly stitched cut on his chin that still oozes blood. He probably sewed himself up again. Since he killed his handler, medical personnel refuse to treat him unless he’s sedated.

I grab the doorknob and step over the bloody bag on the floor, entering the captain’s office. Kruger is seated behind the desk, watching the monitor in front of him and reviewing the mission reports. I wonder what he’ll do when he finds me unreachable tomorrow.

He’ll likely send someone to dispose of me. Probably Kai. Natalie and I will be long gone by the time that happens, though. I’d already decided this would be my last mission and, before I left, instructed my wife to pack and be ready to go the moment I get home. I tried calling her twice on my way back to the base, but the call went to voice mail.

“Have a seat, Az.” Kruger motions at the chair on the other side of his desk.

“I’ll stand.”

“Suit yourself.” He reaches for his coffee and takes a sip. “Your wife was in a traffic accident this morning.”

My vision blurs as I process his words. I grab the back of the chair. “What?”

“The hospital staff mentioned that she may not make it through the night, so I guess you should head over there,” he says nonchalantly, looking back toward the screen, as if discussing weather.

I turn around and storm out, while my heart climbs into my throat.

* * *

I stare at the doctor’s lips as he speaks as if that will help his words penetrate into my brain.

“. . . multiple fractures that resulted in massive internal bleeding . . .”

I can’t make sense of what he’s saying. It’s like my mind won’t accept it.

“. . . resuscitated her twice . . .”

I grab the front of his white coat and press him to the wall. The words keep pouring from his mouth, and, with every syllable, rage and despair brew inside my chest. I need the motherfucker to stop speaking!

“. . . we tried. I’m so sorry.”

My hold on the man’s coat wanes. I want to smash his head into that wall until he takes back everything he said, but I seem to have lost the feeling in my hands.

“I want to see her,” I bark into his face. “Now.”

The doctor nods and steps out of my reach. My ears are ringing as I follow him down the hall until he stops at the door on the right.

“Leave,” I say, gripping the knob.

I can hear the footsteps retreating, but I only stare at the door in front of me. It’s a plain, pale-blue piece of wood, but for me, it feels like I’m standing at the gate of doom. The rage that consumed me earlier has evaporated, and the only thing left in my chest is soul-shattering pain. I grip the knob harder but can’t make myself go inside. There’s still a sliver of hope, a desperate thought at the back of my mind that this is some big mistake. It’s someone else’s wife in there. My Natalie is at home, sitting in her favorite chair in our living room, waiting for me to come back so we can finally leave.

I can still remember the day we met like it happened yesterday. She was trying to steal a wallet from a man in the snack aisle of a gas station in full view of the security camera. I dragged her outside and gave her an earful about how terrible of a pickpocket she was. We were both seventeen at the time and living on the streets, but it was as plain as day that she wasn’t cut out for that life. I usually didn’t give a fuck about other people, but I guess I saw a part of myself in her that day. So, I took her to the abandoned house I used to crash at after my old man ended up in jail two years earlier. She was only supposed to stay a few days but never ended up leaving.

I taught her how to pickpocket with finesse and even took her with me to some smaller jobs. It was good to have someone to come home to. To share the good and the bad. And considering the conditions in which we lived in those times, there was more bad than good. I’m not sure how our comradery transformed into love. It crept up on me without my noticing, like a stream wearing away stone grain by tiny grain. We were both young, neither one of us had any family or anyone else left in the world, so we had to fend for ourselves. It was the two of us against everyone else in this fucked-up city. Friendship became affection, then reshaped into something deeper. She became the only good thing in my miserable life.

When Kruger nabbed me and made me join his fucked-up team of killers, I promised myself I would dance to his tune until I got enough money to move Natalie and me far away, somewhere he wouldn’t be able to find us. I figured it would take me a year or two to save enough money so we could disappear.

I was wrong.

In order to get off Kruger’s radar, I couldn’t use any of the IDs I already had because he could track those. I needed new documents for me and Natalie, and Kruger had connections everywhere—the government, the police, the underground, every fucking place. Getting new identities without him finding out was close to impossible. I knew way too much to be let off the hook easily, so I had to make sure I didn’t raise any red flags. If I did, both Natalie and I would end up dead. It took me years, several hundred thousand, and four dead bodies to find channels Kruger couldn’t trace. I got the damn papers a week before I went on this mission.

And now she’s gone. Some asshole has taken away the only family I had.

Closing my eyes, I open the door and step inside the room.

* * *

I throw the last of the empty jerry cans to the side and observe my reflection in the front picture window, the setting sun at my back. The panels on either side of the large pane are open, and the gasoline fumes permeate the air. I bought this house three years after I joined the Z.E.R.O. unit because I hated living in a rental. I purchased it right before I asked Natalie to marry me. It was just a dull brick-and-mortar thing, but it was the only place that felt like home to me after a very long time. And now, it’s returned to being nothing more than a pile of brick and mortar again.

Pulling the lighter out of my pocket, I flick the wheel, sparking the flame, and throw it through the open window. The lighter lands on the gasoline-saturated furniture, igniting the fire, and by the time I reach my car, the blaze is already consuming the curtains.

Once I’m behind the wheel, I reach for the old metal box on the passenger seat. Atop the pile of passports and other IDs lies a silver bracelet charm of a teddy bear with a pink bow that I bought for Natalie years ago with the money I stole during one of my jobs. She was obsessed with bears of any kind, probably because they reminded her of the carefree childhood she had before she ended up on the streets. I don’t think I ever saw her without that silly charm. The hospital staff removed the bracelet when they took her to surgery, and the chain got lost along the way. Only the teddy bear charm was included with her belongings when they were returned to me.

My eyes shift to the key chain hanging on the rearview mirror. A shiny pendant of a poker hand—a royal flush no less. The metal clasp attaching the pendant to the ring broke long ago, so now it’s just secured with a leather string. My dad gave me that thing after I beat him at poker the very first time, and I’ve kept it all these years to remind me of him and one of his other lessons: Don’t just accept the hand you’ve been dealt in life. Sometimes, you need to be the dealer.

I take the key chain off the mirror and remove the pendant from the string, throwing it into the metal box. Holding the teddy bear charm in one hand, I thread the leather through the loop at the top, then tie the string around my wrist.

When I look up toward the house, the fire is already eating at its sides. I lean back in the driver’s seat and watch the flames annihilate what was once my home, as well as the last fragments of my soul.

I was never a good man. The first time I took a life, I was barely sixteen. It was in self-defense, but it doesn’t change the fact. When you live on the streets, in the worst part of the city, it’s either kill or be killed. Survival.

Not much humanity was left in me by the time I met Natalie, but having her by my side helped save those pitiful remnants. She became my purpose. The only thing that kept my heart from becoming an unbreachable cold rock.

I never told her the truth about my “work,” fearing that she’d get scared of me. Natalie believed I was a security guard at a military installation and never knew she was living with a killer. Sometimes, I wanted to confide in her, to tell her about some of my missions, but I didn’t think she would be able to handle it, so I kept my mouth shut. Having her with me was enough.

But she’s gone now, and she took everything good with her. Hope. Dreams. Love. The only things left are agony and rage. From this fury within, a bloodthirsty, feral beast rises, asking for retribution. Blood. Death.

I don’t give a fuck if what happened to my wife was an accident. Don’t care if it was a high-as-kite kid or someone’s grandfather with failing eyesight who was driving the car that hit her. I’m going to find them. And they will pay.

I take the stack of documents from the metal box and start leafing through them, looking at different names on each. Multiple identities are a necessity when your job description includes killing people for a living. My hand stops on the last ID, a name I haven’t used for almost a decade. Alessandro Zanetti. Kruger kept pestering me about my real name for months, but I never caved, even after he had his men break my arm, and he finally dropped the subject. He had no use for a soldier who couldn’t go on missions because he was too roughed up, and all recruits used fake names and IDs anyway. I’m not sure why I was so stubborn about it. Maybe because my name was the only thing I truly owned at that time. Or it could have been because I simply enjoyed pissing Kruger off.

Grabbing the stack of fake IDs and passports, including the documents I got last week, I throw them out of the window. It seems fitting to use my real name when I kill the bastard responsible for my wife’s death.

By the time I put the car in reverse and pull out of the driveway, the flames have already reached the roof, turning my home into ash.

Four months ago

The rain is relentless, drenching my already wet jacket and plastering my hair to my face. I forgot my umbrella at work, too shocked by the news that the diner where I work will be closing next week. That leaves me with only my part-time job at an accounting firm, which isn’t enough, and I’ll need to start looking for something else right away.

I’m trying to move one of the wet strands out of my eyes when a truck zooms by me on my left, racing down the empty but puddle-covered street and splashing me with the dirty curb water. A sigh of defeat leaves my lips as I stop in the middle of the deserted sidewalk and look at my new white sneakers which are now soaked and stained in muck.

Even though I’m still being pelted by the torrential rain, I can’t look away from my shoes. Yesterday, I felt a little guilty because money is tight this month, but I was so excited when I left the store after purchasing my runners. If I knew that I’d be losing my job today, I never would have bought them.

The blaring of a car horn pulls me away from my thoughts, and I look up to see Melania, my best friend since high school, waving at me from the driver’s window of her car.

“Jesus, Ravi!” she yells. “Get in!”

I rush toward her vehicle and open the passenger door, but when my eyes fall on the nice interior and the dry seat I just shake my head. “I’m all muddy.”

“Oh, for God’s sake. Just get in, Ravenna.” Melania leans toward me and grabs my hand, pulling me inside.

“Late shift?” I ask as I put on the seat belt. Melania works at a pharmacy just down the street.

“Yeah. I should have been done by midnight, but we had some deliveries that came in late, so I had to sort that out. We got that pain balm you asked about for Mamma Lola.”

I nod. Considering the situation, I’m not sure we can afford it at the moment.

“I saw Vitto when I was heading to work this afternoon,” she continues as she pulls back onto the street. “He was with Ugo.”

“I told him that I don’t want him hanging out with that kid, but he won’t listen. That dude is a bad influence.”

“Are they stealing again?”

I lean back on the headrest and close my eyes. My brother has been extremely difficult over the past year. “I hope not. The grocery store manager said he’ll file a police report if he catches them again.”

“Maybe you could try to find him a job for the summer. I can ask around if you want?”

“Yeah, that would be great,” I say even though I know nothing will come of it.

Since our father died a year ago, Vitto started hanging out at places where Cosa Nostra members gather, doing small errands for them from time to time, hoping he’ll get offered to take over a soldier position that our father held. Both my mom and I have been doing our best to get that idiotic idea out of his head, but to no avail. I forbade him from going to any of those places, but I’m sure he’s still doing it in secret.

“He’s going to come around, Ravi. You’ll see.” Melania parks the car in front of my building and reaches over to squeeze my hand.

“I hope so.” I squeeze hers in return and open the door. “It was only one block. You didn’t need to drive me.”

“I still owe you for all the math homework you did for me back in high school.” She laughs. “Say hi to Mamma Lola for me.”

“I will.”

My wet sneakers make squishy sounds as I run toward the building and then up the four flights of stairs. Trying to be as quiet as possible, I let myself inside the apartment and head straight to the bathroom to change when my mother’s trembling voice comes from behind me.

“Vitto isn’t home, yet.”

I turn around and stare at my mother with dread. It’s almost three in the morning. My brother might be problematic, but he’s never stayed out all night without letting me or my mom know. “What do you mean?”

“He went out with his friends and said he’ll be back by eleven,” my mom chokes out. “His phone is off.”

“Why didn’t you call me?”

“You were working. I thought he was just late, so I laid down on the couch to wait for him. I fell asleep.” She bursts out crying. “I tried calling his friends, but no one has seen him.”

“Shit. I’m so sorry, Mamma.” I wrap my arms around her and try to make my voice steady. “He probably went to sleep over at Ugo’s and forgot to call you.”

“Maybe we should call the police, Ravi.”

I close my eyes. “You know we can’t.”

We might not be active members of Cosa Nostra, but my father was. We can’t risk attracting the attention of the police unless it’s absolutely necessary.

“What if something happened to him?”

“He’s okay. I’m going to call Ugo, and we’ll find him.” I’m reaching for my phone when a hard, loud knock sounds at the door.

My mother’s eyes widen in fear, and a tear rolls down her cheek. When someone knocks on your door at three in the morning, it can’t be anything good. I dash across the room, throwing the door open.

A man in a dark suit is standing on the other side of the threshold. I’ve never seen him before, but one look at his stance and the holster visible under his unbuttoned jacket says enough. Cosa Nostra.

“Ravenna Cattaneo?” he asks, staring me down.

“Yes,” I choke out.

“You need to come with me.”

“Is this about my brother? Is he okay?”

“For now.” The Cosa Nostra soldier grabs me by the arm and ushers me down the hallway. He doesn’t even wait for me to take my purse or jacket.

“Everything is going to be okay, Mamma,” I call over my shoulder as I try to keep pace. My mother is standing in the doorway, one of her hands gripping the frame and the other pressed over her mouth as she watches me leave.

When we exit the building, and the man approaches a black car with tinted windows, I get inside without asking questions. I squeeze my hands in my lap while we drive, trying to keep myself together. Vitto must have fucked up terribly this time for Cosa Nostra to come to our apartment in the middle of the night. Was my brother caught stealing again? Or maybe he said something he shouldn’t have? Oh God, if he ratted on someone, he’s as good as dead.

The car turns into a narrow alley and stops in front of a restaurant with red and white checkered curtains. I don’t recognize the place right away because I’d only been here once when I had to bring my father his wallet after he forgot it at home. He was on guard duty in the back room.

I step out of the car and look up at the wooden sign above the door. Luigi’s. The place where Cosa Nostra soldiers come to play cards.

The driver wordlessly guides me among the empty tables toward the doorway at the far end of the room. A woman with a stained white apron is washing dishes and stares as we pass through the kitchen. When we reach the door hidden behind a curtain next to the wine crates, the man opens it and pushes me into the concealed room. The door closes behind me.

Inside, the air is filled with heavy cigar smoke, making it hard to breathe. The light from the fixture above the big round table illuminates the forms of four men seated around it, playing poker. I take a few steps into the room, and the one facing me looks up from his cards and leans back while a smug smile pulls at his lips. I take an involuntary step back. It’s one of the capos. Rocco Pisano.

“We’re done for tonight,” he says and throws his cards in the middle of the table.

The other three men stand up, their chairs scraping against the floor as they rise, and collect their belongings. None of them meet my gaze as they pass me and leave the room. The door closes behind them with a soft click, but I flinch from how ominous that small sound feels.

“You sent for me, Mr. Pisano,” I choke out, trying to maintain eye contact without cowering. I don’t like the way he looks at me—like a cat who just got an unexpected treat.

“I did.” Rocco reaches for his drink and leans back in his chair, observing my drenched clothes. “There’s a debt that needs to be settled.”

A sinking feeling takes hold in the pit of my stomach. “A debt?”

“Yes.” He smiles and shifts his gaze to something behind me. “Isn’t that right, Vitto?”

I swivel around, and a strangled cry leaves my lips when my eyes fall on the curled body in the corner. My brother looks up, his face is smeared with blood, and one of his eyes is swollen shut.

“Oh my God.” I take a step toward him but the sound of a palm hitting the table stops me midstep.

“Come here, or I’m going to finish what I started!” Rocco roars.

I swallow the bile and make myself turn around to face the capo. Rocco nods toward the chair across from him and watches as I approach on shaky legs.

“Sit,” he snaps.

I drop down onto the chair and clasp my hands on my lap. I don’t know what’s going on or what the hell my brother is doing here, but I know it’s bad.

Rocco takes a drag of his cigar and blows the smoke in my face. “Vitto here thought he could play poker with the big fish. He came in earlier tonight, waving a stack of money, asking to be allowed into the game.”

I close my eyes for a moment, trying to stop the tears from falling. My father’s death hit my brother hard, and Vitto’s been causing problems ever since. Bad company. Stealing. Even selling marijuana. But I never expected he’d be crazy enough to come to a Cosa Nostra place to gamble.

“He’s only fifteen,” I whisper.

“The boy needs a lesson. He’s old enough to be held responsible for his words and actions.” Rocco smirks. “And old enough to pay.”

“How much does he owe you?”

“The four grand he brought was just enough for the initial deposit.”

Four grand. I wring my fingers. There is only one place where my brother could have gotten that money. The old cookie tin that’s under my bed. I’ve been working since high school to save money for college. Most of it went to cover the medicine when my father got sick, but I managed to save up about four grand in the last year.

“I’ll visit the bank and see if I can get a loan,” I say. “We’ll return every cent Vitto owes you, but please let my brother go.”

“I doubt any bank would give you a loan big enough to cover the amount your brother owes me. So, Vitto and I came to an agreement, one that will benefit us both. I will forget about the money and won’t kill him.” He blows the smoke into my face again. “And I will take you as repayment.”