Page 21 of Bloody Savage God
“Who was he meeting?” I finally ask. The question has been whirring in my head the entire drive, but I couldn’t get the words out until now. Very muchnotmy usual state of mind.
Eric gives me a frustrated look. “I don’t know. Your dad didn’t call me in, so I was at home eating pizza. There wasn’t anything on the schedule that I knew of.”
What had my father been thinking coming here without his bodyguard?It was so unlike him, always the paranoid mobster.And who the hell had he been willing to meet like this?
Before we step out of the car, Eric pulls his gun and I adjust my grip on the Glock 42 I took from his glove compartment. We walk around the building until we spot a side-door that’s slightly ajar. Inside, an empty hallway greets us. It smells like there hasn’t been anyone cleaning this place in a while and my unease grows.
“Uncle Mario said they’re at the end of the hall,” Eric explains as he makes his way down the hallway.
When we reach the last door, we find it only half-way open. All I see are two of the capos who were at dinner on Friday, their faces somber. Both are looking to the door, no doubt having heard us come down the hallway.
With the same strange hollowness still making every movement feel mechanical, I slowly open the door and step into the room. My body feels like it’s ready to crumble, the strength of my muscles no match for this unfamiliar weight that Eric’s announcement has put on me. Still, I refuse to give in, and somehow I take a couple of steps into the room.
When I can’t delay it any longer, I lift my head to survey the scene in front of me.
I expect the sight to be difficult to take in, but the gruesome mess in front of me is far worse than anything I could have imagined, and that’s true even though I fantasize about blood and murder as a meditative practice sometimes. My father’s body is sprawled on the floor, marred with bullet holes and blood. But what makes the whole thing truly abject is that where his eyes should be, there are now only gore filled holes disfiguring his face to be almost unrecognizable.
Despite the tears stinging my eyes, I force myself to remain composed. I’m not alone here, and showing any emotion would have Eric trying to drag me out of this room faster than I could blink.
My uncle is standing near my father’s body, watching me with an expression of anger and resentment. The analytical part of my brain seems to work better than the rest of me, reminding me that this murder didn’t just take my father, but also his brother-in-law, and, beyond that, it’s an attack on our entire family. Anger is an acceptable emotion, and I try to cling to it as I move closer to my father’s lifeless body, my steps echoing off the walls in the empty room that must have been someone’s office at some point.
Taking a deep breath, I kneel beside my father and look into his face. His eyes might be missing, but I can tell he was in pain when he died. The lines etched upon his forehead and the subtle furrows on his brow speak volumes of the agony he must have endured when he drew his last breath. My fists clench, and my gaze drifts to his hand. On his finger is the silver ring with the family crest he always wore.
The sight of it makes me want to scream at someone. He always said he would die for this family, and now here he is.
Ignoring the blood that is seeping into my pantyhose where my knees hit the floor, I gently pick up my father’s hand to remove the ring. I take it in my fingers and pull on it, wanting to slide it off his hand, but it’s not working. I have to wiggle the thick band back and forth to get it to move even a little. His body isn’t in rigor mortis yet, but the ring sits tight and my stomach churns as I finally manage to pull it over his cold skin. When it comes off all the way, I slip it into my pocket, not really sure why I decided to take it in the first place.
As I get up, something feels strange, and I look down to see I’m now standing in the pool of blood that surrounds my father’s upper body. Some of it is seeping into the front of my peep toe heels, adding to the blood that has stained my tights, as if trying to ensure that I’m thoroughly marked by the murder of the man I love more than anyone else still left in this world.
I don’t give a shit about blood, but my throat constricts as I think of all the things my father has done for me. Not that he was always a great dad, his first responsibility was alwaysla familia, but he still made me feel special and loved. And now his life essence is soaking into a pair of fucking Louboutins.
I want to scream and cry, but I say a silent prayer instead, vowing to get revenge. Taking a step back, my limbs now truly tremble with grief. The room is dead silent, and the irony isn’t lost on me despite the emotions that have started to take over the hollowness inside me. As if the feel of my father’s spilled blood has washed away the barriers keeping my grief at bay.
There isn’t much I can focus on right now, except for two things. I have to be strong and I need to avenge my father’s death. Taking one last look at him, I take a deep breath and turn to my Uncle Mario who has been waiting patiently, for once not trying to interject himself in what I’m doing.
His face is grim, his eyes narrowed in a scowl. “Gianna, I’m sure that the Russians are behind this. That Mikhail kid has been a problem ever since he became his father’s enforcer. I think he’s the one who did this.” He shakes his head as he speaks, his voice gruff. One of his hands gestures to my father’s disfigured face.
My fists clench in anger. In any other family, the grief might come first, but not in ours. My uncle’s words only reinforce what I already know. Revenge needs to be my first priority. The rest can follow after. The Tsepovs are most likely to have done this. Especially given the trademark way in which my father’s body was mutilated. Our families have lived in a fragile balance for the past decade, with them reigning chaos in upper North York, while we have a stronghold on lower North York and Midtown. There have been the occasional confrontations, but mostly each side focused on growing their own businesses.
And now this. But why?
Unmoving, I take a moment to collect myself. Standing over my father’s death riddled body has an almost helpful effect on me. It focuses my mind in a way that I doubt I’d be able to replicate in the coming weeks. My next step is clear in my mind. I have to make sure that the world knows my father’s death isn’t something they can get away with. They will have to answer in kind.
Pain for the pain they are causing us.
Pain for the pain they are causing me.
My uncle’s voice breaks through my thoughts. “We have to make sure they pay for what they’ve done. We need to protect what’s left of our family and make it clear our turf isn’t up for grabs.”
For once, we are in agreement. I nod my head, my determination growing with every second. As I stalk out of the room without another word, Eric trails behind me.
Time to hunt down a Russian.
Chapter Eight
Gianna
Sittingaloneinmyfather’s study, surrounded by his books and papers, the anger and rage boil inside of me, threatening to overflow. It has been like this since leaving the room he was murdered in yesterday. Emotions trying to overwhelm me when all I need is to calm down so I can think.
