Page 7 of Bloody Savage God
Krav Maga’s philosophy, emphasizing aggression, attracted me right from the first time I heard about it. The simultaneous practice of defensive and offensive maneuvers is efficient and well suited for a variety of fighters, including women who are out-weighed by their opponents. I may not be an Israeli soldier, but I sure as hell know a lot about aggression, and Mia is the perfect sparring buddy. She has her own story, and even if she never told me, I have a feeling she doesn’t always see my face while we’re in the depth of a fight.
Today is no different. Without hesitation, Mia grabs a practice baton from the floor next to her and charges me. The way she dives into her attack tells me she’s got things on her mind and I will be sore tomorrow. I smile and close the distance between us while deflecting her attack with my arm. It stings for a second, but I don’t have time to dwell on it. Instead, I twist and jab my closed fist into Mia’s stomach. Or at least that’s what I aim for. Instead, I get her hip as she straightens and turns out of my reach.
She doesn’t wait with her next offense. Obviously, she needs to let out some feelings, so for the next hour, we spar, leaving me a sweaty mess.
“I’m going to need a shower before I head home.”
Mia laughs. “Do you have a hygiene problem I should know about?”
Grinning, I throw my sweaty towel in her direction.
No, I don’t have a hygiene problem, but I do have a problem I need to deal with. And it’s waiting for me at home.
Heading home from my workout, I arrive at the gates and give the guards a nod in greeting. Their expressions remain unchanging as they quickly press a button to let me pass. Wouldn’t want to piss off the Don by accidentally coming on to his daughter. Smiling might just be the offense they fear the most.
I roll my eyes as I put my Cadillac into drive.
As I turn my car down the lengthy driveway, I feel the usual sense of security. This is home. The house belongs to my father, and has been in our family since the eighties, two generations after my family came over from Italy. It might not be ideal living with your father at twenty-nine, but I wouldn’t give this place up for anything.
As the head of our most visible and, on the surface, legitimate businesses, I’ve been carving out the territory and cash that fuels our family. Over the past two generations, we have gained a solid stronghold over the Midtown and lower North York district in the GTA, the Greater Toronto Area, and I’ve done my fair share of deals to reaffirm our hold on that territory. Most importantly, by ensuring the Angelo syndicate to our west, and the Russians, who control upper North York, don’t get any ideas.
Located in Bridle Path, the most affluent neighborhood in Canada, our house, with the four white columns that reach across the two levels and the stone facade, is a sight to see even for someone working with high end properties on a daily basis. And then there is the fact that it holds almost all my childhood memories.
Reaching the end of our driveway, I park in front of the entrance and climb out of my car, pausing for a moment, like I usually do, to appreciate the majestic beauty of the house before shaking off the sentimentality. I get out and head through the main door, crossing the cathedral style reception hall to make my way to my bedroom suite. The traditional decor in the house hasn’t changed since my mother passed away when I was thirteen and I’m not sure if it’s because no one cares about it, or if my father is attached to the way she made things look. It’s one of the things we never talk about. She was my father’s weakness, and weaknesses aren’t something freely exposed in our world. Not even to your own daughter, apparently.
Shrugging out of my sweatpants, I quickly get dressed for the weekly dinner with the important members of the syndicate. We call it family dinner, even though you don’t necessarily have to be blood related to be accepted into the family. Made men, they call it.
Big balls wanted, vaginas tolerated.Occasionally.
The point of the weekly dinner is the same as for most normal families. My father wants a day each week where we get together and bond.
Except for one minor difference. We also use the weekly occasion to keep an eye on people who haven’t been pulling their weight or are getting lax with the rules. Being made is one thing, staying alive is another. In the end, blood still runs thicker than water, which is why my uncle is my father’s closest adviser, hisconsigliere, and why my cousin is our primary enforcer. And it’s why I am the CEO of our corporate front and run the other illegal enterprises that keep our cash flow wide open.
As I do almost every week, I choose a sexy dress from my closet. The men wear suits, and I could do the same, opting for something similarly plain, but as with Benny Ronaldo, using a piece of clothing that unnerves the men around me gives me a modicum of power that I would hate to lose out on.
Despite my father’s disapproval, and especially because of my uncle’s disdain.
This time I pick a skin-tight black dress that reaches my knees and pair it with some red stilettos, before completing the look with bright red lipstick. War paint, some call it. And we very well might have one of those on our hands, if the Russians had someone on Benny Ronaldo for a reason.
I take one last look in the mirror before leaving my room. I have no regrets about stabbing the boy scout earlier, but I still get a tingle running down my back whenever I think ofhimstanding there in the parking lot.
Mikhail Tsepov. Prince of the Russian Mafia.
The way he’d stared at me as if he knows something I don’t doesn’t sit right with me, and I despise having to bring this to my father before I can get to the bottom of it myself. But such is life in the syndicate. The don rules, and if there is one thing I care about more thanla familiaitself, then it’s my father.
Downstairs, my father, Uncle Mario, Eric, and some of the capos are already sitting around the table that is only used for these family dinners. The over-sized chandelier that hangs above the table reflects off of the long dining table’s shiny surface. The table fits ten of us. Whoever has worked their way up to be granted the honor to dine in the Don’s house.
“Gianna, please, take a seat,” my father, who sits at the head of the table, says. I make my way over to sit to his left. Uncle Mario, as always, has taken the seat across from my father, sitting at the other short end of the table, overseeing the capos. To my father’s right is Eric, both an honor and a precaution. My father is anything if not aware of the risk his position can put him in and keeping his most skilled enforcer close is a habit.
The second my butt hits the upholstery, two people enter, carrying plates of food. One is Mellie, our cook, the other is Samantha, our housekeeper. They, and our butler, Anton, are the only people working for us in the house, but they make sure everything runs smoothly.
Mellie places a steaming plate ofRigatoni alla Carbonarain front of me before patting my arm and heading out to get the next dishes delivered to the table. Mellie is in her late fifties and has been with us since I was born. Without her, I would have been lost after my mother passed, and my father knows it, so her job is as safe as they come.
“Enjoy,” my father announces after everyone has been served.
Eric immediately starts in on his meal like some starved orphan. When he finally takes a second to look up, I grin at him and lift my eyebrow.
“Don’t you have any food at your house?”
