Treasure Series Boxed Set

Chapter 2

2

Arsen Aetós

I was eleven years old the first time that I killed a man.

I remember it in clear, precise detail. I stood on a narrow back alley of Nicosia, blinking against the sun that reflected off of the sun-bleached buildings that rose high against the bright blue sky. I held a snub-nosed Smith & Wesson revolver in my shaking grip, one hand splayed out, just like I had seen gangsters in movies shoot.

The man was tall and dark, his light clothing baggy, as is normal for men to wear in Cyprus. I remember distinctly thinking that his skin was darker on the back of his neck and his arms. It made me wonder what he did for a living.

I didn’t know the man personally. I just knew that he was pointed out to me by Andreas and as I was given the gun. If I wanted into the mafia so badly, I could prove it by killing this man.

Andreas said it all brusquely as if I wouldn’t shed any blood. As if I were just a child with a wild imagination and too much energy.

I would show him. I would show all of the elders, who even now sat outside a cafe, talking and joking as if they were not the very men capable of things that chilled your blood. Things that mothers told their little boys not to worry about when they tucked them in at night.

I didn’t want to be one of those little boys. I wanted to be a man.

And so, I stood staring at the man who hurried down the alley, unaware of my presence. I was to be his life-taker, the one that shepherded him out of the world for good.

All I had to do was pull the trigger.

My trembling finger was so heavy as I pointed the gun at his back. Then I squeezed and the gun went off. It startled me. The gunshot was louder than I was prepared for.

The figure in the alley began to crumble, looking back…

I can remember all of that, but I can’t remember his face. It eludes me when I try to recall it; just a beige blank in the place of eyes, nose, and mouth.

I wish I could say that he was special in this, that my memory plays tricks on me. But in reality, I can’t remember his face in the same way that I can’t remember the hundreds of men I’ve killed since then. All of them; the grasping, the gasping, the proud and furious men…

All of them remain perfect blanks in my memory. Not that I try to recall them, exactly. After all, I was an assassin for many years before my brothers and I progressed upward through the hierarchy of the Cypriot mafia.

I stayed with them as they grew until they were big enough to send a few of their soldiers out into the world like a poisonous plant sends tendrils. From Cyprus, we went to Athens, Istanbul, Munich, Brussels, Paris, and London.

Then we attempted to take over in America, with New Orleans as our first target. That’s where I am now, handling the day to day responsibilities of our twenty-person crew.

By the time my brother Dryas and I arrive in New Orleans, we are bosses in our own right. So, I settle in, enjoying the ease with which I can infiltrate and turn the current system of drugs, gambling, and girls on its head. I start to enjoy myself, even take a w***e to dote on, a skinny little Russian named Anna.

I’m comfortable, reveling in the fact that I’m taking over the underworld of New Orleans. Then I come head to head with the Carolla family… and that is where things go sideways.

Starting with Anna’s severed head being delivered to my doorstep, her face wide in a grimace of shock and fear. Blood still dripped from her neck.

A note came with the head.

Get the f**k out of my city or you’ll be next.

— Salvatore

I take a puff of my cigarette, angry that I’m even thinking of it. Angry that that stupid, fat American man thinks that he can f**k with what is clearly mine. My property.

So, I have to retaliate because obviously you’re can’t just let disrespect and murder slide. I’ve been planning my response for a couple of weeks, and now it’s about to happen.

I’m standing in a part of New Orleans that never fully recovered after a big hurricane came through, waiting in the back room of a desolate warehouse. My brother, Dryas, is with me, calmly carving his name in the wall of this shithole.

I take a moment to examine him. Like me, he wears black tactical gear. Like me, he is tall and muscular, not an ounce of fat on him. His dark hair is close-cropped, unlike mine, which I let grow out a bit more.

Dryas has always been more militant than I am, seeing things as black and white, cut and dry. I lack that same unquestioning sense of right and wrong; I exist in between somewhere, in the deepest fields of gray.

That’s what makes me a great boss, and Dryas a great soldier. I am more than willing to bark orders at anyone, and I know that I can take whatever heat might be stirred up as a response. Dryas, not so much.

His weakness is evident, to me at least. Then again, I’m sure that he sees the same things when he looks at me.

My gaze has been on him for some time. Dryas glances up at me, his green-yellow eyes questioning.

“Why are you looking at me, Arsen?” he asks in perfect English. We learned English when we were taking over London, so his accent when he speaks English is a lilting mix of British and Cypriot.

“No reason,” I answer with a shrug. “Trying to have patience, like you.”

Dryas doesn’t react or say anything. He’s not really the type to say anything just to fill up the space in the room, and I like that about him. I don’t like many things about either of my brothers since we were raised competing for the same very limited resources, but I’m trying to learn.

I’m trying not to act like I’m a man born in bloodshed and raised by starvation, even though that is precisely what I am. Dryas is much more patient by nature than I am.

I’m antsy, drumming my fingers, smoking cigarette after cigarette. I watch Dryas, who seems absorbed in slowly peeling curled strips of wood away from the wall. It reminds me a little of what he’s known for in Cyprus, which is peeling the flesh off of men slowly and methodically, to get them to talk.

It is very successfully, no doubt about it.

I’m not sure why Dryas bothers with marking the warehouse since we’re going to raze it within the next few hours. I guess he has that, and I have fantasizing about making the Carollas scream.

The fact that the Carolla men are currently on their way here, expecting to do a deal with a prominent Mexican patron to bring a lot of Mexican girls here for cheap… that fact almost makes the ghost of a smile grace my mouth.

Almost.

I double check my firearm, a Sig Sauer, despite the fact that I already know that it’s ready to go. I consider what I’m about to do, relishing the fact that I’m about to get the chance to kill Sal Carolla, his bodyguards, his sons…

And his lone daughter. A chill rushes down my spine as I think about some mousy little plaything, all for me. Will I just kill her right away? Or will I take my time, enjoying making her beg as I strangle her?

After all, it is how Anna died, after the Carollas raped her and beat her. My fists bunch as I think about them defiling my property.

I hear the sound of footsteps and laughter echoing in the main room of the abandoned warehouse. I look at Dryas, who is already alert, his name long forgotten. I hold up my hand, letting him know to wait a minute.

We both stand there, stock still in the dying New Orleans daylight, our breathing harsh. One minute goes by, then two. Dryas glances at me, his growing uncertainty written all over his face.

Then there are gunshots, at least a dozen of them. Neither Dryas nor I react; you don’t get far in our line of work if gunshots make you jumpy. Then I hear a deep male voice, calling out across the warehouse.

“Yo, boss!” David, one of my bodyguards, calls to me. “We got ’em over here, ready for you.”

I arch my brows at Dryas and head out of the little room, into the warehouse’s main area. There are big gaping holes in the roof, and it just so happens that right underneath where the light pours in, are the three Carolla men, gagged and on their knees a few feet apart. It strikes me as being a little funny as if the light is saying, here they are. Finally, the worthless pieces of scum you’ve been waiting for.

But wait… shouldn’t there be four of them? I am fairly certain there is another little Carolla boy running around, not to mention the daughter. Not that I ever expected her to come here.

I did expect all four of the men, though. I stride up to them, putting my firearm away. I can see that they know who I am from their expressions, although we haven’t yet met.

“Hello,” I greet them, as casually as you please. “I’m Arsen.

None of them speak to me. That’s fine because I like to start my interrogations with a bang. Choosing the youngest of the group, I walk right up to him and pull his head down, bringing my knee up at the same time. The contact is brief, but there is a satisfying crunch of bone as I shatter his nose and a resultant spray of blood. As he screams, I step back, letting him fall on his hands and knees.

I wipe his blood off of my hands and onto on my pants as the other Carollas glare at me.

“f**k you, you f*****g Greek piece of s**t,” another brother spits at me.

I look at him, see him trembling with rage and fear. The fact is, he will die within the next hour, along with most of his family. I give him a crooked smile, pull out my firearm, and aim it at his head.

He flinches a little, a sign of weakness. How weak and lazy and fat these stupid Americans are. I step towards him, my combat boots squeaking a little as I step through his brother’s blood.

“This is for Anna, the little Russian w***e that you all took turns ruining,” I say. I take the safety off. “It’s only the first of many lessons I have to teach you… but it is the most important. Never, ever take what is mine.”

I fire the shot from only a few feet away. Everything slowed down for a second, to allow me to appreciate what is happening.

The bullet begins to leave my gun. The boy that I am aiming at soils himself and squeezes his eyes closed. He leans back as if that will save him.

“No!” screams the father, moving towards the boy. The other two brothers look on in horror.

The bullet traces cleanly through the boy’s brain and exits through the back of his skull. The bullet hole on the boy’s forehead blooms with the faintest hint of red. He stares at me, openmouthed as if he can’t believe that I just killed him.

A little shiver of excited energy passes from him to me as I see the awareness leave his eyes. That moment, that power I derive from watching his life end, that is everything.

Everything speeds back up. Then there is blood everywhere suddenly. All over the boy’s back, all over the floor. His body topples over backward, arms flailing even though there is no consciousness left in his body.

His father turns to me, shaking and sweating with his rage. He doesn’t seem to realize that he is in a weak position, even though he is still kneeling on the dirty floor of an abandoned warehouse.

“f**k you,” he swears, his voice low. “I will make you suffer. I will make you bleed. I will f*****g cut you into pieces and feed you to the fish in the Mississippi.”

He starts to move toward me, only to be subdued immediately by two of my bodyguards.

His threat makes one corner of my mouth crook upward. “It that right?”

“I will f*****g end you!” he shouts, little bits of spittle leaving his mouth.

“You know what I would find more interesting?” I ask calmly. “I would really like to know where your other son is, and your daughter.”

His eyes go wide. He wasn’t expecting that, somehow. “f**k you. I’d rather die than tell you.”

That makes me smile. “Is that right?”

He just glares at me, not answering.

I point my gun at the other son, the one whose nose I’ve broken. “We’ll see.”

I will get the information out of him, even if I have to get out the torture kit.

I always do.