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CHAPTER ONE
FRANCO
Brown leaves swirled around the field, kicking up a putrid odor. Switchblade in one hand and a Glock in the other, I paced back and forth. Turning my head to the dark sky, demonic laughter rumbled in my chest, drowning out the sound of rustling leaves.
“Porter, I had my men bring you here because you tried to kill me.”
His wrists and ankles were bound with thick scratchy tan rope tied to the wooden frame made of thick tree branches. Porter’s head hung below his shoulder blades like a drooping black rose.
His expensive jeans reeked of urine. I tore his crisp white dress shirt off his body the moment my men pulled him out of the trunk of the Yukon. Slamming the blade into his shoulder from behind was for my theatrics. I felt it was fitting to stab him from behind. Like a pussy he tried taking me out from a far. He didn’t step before me and fire his weapon. Not that he could’ve. My security was tighter than a corset on a woman’s pop bottle frame.
But this asshole crouched near a parked car and fired a gun across a parking lot. If I hadn’t turned to the right to shake a business associate’s hand upon leaving a meeting, a bullet would’ve penetrated my shoulder or face.
Porter opened his mouth to speak. Crimson blood trickled down his chin, landing on his tanned, bare chest. Gaping holes replaced his pretty white teeth. Clip, my best friend, and right-hand man removed four of his teeth. Two on the top and two on the bottom. The number signified how many times someone tried to kill me in the passed four years since I officially became a Capo in Portland, Oregon. At twenty-three, I stepped into my father’s role as Capo after he and my mother were killed.
Everyone wanted a piece of the DeLucas’ empire. We had the best arms deals and lucrative territories.
“Franco, I didn’t try to kill you,” Porter wheezed.
He sounded nasally. Clip said Vigo, one of my main guards, worked him over good before tossing him into the trunk.
Lifting the switchblade in warning hushed him before I glanced over my shoulder. “The balls on this one, huh?”
Clip and Piero chuckled.
“Please don’t kill me, Franco,” Porter begged. Loud sobs rattled in his red and blue bruised chest.
“Begging for your life won’t get you out of this predicament.” Fisting my gloved hand around the handle of the Glock, I sighed. I felt my anger rising to the surface. For a man who came close to death today, I was calm.
“Porter, who hired you? Give me a name and your death will be quick and painless,” I lied.
He lifted his head and visibly swallowed. “No one, Franco. Again, I didn’t try to kill you.”
I nodded, shoving my Glock in my shoulder holster. “Slow death it is.”
My sandy blond hair hung over my forehead. Usually, my hair was a chestnut brown, but I lightened my hair over the summer because I wanted a change. It was fall now, so I’d let my hair naturally return to its original color.
I digress back to the asshole hanging before me.
Raising the blade again, I smirked. “Just so you’re aware, my men are torturing your brother as we speak.”
“No,” he yelled.
“My brother had nothing to do with this.”
“With this,” I repeated. “The attempt on my life,” I roared, slamming the switchblade into his other shoulder.
“Ah,” he shrilled.
“Yell as loud as you want. No one can hear you in the middle of nowhere. You ruined a perfectly good fall day.”
His screaming continued.
“I just wanted a nice relaxing day for once. Hanging out with my friends was the plan.”
Pushing back my blazer sleeve, I peeked at my Breguet watch. “Fuck! I’ll never make it to the poker game at eleven.”
“Franco, I’m sorry,” he croaked.
