Page 1 of Dishonored

ONE

THERE WAS NOTHING that made Caesar Accardo happier than coming home to Philadelphia after fucking with another one of his father’s plans for him. This time it was a failed marriage arrangement between him and a daughter of a New York family. He’d hoped to have a bit of his own brand of fun—fucking up people’s lives in a way only he could while he was there—but he ended up having other things to focus on.

Like not getting married because his father told him to.

His father hadn’t stopped to consider that the Gallucci Cosa Nostra out east would have their own giant pile of steaming shit they were currently dealing with—a pile of shit that worked to Caesar’s benefit in more ways than one when it came to getting him out of the whole marriage deal.

Marriage was not for him.

Not one he chose.

Not one arranged.

It just wasn’t in his cards.

Honestly, this wasn’t the first time Angelo tried to pull this trick on his son. It probably wouldn’t be the last, either. Caesar was starting to believe he should wear a fucking sign on his back that simply read: Lucky little shit. If nothing more than for the amount of times he managed to somehow screw up everything his father planned for him.

As soon as the plane had taxied to the gate, the passengers in coach wasted no time standing, and getting their bags down from the overhead bins. They crowded the aisle soon after even with the cute flight attendant asking them all to remain seated for another few minutes.

Caesar didn’t even bother to stand.

What would be the point?

He was not like the rest of these people—he rushed for nothing, and no one. He didn’t push and shove to get what he wanted, or to be at the front of the line. That looked good on no man, but especially not one of his status.

His life had allowed him that privilege, and status. His appearance was everything and nothing all at once; sometimes he cared to indulge in maintaining his appearance, and other times, he preferred to stain it with just about everything he could.

The dark urge came on like an itch he couldn’t scratch. A whispered voice in his ear demanding he feed the shame that was ever-present in his mind. Like fingernails digging into his back, and pushing him into something awful.

And yet, it always made him feel better.

Never failed.

Funny how that worked.

He mulled over his shitty decision to take the earliest flight out of New York—which just happened to be a seat in coach instead of the first class he would usually fly. Soon enough, coach had been deplaned, and Caesar decided it was time for him to move his ass, too.

Maybe it wasn’t only flying coach that had him in a mood. After all, pretty soon, he was going to need to face his father, and let Angelo Accardo know that—yet again—Caesar didn’t follow through with one of his demands and plans.

Not that telling him would be the problem. Caesar would greatly enjoy that part—he always took pleasure out of upsetting or angering his father by doing exactly the opposite of what Angelo wanted. He’d always been a disappointment to his father, anyway, so he got his thrill from proving that theory exactly right.

Living up to my birthright, Papa.

That had never changed in all his twenty-seven years.

It was what might come after that concerned Caesar. His father was predictable in that way when it came to his son. Angelo only settled himself on working that much harder to put Caesar in his place, or to take him down a couple of notches.

To his father Caesar was … too arrogant.

Too undisciplined.

Too wild.

Too fucking everything.

And nothing a made man living the life of Cosa Nostra should be. Anyone who was asked would say, Caesar had no morals, zero honor, and a severe lack of care when it came to their life, traditions, and rules.

They would be right, too.