How To Own A Mafia Boss

1.

Azrael's POV

Kensington, London.
Many people see me as the incarnation of terror. But of course, they wouldn't make a mistake of that proportion if they knew me.
I'm much, much worse than terror.

Some other people have come up with plenty of creative names for me. Hades, (as if I could ever be that romantic) London's Beast,—like I'm a wannabe wrestler—and one of my favorites, That Mafia Asshole. Oh, some even call me my Dad's underworld name, The Drenched Blade, even though they know I'm better, richer, deadlier than the old bastard.

I rather liked the name my own father came up with for me, I'll give him that. Azrael, the angel of death, judgment, and destruction — what can I say, my old man had a twisted sense of humor. Nobody called me by that if they want to keep their heads, but it's very satisfying. A whisper in my subconscious telling me who I am, calling me back home whenever I forget.

Azrael Alejandro Avery Simon Michigan. I get four other names as an old family tradition so that I can embody my predecessors, but my first name is mine. And it's time to do it justice.

"You know what it says in 2 Kings 19:35?"

My bodyguard looks at me. He's not startled by my mutterings since he's used to them by now, but he's not jumping to answer my question, either. I grin. He's been here all of two months and he's already getting soft?

"No, Sir," he replies quietly if a little bored.

My grin widens. "Then it happened that night that the angel of the Lord went out and struck 185,000 in the camp of the Assyrians. . ."

He feels the air shift, stands straighter, and goes still. Ah, that's what I'm talking about.
"And when men arose early in the morning, behold, all of them were dead."

A curdling scream punctuates my final word, and I close my eyes to savor it. It's time to play.

"Please," I say in the direction of the noise. In her direction. "Everyone knows you can do better than that. Or is it a selected sound for when you're working my brother's cock?"

"Please," she begs with a rasp and the sound courses through me.

"God knows I love it when you beg, wife." Cheating wife. Wife that I could have done anything for. Wife that connived with the rest of my family and tried to kill me not once, not twice.

Hold on, not five or six times, either.
My own wife tried to kill me eleven times. Now, if she was smart, she'd know by her third attempt that I'm indestructible.

Everyone knows angels do not die. They are a separate order from mere humans.

Or better yet, you'd think that by her first attempt, I'd have ended it then. But I kept her alive, wanted to see what she'd do next. Forgiving, waiting. Partially hoping she'd actually do some damage to me because then it'd mean I hadn't married an utter nincompoop.

But here we are.

I look around to savor the sight before me. Four men and my slut of a wife were before me on their knees, tied up and doing their best not to tremble. They know they're going to die. They know it's just a matter of when.

Now.

"Uncles, brother," I announce, my cheery voice the perfect contrast to the .22 LR revolver in my hand, "welcome to my palace. We'll have a party soon enough."

"Alejandro, you'll have to let us go at some point," my first uncle, Joseph, manages, his voice thin from a week of disuse.

I'm the picture of perfect amiability when I say, "Of course, I'll let you go. I can't have you stinking up my house." And then I dispense a bullet into the throat of Robert, the uncle that taught me to shoot in the first place. How very ironic.

Blood spurts out of the bullet hole, and the loud sound makes my wife let out another ear-splitting scream. She closes her eyes after exhausting herself and begins to chant something to herself. Psh, as if that'll save her.

"Right, where were we?" I extend a hand again, and Joseph begins to shake in earnest.

"Ale, son. Please, don't do this." His lips are trembling in earnest, and a tear is sliding down his cheek because that bullet just killed the brother closest to his heart.

I bend till I'm eye-level with my remaining two uncles. "My father's dying wish is my command, Uncles. He wants you all with him in hell, and it's my duty to grant you easy passage."

"Please. Please."

There was a time that begging would mean something to me. But they stole my innocence and taught me how to hunt, took from me, hurt me so much, dear God. (I'm not too macho of a mafia mass killer to admit I had a sensitive heart.)

I stare Joseph down. The man is a crying, snotty mess, and it's all I can do not to look away in disgust. "You were a King, Joseph. The world was beneath your fucking feet, but you and your brothers just had to be greedy, didn't you? Where did it get you, Tio? With the blood of my father on your hands." A pained howl escapes his throat as two bullets meet his knees in quick succession. "The blood of your brothers. Look at them," another shot meets his right shoulder, "and six feet under." A clean shot to his heart ends him.

"Alejan—" A bullet lodged into the potbelly of my uncle Richard halts his speech.

"Oops." Blood spurts to my face. "Now this here is my idea of beauty. Don't you agree?"
My wife is too traumatized to reply. My brother is too bloodied up to truly beg, and a bullet to the heart would likely be an answer to his prayers, so I ignore him. My bodyguard is looking like he just used his trousers as a porta-potty.

I turn to my wife, wanting to end this part as quickly as possible. "You weren't faithful to me, either," she spits out, helpless fear turning her bitter. It makes me pause, the loathing resignation in her voice. And it makes me want to laugh, too, because even with her swollen, bloodshot eyes and the gash on her forehead, she is still the most beautiful woman I've ever set eyes on.
I quickly kill the ache in my chest, and it disappears like it was never there.

"Embarrassingly, I was." I shoot right in the middle of the open wound on her forehead and turn to my brother.

We lock gazes, silver meeting silver, and the silent fearlessness I meet in their depths is enough to make me remember.

Remember that this man that cuckolded me is the one I love the most in the world. The one I'd have trusted with everything. The one I'd have willingly given my life for in a heartbeat.

And I find that I cannot bring myself to kill him. Not with these hands that raised him, fed him, taught him. And we both know it. In fact, as a lone tear slides down his cheek, he meets the challenge in my eyes. Shoot me, I dare you, they seem to say, and I look away because I can't.

See? Sensitive heart. Neither of us says a word as I walk out of the door.

I was raised by our father to be the most ruthless, heartless jefe mafioso ever to rule the underworld, and I've even started to relish the role. I singlehandedly expanded the reach of the Spanish-Greek underworld and made us the kings of London. I just killed the greater part of my relatives.

But I've always been putty for that little bastard. No one would have thought my father's bastard son would become the chink in my armor.

I turned the world over for the boy. When our father had insisted that he go to business school, I went toe-to-toe with him till he agreed to send the boy to medical school. I'd been the proudest after he bagged his degree, Dr. Mateo Michigan.

He paid me back by fucking my wife and planning my assassination. I look at my large, blood-stained hands that clapped the loudest at his graduation. Trigger finger scarred from fighting battles so he wouldn't have to.

But he wanted to. I had no idea he wanted to take my place all along, not till he began conniving with the rest of my family. What a crying shame.

My bodyguard comes to me, as silent as the wind, still looking scared shitless. "What should I do to the doctor?"

"Dispose of him." I turn back to give the hulking figure a meaningful look, "Properly."

He nods. And that's it.