Butterfly Storm {MINOR REVISIONS}

Prologue

～·～·～

~ August 30th, 2016 ~

Cassio. An Italian name meaning a man empty. Hollow from his vanity—his worthlessness. Aurelio gave it to him, the man reigning the chair. Come boy; the boss said. Cassio remembered it vividly—as did the boy hiding within him. How could they forget being ripped apart by the very savagery adopting them?

The tender bruising caught on his ribcage clenched with each inhale, forcing him to suppress a wince in every fucking breath. Straighten up, boy; the boss ridiculed. No son of mine will be a càgna over a little roughening. His vision thinned at the words parroting in his head.

A frigid wind draped against his dark jacket as he and his wiseguy leaned their weight against the framework of a building. It was a grubby passage, but the ideal repellent against the goody two-shoed flies crawling the city. Slurped fingers of black grime licked up the opposing building from its stump of ravaged filth. The coats of years-old graffiti littered the walls with, of course, the everyday blood splatter.

Wouldn't be New York without it.

Cassio eyed the rotting carcass of a gàtto—awakened from the streetlight peering from the road. Writhed with plump maggots, collapsed muscle made clumps of its dirty brown fur. Flesh peeled off exposed bone like braised brisket, melting into the concrete disturbingly. The side of its skull had been smashed in, where gelatinous matter poured out in toe-curling shades of expired meat. It'd been there for a while.

A small maggot floundered its way down the bridge of the gàtto's partially gnawed nose. Cassio followed its movements with a toughened stomach as the maggot wriggled its way up the gàtto's bony nostril. Its end remained visible, and it was enough for his brow to twitch in disgust, and he shifted his gaze elsewhere.

Spits began hissing down. Slanting his brown-tinted gaze up, raindrops splattered on his face. He breathed out humid air, seeking the one thing he couldn't have. Peace of fucking mind.

The mission the boss sent him on, it was meant to be a simple hit—ice a fucker in the back of the head and dip out. But it went crooked, it went so fucking crooked; an ambush. Someone knew they were coming, leading Cassio to believe it was a setup from the start. Another test.

His crew left him for dead—as they should. He wouldn't respect any of the cunts if they stayed and helped. They saw an opportunity to become the next caporegime, and they all took it.

A slow breath pinched the aching bones, and Cassio shut his eyes to the grimace twisting his face. Fucks are stabbing my lungs.

"You good, Cas?" his wiseguy asked. The only one who came back after the smoke cleared. Ballsy move, and Cassio had been feeling strange about it since.

He glimpsed at the wiseguy. Leaning against the wall beside him, Niccolò's head was slanted up as well with his hands in his pockets, sparing him the same glance through a gaze darker than his.

"Yeah. Nothing a whiskey can't solve," he replied with a tight voice. "The sooner we get this done the sooner we can hit the brothel, yeah?"

"Yeah, dick's been cold for too long," Niccolò sighed, like he didn't get the warmth he wanted last night.

Cassio would've huffed if it didn't have a blade jabbing him through the ribs. It'd been a week since the crooked mission and he still felt the boots battering him like a mallet tenderizing a steak.

"Still can't believe you're making a move," the wiseguy mumbled, mostly to himself.

"Smoke's only getting thicker by the day, Nic. Someone has to," Cassio played off.