Taste of revenge

15

Chapter Fifteen
Michele

B ringing the whiskey glass to his lips, he watched the people walking
up and down the road, their bodies tiny dots from where he was
standing.
Since he'd taken over the family business, he'd found that he did not
want to remain in the house that served as a reminder of his failure—the
very definition of his nightmare. As soon as he'd had full control over the
Guerra assets, he'd started a crusade of eradicating everything that reminded
him of the past—of his childhood and of his teenage years when he'd been
little else than a stain on the carpet for everyone to step on.
A slow smirk pulled at his lips as he remembered how they had all
reacted when they'd suddenly found themselves on their knees and swearing
allegiance to him. And he'd made that one ceremony even more memorable
by having each man previously under his father's command crawl to him to
kiss the ring that designated him their de facto ruler.
He'd taken a knife and plunged it deep in the core of the organization,
cleaning it and getting rid of everyone who'd had something against him.
Once he'd felt satisfied with the results, he'd rewarded himself, tearing
down the Guerra house and moving into a penthouse in one of the most
exclusive areas of the city.
That was why his routine of watching people from his lofty place —
those ant-like figures down below—brought him so much satisfaction. It
was the physical evidence of everything he'd accomplished in such a short
time. Of everything that should have been his from the beginning.

His fingers tightened over the glass as foreign thoughts intruded in his
mind. A few years had already passed since he'd gotten rid of those who'd
mocked and scorned him. Yet why didn't he feel completely at peace?
Why was there still a gnawing feeling within him? One that clawed
deep at his conscience and urged him to do more—hunt more, kill more,
destroy more?
He reckoned it was a side effect of finding out his dear brother had
returned home. He'd heard the rumors a long time ago. Rafaelo was
currently affiliated with an unknown cartel that went by the name of Fenix.
But it was more than that. It was the fact that he'd dared to come back
and challenge him. Because his mere presence in New York was a challenge
in itself.
When he'd gotten word of Rafaelo's new friends, and the fact that he'd
made his new home somewhere on the border between Mexico and New
Mexico, he'd been pissed. Royally pissed. After all, he'd gone to great
lengths to ensure that his brother never saw the light of the day again.
And he'd been ready to let go.
If only Rafaelo had stayed put.
After the anger at his failed plan had subsided, he'd been smart in
ensuring that while alive, Rafaelo would never be a danger to him—by
putting a bounty on his head.
Every assassin on the East Coast had been notified of the price on
Rafaelo Guerra's head, and Michele had been satisfied in knowing that no
one would ever dare to face such danger.
It seems he'd misjudged his brother.
He pursed his lips, a small frown marring his perfect features.
Truth was, he'd made all his calculations on the meek persona Rafaelo
had projected to the world, and that had been his mistake.
He'd known, for years, that there was more to his brother than met the
eyes, his sudden speech impairment rather fortuitous considering the
circumstances of the time. But while he'd suspected Rafaelo wasn't who he
portrayed himself to be, he'd never thought he would be this shrewd.
Foolish might be a better word for it, since only fools knowingly head
straight for the guillotine.
He had to admit to himself that while the threat of the bounty was
hanging over Rafaelo's head, and with him tucked away to God knows

where but away from him, Michele hadn't planned on further retaliation.
Which, he suspected now, had been a critical miscalculation.
Because had he eradicated the problem from the root, he would not be
dealing with this right now. He would be able to enjoy everything he'd so
hard toiled to achieve and get on with his other plans.
Allowing himself a minute to get his anger under control, he started
plotting again. He might have taken mercy on Rafaelo once before. But
now that he was on his territory, he was going to have to play by his rules.
And Michele wasn't known for playing fair. Far from it. He was known
for chaos and disorder, his mercurial moods legendary among his men. And
given his reputation...one thing was for sure.
This war would not be fair.
The corner of his lip curled up in anticipation, the smell of blood
already flooding his nostrils, his brother's screams singing in his ears.
This time he'd make sure that Rafaelo never saw the light of the day
again. And after he was done with his brother, he could continue his other
order business—the remaining pièce de resistance.
Downing the remnants of his drink, he flexed his arm, throwing the
glass at the wall-high window, shattering it to pieces. The whiskey glass fell
to the ground below, the sound of a car alarm going off as it signaled it had
gotten hit.
Almost entranced, he watched the hole in the window and how it
increased in size, fractures appearing around the rim, the entire glass
becoming a liability. One kick, just one kick, and the entire thing would fall.
He was almost inclined to see it through, but before he could take one
more step, the door to his office opened, one of his men striding inside.
"There's someone to see you, sir."
He turned, one side of the face bathed in shadows while the other was
suffused with sunlight.
"Who?" He asked, almost whimsically.
"Your sister, sir," the man gulped down, looking anywhere but directly
at Michele.
Since he'd taken over the family, rumors had abounded about his
personality and his explosive temper. More than a few men had experienced
on their own skin what it meant to get on his bad side, and since then