Beneath The Concrete Heart

Prologue(Edited)

"Mom, what did you do to Tommy?" The question hung in the air, raw and accusatory, even now, years later.

I remember that day like it was yesterday, etched into my memory with the sharpness of shattered glass. My mother, a woman who had pledged her life to my father, had murdered my older brother. Tommy, the golden child, the protector, silenced forever because he threatened to expose her affair. He knew about her secret boyfriend, the one she lavished with gifts bought with my father's hard-earned money. The sheer betrayal, the cold-blooded calculation of it all, poisoned me. Witnessing my father's grief, the raw, guttural sobs that shook his entire being, broke something fundamental within me. From that day forward, my heart rejected the very notion of love. Trust, especially in women, became a distant, inaccessible shore.

Weeks later, after the circus of my mother's trial, we gathered for Tommy's funeral. "Thomas Bruno Sanchez, gone too soon. May his soul rest in peace," the priest intoned, his words hollow amidst the crushing weight of our loss. In the distance, a silent group of men in black suits stood like sentinels, their presence radiating an unspoken power. Later that day, my father met them. He brought me along, a silent, shell-shocked shadow in his wake.

"Andreas, my son." His voice was thick with grief, but there was a new steel in his eyes. "Your mother wanted to keep you and your brother away from my... work. She wanted you protected. But I won't do that. You deserve to inherit my legacy, to grow it."

I was only seven, a child robbed of his innocence. Emotionally, I was a wasteland, a hollow echo of the boy I once was. I moved like a zombie for months, numb and unfeeling. Uncle Sam and Vascez, two of the men from the funeral, became my guardians, my instructors. They taught me things no child should ever know. By eleven, I was a brutal instrument, beating and torturing traitors to the Family, my heart devoid of pity. At seventeen, I learned the lethal dance of firearms, the precision of death. My father, in between managing the Family's affairs, taught me the intricacies of our business. Guns. We dealt in guns, and with each passing year, we climbed higher in the shadowy rungs of the Underworld ladder.

One evening, years later, I broached a subject that had been festering within me. "Dad, why'd you ever get married?"

He sighed, a weary sound. "Hehe... well, love is a beautiful thing, Andreas. And I truly loved your mother."

My brow furrowed, a knot tightening in my chest. "Do you still love her?"

He turned to face me, his eyes filled with a pity I couldn't bear. "Yes, Andreas. I still love your mother."

The words were like a spark in a powder keg. I exploded. "HOW CAN YOU LOVE THAT FUCKING BITCH? SHE CHEATED! SHE KILLED MY FUCKING BROTHER! BECAUSE OF HER..."

"ENOUGH!" His voice cracked like thunder. "Do you think the death of your brother didn't hurt me? More than you can imagine. But you wouldn't understand the beauty of love just yet, my boy."

"Doubt I ever will," I retorted, my voice cold and hard. "I won't show love ever again. Love will get you killed." I turned and walked away, the argument a bitter taste on my tongue.

"Andreas (coughing)..." His voice, suddenly weak, stopped me. "There's a girl out there that will change you. Believe me."

"Keep dreaming, Dad."

"Don't harden your heart," he pleaded.

"Whatever," I mumbled, dismissing his words.

It was a Sunday afternoon. Monday morning, I was scheduled to fly to another city to collect a shipment. That was when I took my first life – a life devoid of any Family connection or business. I shot a man who was brutally beating his wife and child. The mother was already dead when I arrived, her lifeless eyes staring up at the unforgiving sky. I took the kid in, a silent, traumatized boy mirroring my own past. The scene, the raw, visceral display of violence and despair, further solidified my belief that love was nothing but a lie, a dangerous illusion.

Tuesday morning, I was on my way back. Uncle Vascez was watching the kid. The flight was delayed, chewing at my already frayed nerves. When it finally landed, I was greeted by the Family's lawyer, his face grim. I knew what was happening. My father had died. Suddenly, the last shred of family I had left was that witch of a woman, rotting away in some prison cell. All remaining emotion seemed to drain from me that day, leaving behind an empty void.

I took over my father's role as head of The Family, assuming the mantle of power and responsibility with a chilling calm. A year later, I began my most ambitious project within the Underworld... a project that would solidify our dominance and reshape the landscape of organized crime. A project fueled, not by love, but by the cold, hard certainty that power was the only thing that mattered.