Adrian Garcia is a notorious Spanish mob boss. He's grown a name for himself with his reputation in the dark underworld since he took over the family business. Being an executioner has a tremendous impact with building fear in people. Men shake with...
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It's past eleven this evening, with the sky a pitch-black canvas hiding its stars behind a veil of clouds— hinting at a storm on the horizon. The air is thick with the scent of impending rain threatening to come down on us, and the Port of Barcelona is shrouded in an unnatural stillness that hangs over the normally busy area. Tonight the only sounds are the distant creaking of ships swaying gently in the water and occasional flutters of wind stirring between the shipping containers .
Tonight, we're meeting the Viscusos. The clock is ticking towards the half-hour mark and every minute that passes thickens the air with tension. It's not the first time we've brokered deals with other families, but something about this meeting doesn't sit well with me. I can't shake the uncanny feeling warning me of trouble. Maybe it's just the quiet that has me tightening my grip on my rifle, or maybe it's just the unease that comes with dealing with one of the most notorious families in the mafia. Either way, my instincts are screaming that trouble is looming. Meeting up with other mobs always puts me on edge, as it should, you just never know what turn of events will take place. If it'll be a smooth gathering or a tragic one.
The Viscusos propose an alliance— a strategic move on the surface. Strength in numbers and all that. This uneasy feeling is clawing at the back of my mind and won't let go. It's an instinct I've learned to trust that has acted as a silent guardian against the unpredictable nature of our world. A world I'm becoming more familiar with as I work to build my reputation.
Perched atop one of the countless shipping containers, I have the perfect vantage point. Through the scope of my rifle, I scan the area, searching for any sign of the Viscusos. Nothing yet, but they'll show. They always do.
With the acknowledgment of knowing I'm the hidden sniper it does nothing for the tension of uncertainty building on me.
"Something's not right," I murmured into the darkness, knowing Carlos, my uncle and two others in our security detail would hear it in their earpieces. My uncle will recognize the unspoken alert in voicing my concern. I trust Carlos with my life; he's been at my side since I can remember. Yet, even as I speak, I know my father disapproves. Don Cassiel, my father, has always moved with a purpose. But tonight, that purpose feels misaligned.
Even in criminal organizations, there are rules. And those rules are sacrosanct. Commitments are to be honored. As I give voice to my concern, repeatedly scanning the shadows, my father cuts in—his deep voice laced with annoyance. I move my scope a tad, and find Lucas standing even closer to my father. That little fucking weasel no doubt ratted me out. My father dismisses my instincts, blindly distracted by the potential alliance. I know better than to push further; Don Cassiel has spoken. As much as I don't agree, my loyalty to my father remains intact. Three things were instilled in me with my upbringing; loyalty, bravery and to be feared. It remains solid as steel in my core to follow what has been branded deep within me.
As I continue my vigil, thoughts of retribution against Lucas, the fucking weasel who so graciously relayed my concerns, swirl through my mind. Why my father thinks the little brown nose walks on water is beyond me. He's a textbook kiss-ass, who has quickly fallen in my father's good graces. Don Cassiel is not a foolish man. He's every bit the Don when running his empire. That makes it all the more unusual. It's not like him not to see through Lucas' act—even bringing this newest member of our organization into his inner circle so quickly. A memory of when I overheard Lucas say he was fucking Sicilian has my pulse quickening.
