Chapter One

PRESENT

Raven

I’m lying down on my front, my forehead is stuck to the cold surface of the floor, and I press my shaking hands to my head. The crackle of the automatic weapon hits painfully against my eardrum, and the sharp pieces of smashed glass are scattered all over the shop. My instinct says, Get up and run! Yet, I don’t listen to it. Instead, I gather all my courage, draw my head up between my shoulders, and cautiously crawl towards the cellar steps. I know if I let panic fully take control instead of acting reasonably, it might cost my life. Back when we were young, my father and my uncle prepared my cousins and me for what we are to do in a situation like this if we want to live. Keep to the floor, get out of the line of fire, look for shelter, wait for reinforcement. How I hoped I would never have to recall these instructions, but the gunfire hitting against the wall of my party service shop brutally yanks me back onto the ground of reality. Some people are seeking to harm me again, there is raging chaos all around me, and I can’t do anything about it.

“Sue! Jason! On the floor. Get down!” I shout at the top of my lungs. Behind my back, the gigantic, representative bottle of chardonnay – a gift from my uncle when I opened this shop full of hope, two years ago – explodes with a huge blast. I helplessly watch as the glass cabinet packed with delicacies falls to a myriad pieces with a deafening crash, but I don’t turn back. Determined, I crawl on forward towards the cellar steps, overcoming the splitting pain caused by the pieces of glass piercing my lower arms. I don’t want to die. I don’t intend to be the next victim of this mindless war which has already cost too much blood. Even my parents’ – the painful thought flashes through my brain as I reach the cellar door. I can’t even bear to think how many have sacrificed their lives on the altar of family loyalty: relatives, friends, or those who were in some way or another linked to the Bertone clan.

The desperate cry of Sue, my confectioner can even be heard through the noise of the gunfire.

“Stay down. This way. This way!” I mouth to them, and vehemently point to the cellar steps. Seeing the pale faces of my two employees shivering on the floor, my heart sinks and the recognition hits me hard like a sharp bard: this chapter of my life has come to an end. Even if we survive the gunfire, nothing will remain the same. I will have to flee once again, leaving behind all that I’ve managed to build up so far. I can’t even say how often I’ve had to fear for my life.

With my back against the wall, I sit crouched on the tiles of the cellar. Beside me, Jason stares in front of himself with a pale face, in shock. Sue, our otherwise funny and cheerful confectioner sits on the only chair available, grabbing its rim with both hands, her whole body shaking. I quieted them as soon as I locked the door behind us, and now we all wait in an awe-struck silence, to see what will happen. The noise of gunfire upstairs died a while back, and we no longer hear footsteps either, but I still won’t open the door. It might be just a trick as they wait for us to crawl back out of our hiding place. It’s much safer if we wait for Uncle Emilio’s people. Because they will come, I’m dead certain about it. Exhausted, I close my eyes, and lean my head against the wall with a sigh. I’m unspeakably tired of the whole matter. Two years of hard work has just come to nothing, in the course of a few minutes, yet, it’s not the finances I’m worried about. Money has never been an issue in the Bertone family. My Uncle Emilio would sponsor the rebuilding of the shop, or he’d simply buy me another one. Of course, I would never let him do that, and then he would sulk for a while about my stubbornness. It filled me with endless joy that I built my party service shop with my own funds, without his financial support. Emilio Bertone likes to believe that he can solve any problem with money, and he can shut every mouth with a few crispy bank notes.

What worries me much more is what the significance of this raid might be. It was an open proclamation of war on Uncle Emilio, who, by the look of it, is once again at war with one of the rival mafia families, or maybe with even more. The armed attack was a warning that his enemies are not scared of anything, and they are ready to go all the way, even to harm his family.

The outrage does not only result in the destruction of my shop, but also that I have to give up on the existence I have worked so hard to build up. What’s more, the peace of mind that I have fought so much for, is also ruined altogether.

With a serene stare, I study my employees’ faces scared to death. Employees, who have become my friends in the past two years, but with whom now I have to break contact. I know my uncle will generously take care of them for their silence in return, and they will probably have nothing to worry about financially until they find new work – but this is only one aspect of the issue. I’m on the edge of crying at the thought we might never meet again, and I can only hope in time they will manage to get over the spiritual side of the trauma as well.

My family is to be blamed for everything. All the bitterness I’ve had to go through in the past ten years was brought about by the Bertones’ underworld activities. Oh, how many times I wished I had been born into a normal family! In the midst of people who may not have so much money, but what they do have, does not come from illegal trade or car business, the operation of clubs, drugs and weapon-smuggling. To be born into a family where there is no need for a bodyguard to visit the opera house. Where cars are not pulled off the road by gangsters, and parents do not leave their thirteen-year-old daughter an orphan, or, fearing the revenge of rivals, uncles do not keep their niece under lock and key in an estate that could pass for a bunker.

Crying my heart out after a critical event like this, I always reach the point where my beloved cousins, Alessandro and Christiano come to my mind, who do love me. Sandro is four years my senior, Chris is one year older than me, and they are indeed like brothers to me. As a matter of fact, they do treat me like their little sister, with all positive and negative aspects considered. And of course, I remember my cool Aunt Claire, once my mum’s confidante, who has filled the role of a second mother in my life since the death of my real mum. And there’s also my Uncle Emilio Bertone, the Boss. A dedicated and caring father, loving husband, successful businessman, and otherwise the most influential mafia don of the East Coast. Uncle Emilio doesn’t have a daughter, so he adores me, spoils and protects me as if I was his own. And I, no matter how hard I try to hate the mafia boss, can never hold grudges against him too long. I don’t call him my father, but I do consider him that in my heart.

And, of course, there’s my boyfriend Johnny, whom I met through a party service job half a year ago, and I feel devoted to him because he has nothing to do with the mafia world. We go out together, have a lot of fun, and in time this might turn into something serious. My romance with Johnny is not exactly like the eruption of a volcano, there’s no overwhelming passion involved, but it has potential. And, I know it from bitter experience that not even overwhelming passion guarantees things will turn out good between a man and a woman.

These people are my family. So, by the time I reach this point in my gloomy musings, I always realize that I’d never change them for anything else, and I’d miss them terribly if they disappeared from my life. I don’t need any more painful goodbyes, and I no longer want to cry over the coffin of a loved one. I hate the family’s underworld activities, but I do love the family itself. In spirit, I’m unable to separate the bloody-handed mafia boss from Uncle Emilio, who used to entertain us under the Christmas tree playing his violin, fooling around. I’m fully aware how schizophrenic the whole situation is, but this is the Bertone clan, and I, whether I want it or not, am a part of this whole madness.

The sound of footsteps hits my ear, which at once drags me out of my torturing thoughts. The noise comes from closer and closer, then there is a muted knock from the other side of the thick concrete door. Terrified, we look at each other, and I’m sure Sue is only a hair’s breath from fainting. I quietly place a finger to my mouth, and getting up on my knees, I crawl to Sue’s chair, who stares with eyes open wide and holds her breath as I reach under her chair and pull at something. The metal body of the pistol obediently slides into my palm as I draw back my hand. I stand up and lift my finger warningly, once again to silence the other two. With the 9mm Baby Glock in my hand, I tiptoe to the door. In the meantime, a memory comes to my mind – it was at the opening of the shop that Uncle Emilio called my attention to this unique “gift” which he then planted in the cellar. For special occasions, he said, putting emphasis on the words, but at the time I didn’t want to ascribe any significance to the gesture. I hoped I would never need it, and I forgot about the whole thing. Until now. There could never be a more special occasion – the bitter thought crosses my mind as I pause in front of the door and try to listen.

“Raven? Are you in there? It’s me, Enrico.”

A gigantic sigh breaks from my chest as I recognize the voice of Enrico, my uncle’s most loyal man. This means we are saved. For now, at least. Emilio Bertone has sent Enrico in person for me, which tells me that I’m deeper in shit than I have thought. The 6.4 tall, bald muscle man is only a few years younger than my uncle, but he is considered one of the oldest hands in the family. He is the so-called consigliere. Emilio Bertone’s right hand, trustee, advisor and the one who manages his most delicate affairs.

“We’re here, Enrico,” I answer with some relief.

“Who’s in there with you?” he yells from the other side.

“It’s just Sue and Jason. Just us three in here.”

“Okay, girl. The coast is clear out here. You can open the door.”

I put the pistol down the belt on my jeans, take a deep breath and insert the key into the lock.

“Are you sure? What… what if…” I hear the worried question behind my back. I turn around.

Jason is gazing at me with pupils open wide and a pale white face. That’s when it dawns on me that my employees know nothing about Enrico, the mafia and the complicated details of my family background. I have never revealed the whole truth to them, it would have made no sense. When it comes to private issues, I present the same routine version since I was thirteen: my parents died in a tragic car accident and I was raised by my uncle and aunt, who are entrepreneurs. To my colleagues I’m just a twenty-six-year-old young woman who runs a party service, and who wants to help children with speech defects after earning her degree in special education and speech therapy. In their interest, it’s best if I let them go on thinking so. Our shared work, in the light of today’s events, is now history – I think with resignation.

“All good, Jas. We’re safe now.”

After Enrico makes sure that I don’t have a bullet wound, he gives me a fatherly embrace, and entrusts Sue and Jason to his men’s care. I have no doubt that he’ll try to leave the scene before the police arrive, so I don’t have a chance to exchange even just a few words with my colleagues in peace. Hurriedly, Enrico pushes me towards the armoured Mercedes with the tinted windows, parked at the back exit of the shop. Hardly do we sit into it, we can already hear the sirens of the approaching police cars. Enrico gives the order to the driver, and the car leaves behind the side street with screeching tyres, to make its way to the Bertone estate.

I can clearly see the relief on Enrico’s face at my getting away with the attack alive. If Emilio is like a father to me, then it’s fair to say that I see Enrico as an uncle. He has known me since my birth, knew my parents, his wife knitted dresses for me when I was a kid, and a long time back I played with his children in the garden of the family residence. Enrico is not a man of words, he keeps quiet even now, but his tense expression gives away the rage inside him. It’s for a reason that his nickname is “Fist” in the underworld circles.

He fishes the first aid kit out of the compartment under the seat, pours some disinfectant on a piece of cotton, and with his thick fingers, he clumsily begins to clean the wounds on my lower arm. I gratefully put my hand on his, but choose to take the cotton and continue the cleaning myself.

“Have you talked to the Boss? I know he tried to get a hold of you yesterday,” Enrico asks after a while, with a voice full of dejection.

“No,” I sigh. “We haven’t talked, but I was going to call him back after we’ve delivered the Chandler engagement order.”

I feel nauseous as I think about Chandler and all the other disappointed customers whose orders now I have to cancel and whom I have to inform that they need to find another party service, because Delivered Delights has ceased to exist. It’s been shot to bits. Crushed to pieces, just like Raven Bertone’s bona fide plans for the future.

I painfully glance to the side.

“Did my uncle suspect anything? Is that why he wanted to speak to me?”

Enrico worriedly scratches his forehead.

“I’m afraid, he did. He wanted to warn you to be careful, but none of us expected things to get that rough so soon. We’ve fucked up big time,” the words break from his mouth with anger, then he sends me an apologetic look at once, as if I was still an innocent little girl. “We’ve let those bastards strike on us,” he punches the front seat’s back. It looks like he sees these events as his own personal failure, so I gently squeeze his huge, chapped hand. It’s pointless for him to blame himself. He glances to the side and speaks again, with a bittersweet smile on his face.

“You did really good, girl. Your quick reaction saved all of your lives. I’m proud of you.”

I snort with dejection. What do I say to that? Practice makes perfect, I think bitterly. As I lay back in the comfortable leather seat, the 9mm is pressed against me. I reach behind me and pull the Baby Glock out of my belt. Enrico takes it at once.

“I somehow felt that this baby would once again be needed,” he adds with a wry smile.

I don’t comment on this. Instead, I close my eyes tiredly. After the attack, it’s obviously out of the question that we go to my place. I know the procedure all too well. They take me to my uncle’s house that is protected like a fort, and his people will get my personal stuff from my house, and bring it all here for me. Breathing deeply, I try to calm myself and prepare in spirit for all that awaits, but frustration forms a lump in my throat. Feelings of disappointment and anger are unstoppably filling my whole body.