Chapter 3

5 years later

I threw the black duffle bag onto the lavish woodened desk, making a loud thud echo throughout the lavish and modern office. My client was dressed in an expensive Armani suit, sitting in a leather chair. He was a tall and masculine man, and his body language made it obvious that he was a confident and cutthroat business owner. It was after hours at his facility, so the lights were dim, and the building was empty. The city lights of Manhattan were the only source of illumination in the dark and eerie office.

"Job's done." I said coldly.

The CEO hesitantly reached over to unzip the duffle bag. He opened it and gagged repeatedly when he saw the decapitated head of his competitor, his masculinity vanishing at the sight. His hands fumbled as he quickly zipped the bag close.

"What the ****?!" He exclaimed, his voice cracking like a boy going through puberty as he frantically pushed his chair away from the duffle bag on his desk. He pushed too hard, and ended up flipping the chair over, and it fell onto its back on the floor, taking him down along with it.

"My payment." I said seriously as I grabbed a cigarette from the pocket of my leather jacket and brought it to my mouth.

"Y-you can't smoke in-" My client started to stutter as he stood up, but when I looked up at him, his words halted. He gulped before I continued to light the cigarette and take a long drag, blowing the smoke in his direction just for the h*ll of it. He quickly reached under his desk and pulled out a briefcase, and placed it gently on the desk.

"Quarter mill. Cash, just as you requested." He said as I walked over until I was in front of his desk. I held the cigarette between my teeth as opened the briefcase. Bands of hundred dollar bills were organized and perfectly placed within the case. I lifted a few bills, checking for any kind of wire or tracking device underneath the cash, and was pleased when I found none.

"Pleasure doing business with you." I said as I closed the briefcase and started walking out of the office.

"Wait! What the h*ll am I supposed to do with...that?" My client asked as he cautiously poked the black duffle bag on his desk. He was looking at it as if the severed head would pop out of the bag and jump at him at any moment.

"Keep it, burn it, toss it, mount it up on your wall, doesn't ****ing matter to me." I said before I walked out of the office and started to head towards the elevator. I put out my cigarette in an ashtray near the doors, and put it in my pocket, not wanting to leave any evidence that I was here.

The door slid open, I walked into the elevator, and hit the button for the ground floor. The sleek metal doors closed, and I looked at myself in the grey reflection.

After I was overthrown from the Mafia, everyone thought I was dead, and to be honest, so did I. I fell five hundred feet into a bed of jagged rocks with a broken arm, knee, nose, shattered ribs, and a severe concussion. As I fell to what I thought would be my death, the only thing I could think of was how disappointed my father would be if he was alive to see his only son getting his *** handed to him and losing the title of Don.

After Martino got initiated as Don, Gio and Angelo risked their lives and ran away the same night. They searched for hours until they found me washed up on the shore, barely breathing. They took me to a hospital under a fake name, where I remained there for five days. It was too dangerous for us to stay in Italy, so the day I got released from the hospital, we fled to New York, and hadn't been back home since.

Now, I'm known as one of the most deadly and notorious assassins in the United States: Il Mietitore. I've been hired by politicians, businessmen, celebrities, h*ll I even did a job for the Vice President before. I don't give a **** who I have to kill, I'll do any job...for the right price, that is.

But the main reason why I started to do assassinations wasn't because of the money. Granted, the money was ****ing great, but I did it to better my skill sets. Each and every kill I did made me that much stronger, faster, better than I was the day before.

I walked out of the elevator and walked over to my all black Porsche 918. I got in, and peeled out of the barren streets as I headed towards the house. I brought out the half smoked cigarette from my pocket. I relit it as I switched on the radio and merged onto the freeway.

"A string of robberies has plagued the world over the past few months. Some of the largest and most secure facilities are left baffled, as a total of $892 Million dollars have been stolen. The criminals have left no trace behind, begging the question, how safe is our money? And what are the governments doing in order to prevent ano-"

Annoyed by the female newscaster's high-pitched voice, I quickly flipped a switch, and changed it to a classic rock station. I listened as The Rolling Stones song Sympathy for the Devil started to fill my car. I turned up the volume as I floored it and sped through the restless city.

When I pulled up to the medium-sized house, and parked in the three-car garage, I grabbed the briefcase and walked inside.

I lived with Gio and Angelo, and the house was barren of any decorations and hardly any furniture. It was the kind of house you walked into and knew immediately that men occupied its walls, the lack of a woman's touch blatantly obvious.

They were sitting in the living room, beer bottles scattered amongst the cheap wooden coffee table, some even on the floor. It was as if we lived in a ****ing fraternity house: piles of take-out boxes on the kitchen counter, the wallpaper coming apart towards the ceiling, and the white carpet was stained from alcohol and burned from cigarettes. The kitchen, however, was pristine from lack of use. Angelo and Gio both sat on the old and plain couch with their eyes glued to the TV screen mounted on the wall.

"Another decapitated body has been found tonight near 27th Street, no evidence was left on the scene, thus adding it to the list of cold cases that have spanned over the course of 5 years-"

I walked in front of the TV and turned it off. I've always hated watching the ****ing news. I swung the briefcase in front of me, sending the empty beer bottles scattering from the table, and slammed the briefcase down onto the glass.

"Jesus, bro. You gotta start thinking of a better way to provide proof to your clients." Angelo slurred.

"Yeah man. This whole decapitation thing you've got going on is getting kind of weird." Gio said as he drunkenly hiccuped.

"All you two do is gather intel on my targets, so don't tell me how to do my ****ing job when all you do is sit on your @ss and get sh*tfaced." I said as I rolled my eyes.

"Make yourself useful and deposit this." I said coldly as I pointed to the briefcase and walked into my room without another word.

I slammed the door to my bedroom shut, and locked it. My room only contained a bed, a small closet, a large trunk containing weapons and ammo, a large board on the wall where I kept intel on the Italian Mafia. I've mapped out their new hierarchy, knowing everything and anything about Martino's under bosses.

I walked over to the table in the corner, and grabbed my tattoo gun from the drawer. I placed it on my desk, and removed my shirt as I looked at myself in the mirror.

The hair that once reached my shoulders is now short and curly. My chest was now covered in scars and dark tattoos. My childlike features vanished underneath my beard and scowl. I have a long scar over my right eye, that extended underneath my eyebrow to my upper cheek. With zero percent body fats, my muscles were toned to perfection.

I grabbed the tattoo gun and turned it on as I flipped my left arm over, revealing the inside of my forearm that was covered with tally marks. Tally marks that represented each and every person I've killed. It took up the entire space of my forearms, thousands of small marks barely recognizable from a distance. On the outside of my arms were intricate designs, artwork done by some of the best artists in the business.

I drew another tally near my wrist, slashing it across four vertical lines. Once I was finished, I put the tattoo gun away and looked over to my board on my wall. In the middle of the board was a picture of my dear cousin, his arms draped over the shoulders of two beautiful women as he threw his head back and laughed. I grit my teeth before I quickly threw my knife at the photograph, piercing him right in the face with deadly precision.

The boy inside of me died five years ago on that cliff. He died right along with my pride and happiness, which was replaced with anger, hatred, and revenge that now consumed me. That was the day Damon Carbone died, and Il Mietitore rose.

You better sleep with one eye open cousin, 'cause The Reaper is coming for you.

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***