The Mafia King’s Doll

Franco

It’s been ten minutes since I pressed the panic button on my wristwatch.

Renzo and the others have received my exact location and will be here soon.

I grab hold of Samantha’s bicep and haul her to her feet before pulling her toward the stairs.

I’m fucking worried about Milo and Lorenzo. With men getting past them so quickly, it means we’re being attacked by half an army.

As we cautiously take the stairs up to the sixth floor, my phone starts to vibrate. I quickly dig the device out of my pocket, and seeing Milo’s name flashing on the screen, I answer, “Where are you?”

“Third floor. You?”

“In the stairwell. We’re heading to the sixth floor.” “I’m coming.”

I end the call and put the phone back in my pocket, then glance at Samantha’s pale face.

“How are you holding up?” I ask. She shakes her head. “I’m not.” “It will be over soon.”

When we reach the door to the sixth floor, I gesture with my finger in front of my lips for her to keep quiet.

Holding the submachine gun I took from one of the fuckers ready, I nudge the door open an inch and check the lobby. Not seeing anyone, I move forward.

On high alert, my eyes keep darting everywhere as I lead Samantha to another empty office.

My voice is low as I say, “Help is on the way.”

Her head bobs up and down, her eyes wide and filled with terror.

Silence falls around us, and I stand ready near the door. I hear the elevator ping, and the doors slide open.

My muscles tighten, and my finger brushes against the trigger.

The moment I hear footsteps nearing the office we’re hiding in, I move forward. I’m met by three men and manage to shoot one in the chest and another in his thigh. Grabbing the one with the chest wound, I use him as a shield while I finish off the other two.

Just then, Milo comes running down the hallway.

I exchange the submachine gun for one of the others lying on the floor and check the clip before I look at Milo and ask, “Where’s Lorenzo?”

He shakes his head, a flash of heartache tightening his features.

No.

As the loss of Lorenzo grips my heart, I shake my head. “He took a bullet for me,” Milo mutters.

Christ.

I clench my jaw as relentless heartache pours into my chest. He was one of my best men and I considered him a close friend.

We hear the elevator doors open, and Milo pushes me back into the office where Samantha is hiding.

Suddenly, gunfire erupts from outside the building, and it makes the corner of my mouth lift. “They’re here.”

“Thank fuck,” Milo breathes.

I lock eyes with him. “Ready?”

When he nods, we dart out of the office and open fire on the fuckers.

The moment it’s safe, I shout, “Come, Samantha.”

Within seconds, she’s right behind me, and we rush to the stairwell so we can head down to where the other four heads of the Cosa Nostra are eliminating the enemy.

As we move from the fifth floor to the fourth, men come running up the stairs, and Milo and I open fire on them.

We step over the dead bodies and keep killing the fuckers as we make our way toward the ground floor.

Suddenly, Samantha lets out a shriek. I swing around, and seeing one of the fuckers has his hand around her ankle, I bury a bullet in his head to make sure he fucking dies.

Grabbing hold of her hand, I pull her closer and position her between Milo and me before we continue to move.

Slowly, the sound of gunfire fades away, and by the time we reach the ground floor, we’re met with a sea of bodies in the main lobby.

Samantha

Horrified out of my ever-loving mind, I gag at the sight of blood and death in the lobby.

Overcome with the most sickening feeling I’ve ever had, I cover my mouth with my hand as if it will stop me from vomiting.

I take in the bodies, the blood, the weapons, and the other men who all look scary as hell.

I recognize two of them from when they came to the office last week.

“Jesus Christ,” the scariest of the group mutters before he crouches down and searches the pockets of a dead man.

Mr. Vitale takes the gun from my trembling hand and tucks it behind his back into the waistband of his pants.

Guns. Blood. Death.

I shake my head, unable to process the immense shock and terror I experienced today.

I’m surrounded by men.

“Fuck. It’s the Slovak mafia,” one of the men growls. “I recognize the tattoos.”

Mafia?

“Who the fuck did you piss off, Franco?” Another asks.

What is going on?

Mr. Vitale drops the submachine gun on the floor and moves closer to the other men. “Fuck if I know.”

The trembling in my body grows, and unable to just stand here, I begin to walk. I have to step over bodies and pools of blood, and it makes my breaths come faster and faster.

“Samantha!” Mr. Vitale calls me.

One of the men moves toward me, and Mr. Vitale shouts, “Don’t touch her.”

Slipping on the blood, I land on my butt, and my hands slap against the tiles. I feel the sticky liquid beneath my palms.

Lifting them, I see red, and I lose my mind.

Unable to think clearly and drowning in horror, I begin to scramble to get up.

Blood.

There’s so much blood.

I’m barely able to register that Mr. Vitale picks me up and carries me out of the building, where there are more bodies.

So much death.

I can’t.

“You’re safe. It’s going to be okay,” I hear Mr. Vitale say.

No, I’m not. I’ll never be okay again, not after everything I witnessed today.

I’m placed on the hood of a car, and Mr. Vitale’s hands frame my face.

He forces me to look at him.

“Take deep breaths. You’re safe.”

My body listens to him while my mind tries to flee from all the violence.

I don’t know how I do it, but I manage to calm down enough to take a deep breath.

Mr. Vitale actually looks worried about me as he says, “I’m so fucking sorry you had to see that.”

Realizing he’s touching my face, I pull away and whisper, “Don’t touch me.”

He immediately takes a couple of steps away from me, then he glances toward the entrance of the building, and his face turns to stone.

I follow the line of his sight and watch as a man is carried toward us.

When they lay the man down near us, Mr. Vitale moves closer and crouches next to him. He places his hand on the man’s chest, and it’s only then I recognize the expression on his face. Grief.

The man was important to him.

Mr. Vitale rises to his full height and asks, “Renzo, can you handle this for me?”

“Of course,” Renzo replies. “Dario, give me a hand.”

As I look at all the men, power and rage come off them in waves, and it taints the air I breathe.

Who are they?

I don’t realize I asked the question out loud until Mr. Vitale answers, “They’re friends.”

“Let’s get out of here,” one of his friends orders.

Mr. Vitale’s eyes lock on me, then he says, “Let’s go.”

I slip off the car’s hood and follow him to the G-Wagon, where the remaining guard is waiting for us.

“Bring the SUV, Milo,” Mr. Vitale instructs before he opens the passenger door.

The tablet. I have no idea what happened to it.

Feeling numb, I climb into the vehicle and pull on the safety belt.

When Mr. Vitale starts the engine, I look out of the window and think to ask, “What about the police?”

“Don’t worry about them,” he mutters.

As we drive away from the building, I lower my head and try to make sense of what happened today.

My voice sounds drained of life as I ask, “Did they try to kidnap you?” “No.”

I don’t understand how I’m able to have a conversation right now. “Then why did it happen?”

“They wanted to kill me,” Mr. Vitale answers, making it sound like this is an everyday occurrence for him.

Before I can ask another question, he pulls his phone out of his pocket and answers, “Vitale speaking.”

Slowly, I turn my head to glance at my boss. He looks a hell of a lot calmer than I feel.

The man is really made of stone.

“Lorenzo didn’t make it. Renzo and Dario took his body.” He listens to whatever the other person says, then replies, “It was the Slovak mafia… yeah, get everyone ready for war…I’m five minutes away.”

He ends the call, and all I can do is blink at him.

Why would the mafia want to kill Mr. Vitale? Did he do something to piss them off?

When he drives through a pair of large black gates, my eyes widen at the sight of all the men.

“No,” I whisper.

Mr. Vitale hits the brakes, then picks up his phone again and makes a call. “Have everyone go to the guesthouse until I have Miss Blakely inside.”

Within seconds, all the men head to the side of the property and soon I can’t see them anymore.

Mr. Vitale drives to where other cars are parked, and when he gets out, I don’t move a muscle.

He opens the passenger side door and orders, “Come, Miss Blakely.”

It’s only then I realize he called me Samantha while we were being attacked. Now I’m Miss Blakely again.

Despite feeling reluctant, I climb out of the G-Wagon and follow Mr. Vitale into the house, which I recognize from when I dropped off his dry cleaning.

He walks to a liquor stand and pours a glass of whiskey. Bringing the tumbler to me, he says, “Drink it all.”

Yeah, I don’t think alcohol is going to make me feel better.

Still, I take the drink and swallow the burning liquid.

His eyes lock with mine, and then he says, “You can’t tell anyone at the office.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s going to be all over the news,” I mutter. “It won’t.”

I set the tumbler down on the stand and notice the dried blood on my hands.

My mind recoils, refusing to process the death and violence I saw.

Mr. Vitale takes hold of my wrist, and I’m pulled to a restroom, where he shoves my hands into the sink. Turning on a faucet, cool water runs over my skin, and I watch as the blood swirls down the drain.Exclusive © material by Nô(/v)elDrama.Org.

My mind begins to race, and I’m bombarded with gruesome images.

Jessica being shot in the neck. The blood squirting from her. Her lifeless eyes.

The gunshots. Being hunted. The terror.

The hopelessness when I realized I might die. Mr. Vitale killing all those men.

The bodies.

The blood.

My shoulders shudder, and a silent cry is torn from my chest.

Mr. Vitale places a hand on my shoulder, and before I know what I’m doing, I move closer and bury my face against his chest.

Maybe the trauma I suffered today is bigger than my fear of men.

Maybe I just need to be comforted so badly that I don’t care whether he’s touching me.

Right now, it doesn’t matter.

His arms wrap around me, and I feel his mouth press to my hair before he says, “I’m so fucking sorry. You were never meant to see that part of my life.”

“W-why d-d-did it h-happen,” I sob, needing to understand why we were attacked and so many people had to die.

His tone is filled with power when he says, “I’m one of the five heads of the Cosa Nostra.” He pauses, then adds, “The Sicilian mafia.”

What?

It takes a moment for his words to sink in. Mr. Vitale is a mobster?

Is that even the right word?

Who the hell cares?! The man is…is… Oh. My. God.