Mercenary (Gangsters of New York Book 3)
Mercenery
Gangsters of New York, Book 3
Bella Di Corte
Copyright © 2020 by Bella Di Corte
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction.
Names of characters, places, and events are the construction of the author, except those locations that are well-known and of general knowledge, and all are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental, and great care was taken to design places, locations, or businesses that fit into the regional landscape without actual identification; as such, resemblance to actual places, locations, or businesses is coincidental. Any mention of a branded item, artistic work, or well-known business establishment, is used for authenticity in the work of fiction and was chosen by the author because of personal preference, its high quality, or the authenticity it lends to the work of fiction; the author has received no remuneration, either monetary or in-kind, for use of said product names, artistic work, or business establishments, and mention is not intended as advertising, nor does it constitute an endorsement. The author is solely responsible for content.
Disclaimer:
Material in this work of fiction is of graphic sexual and violent natures and is not intended for audiences under 18 years of age.
Copyright © 2020 by Bella Di Corte
Editing by: Alisa Carter
Cover Designed by: Najla Qamber Designs
Model: Richard Deiss
Photographer: Michelle Lancaster
To the Alcinas of the world.
That little light of yours…let it shine.
“Why waltz with a guy for ten rounds if you can knock him out in one?”— Rocky Marciano
Contents
Foreward
The Fausti Famiglia
Machiavellian & Marauder
Mercenary’s Cast
Hierarchy
Mercenary
Introduction
1. Corrado
2. Corrado
3. Corrado
4. Alcina
5. Corrado
6. Corrado
7. Alcina
8. Alcina
9. Alcina
10. Corrado
11. Alcina
12. Corrado
13. Alcina
14. Corrado
15. Alcina
16. Alcina
17. Corrado
18. Alcina
19. Alcina
20. Corrado
21. Alcina
22. Corrado
23. Alcina
24. Alcina
25. Alcina
26. Corrado
27. Alcina
28. Alcina
29. Alcina
30. Corrado
31. Alcina
32. Corrado
33. Alcina
34. Corrado
35. Alcina
36. Corrado
37. Alcina
38. Corrado
39. Corrado
Epilogue
Extended Epilogue
The End
A Word From Donatello (Adriano):
Afterword
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Bella Di Corte
The Rose Gazette
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Foreward
Dear Reader,
If you’re familiar with my writing, you probably know that I usually add touches of the Italian/Sicilian language to my books where it’s necessary. I love the language, the people, and the culture, and not only because I grew up a part of it.
I believe adding touches of the language (and not only hand gestures) is as impactful as describing the baroque architecture of an old church, the scents of lemon and orange in a warm Sicilian fruit grove, the noises you hear when you’re taking a stroll in a particularly lively piazza. However, I do not speak Italian or Sicilian. Luckily, I have a wonderful friend in Sicily who does. She’s one of my beta readers, and she’s always willing to check over my translations so that you get a taste of a true Italian experience.
I appreciate her so much that I decided she needed to be recognized in one of my books—I hope as you read on, you’ll feel Anna is as amazing as I think she is.
No matter how hard we try, though, sometimes languages do get lost in translation. There are many different dialects in Italy—some even specific to different villages. So any mistakes found in this book are my sole responsibility. (Also, Google translate might not work on a few of them, but my hope is that the sentence will give meaning to the word, or that the actual translation I’ve added will.)
Grazie, Anna, for being so gracious with your time. Thank you for being such a meravigliosa amici.
XoXo,
Bella
The Fausti Famiglia
La mia parola è buona quanto il mio sangue. My word is as good as my blood.
Faustis who are either mentioned or make an appearance in Mercenary:
Marzio Fausti (deceased) was the head of the infamous Fausti famiglia in Italy. He has five sons: Luca, Ettore, Lothario, Osvaldo, and Niccolo.
Luca Fausti (incarcerated) is the eldest son of Marzio Fausti and he has four sons: Brando, Rocco, Dario, and Romeo.
Brando Fausti is married to Scarlett Rose Fausti (The Fausti Family).
Rocco Fausti is married to Rosaria Caffi.
Dario Fausti is Brando and Rocco’s middle brother.
Romeo Fausti is Brando and Rocco’s youngest brother.
Guido Fausti: A solider in the Fausti Family.
Tito Sala, MD is connected to the Faustis by marriage. He is married to Lola Fausti.
Machiavellian & Marauder
Appearances or mentions from the Gangsters of New York
Appearances (or mentions) from the Machiavellian cast:
Arturo Lupo Scarpone:
He is the head of the Scarpone family; one of the five families of New York.
He has two sons: Vittorio Lupo Scarpone (mother, Noemi) and Achille Scarpone (mother, Bambi).
Vittorio Lupo Scarpone:
He is married to Mariposa Flores Macchiavello.
He is the son of Arturo and Noemi.
His maternal grandfather, Pasquale Ranieri, was a world renown poet and novelist from Sicily. He had five daughters (who all, but Noemi, live in Italy): Noemi Ranieri Scarpone, Stella, Eloisa, Candelora, and Veronica.
He has one brother: Achille Scarpone
Vittorio/Mac goes by a list of names: Capo (Mari), Amadeo (In Italy, mostly by his family), Mac Macchiavello (In New York and the rest of the world), or simply, Ghost.
Achille Scarpone:
He is the son of Arturo and Bambi.
He has four sons: Armino, Justo, Gino, and Vito (Only Armino and Vito are mentioned by name in Mac.)
He has one brother: Vittorio Lupo Scarpone
Tito Sala (married to Lola Fausti) is Pasquale Ranieri’s first cousin.
Appearances from the Marauder cast:
Cashel ‘Cash’ Kelly and his wife Keely Ryan Kelly.
Cash & Keely’s two children: Connolly and Ryan Kelly.
Harrison ‘Harry Boy’ Ryan: He is Keely’s brother.
Mercenary’s Cast
Emilio Capitani:
He is the head of the Capitani family; one of the five families of New York.
His wife is Teresa Capitani.
Emilio and Teresa have three daughters: Concetta (
Bianca’s mother), Emilia, and Luna.
Silvio and Silvio “Junior” Napoli:
Silvio Sr is one of Emilio Capitani’s underbosses.
Junior is a made man in the family. He is a solider.
Men who make appearances in the book:
Adriano Lima: Corrado Capitani’s cousin. He is a Capo in the family.
Nunzio Bruno: Corrado Capitani knows him from childhood. He was born in Sicily and belongs to a family there.
Nicodemo Leonardi: Corrado Capitani knows him from childhood. He is from Sicily, but does not belong to a family.
Calcedonio Badalamenti: Corrado Capitani’s underboss.
Francesco Di Pisa: Corrado Capitani’s consigliere.
Carmine Messina: Emilio Capitani’s consigliere.
Vito: Close friend of Silvio’s. Junior’s godfather. He is a Capo in the family.
Baggio: He was a part of Adriano’s crew. Then he was promoted to Capo in Adriano’s absence.
The Parisi Famiglia:
Giuseppe and Angela Parisi have two daughters: Alcina (Al-chena) and Anna. Giuseppe and Angela live in Forza d’Agrò (Sicily).
Anna is married to Fabrizio Pappalardo. They live in Bronte (Sicily).
Hierarchy
A deeper look into this World of Ours:
Boss (Godfather or Don): Head of the family.
Consigliere: Chief advisor to the Boss.
Underboss: Second in command under the Boss.
Capo (or caporegime): The captain or lieutenant of a division within the family. Capos head a crew of soldiers and report directly to a boss or underboss, who hands down the orders.
Soldiers: The lowest-ranking members of the hierarchy. They do most of the dirty work and hope to make a name for themselves as they rise in ranks in the family. Loyalty is very important.
Associates: Not actual members of a family. They mostly do business with them. They are not protected like a made man. Anyone can be an associate, but only Italians and Sicilians can become made men.
Mercenary
noun
a professional soldier hired to serve in a foreign army.
Introduction
Allow me to introduce myself.
My name is Corrado Alessandro Capitani, but you can call me Scorpio, or even Don Corrado.
Because that other name, Palermo, I refuse to claim.
Why?
Because it never fucking claimed me.
1
Corrado
The moment the bum ran from me under the light of the moon, I knew my life was never going to be the same.
I was in Vegas with my cousin Bugsy. He ran one of the most well-known casinos along the strip, Paradiso. His grandfather was my grandfather’s little brother, and even though they lived in different states—mine in New York; his in Vegas—they both ran their territories with an iron fist.
No move was made without permission. They knew all, approved or not, and there was hell to pay if you disobeyed or failed to get the okay. Especially when the mark was connected and could start a war. But there was a reason why Giordano Capitani was called Bugsy: he was fucking buggy, and his temper came before his thoughts. Usually when he lost control, though, it was for a good reason.
The sack of shit he was beating to death along this desert road deserved every whack with the bat. Bugsy had caught him selling women, using his casino as an auctioning block. And Bugsy had once considered the fucking bum a friend.
Our grandfathers were old-school, which meant, rule number one: no flesh for sale unless the woman was doing the selling. But before Bugsy sought permission from Old Gio to whack this guy, he lost his mind and chased the fucking bum down. The bum was lucky he made it out of the casino, but he knew Bugsy wouldn’t run after him in his place of business. He trailed him all the way here, until he was finally able to run him off the road.
The bum took off running, kicking up sand as he did. Where he planned on running to? Who the fuck knew. Maybe to the car Bugsy ran off the road, but his steps were not headed that way. In a straight shot, there seemed to be nothing around here for miles. Nothing but cactuses and things that came out at night, because they were too smart to burn in the searing sun all day.
Unlike the fuck who ran from me.
He was not smart.
Apparently, the bum who’d been selling flesh for a pound didn’t come alone. After his associate unloaded on a few cacti,—either a shit shot or he couldn’t control his trigger finger with the way his hand trembled—he took one look at the empty pistol, one look at me, flung the gun at my face and then took off.
No one ran from me and got away. I was too quick, and if they happened to get the jump, I always found them. Then I’d drag them back to the hell they had escaped from.
“Why waltz with a guy for ten rounds if you can knock him out in one?” was a quote I lived by.
I was about to knock this motherfucker out for the count. Maybe I would’ve gone easy on him, but because he was a coward, this night wasn’t ending well for him. My designer shoes were filled with sand from running in this fucking endless sandbox, and it irritated me. I could’ve ended this easily—the gun in my pocket was hot—but there was no honor in shooting a man in his back. He’d face me.
If he got the best of me, we’d either meet again or he’d send me packing in a body bag. I was still standing, which meant no one had gotten me yet.
Having enough of the game, I stretched my arm out, grabbing him by his collar. He was short, but he was built like a bull. He kept trying to use his weight to tear out of my hold, probably wishing he had bought a shirt from the superstore instead of the designer one covering his shoulders. One he could probably afford by selling a few women.
He was breathing heavily. I could smell garlic on his breath. He was opening and closing his mouth, trying to get a few words out, but due to his lack of physical activity and the shirt pressing into his throat, he couldn’t get anything out but wheezes.
“No use in running,” I said, my voice clear and sharp. “You have nowhere to run to.”
He lifted his hands, in surrender, and I released my hold, giving him the opportunity to face me. Man to man.
He did, turning slowly, his hands still raised. When he faced me, he lifted his phone, which he’d been running with. The picture on the screen was of Bugsy and me. Bugsy was in motion, swinging the bat that took out the made man’s kneecaps. I was next to him, watching. This fucking guy had sent it to a few people.
I smiled at him in the glow of the moon. Once his eyes focused, he noticed the tattoo on my hand and on my neck.
“God h-h-help m-m-me,” he said, making the sign of the cross.
It was game over for this guy, but it was only the beginning for me. The full moon over my head was the start of something much wilder than I could’ve ever imagined—I felt the madness moving in my blood, urging my finger to move, to put pressure on the trigger.
Bing.
Bam.
Boom.
Game over.
The scorpion wins.
2
Corrado
Music floated from outside of my grandparent’s house as I pulled up. One of my old uncles sang a classic Italian ballad from the backyard. I had the windows rolled down in my ’58 Cadillac Coupe Deville, trying to rid it of the smell of my cousin Adriano’s cheap cologne.
Another one of my cousins had gotten married, and for a man dressed in a pricy custom-made suit to attend the event, Adriano had no taste when it came to cologne. It was fucking offensive.
The thing about Italian families—they are usually large. It doesn’t matter how far down the line the cousin or whoever is. Fourth? Great-great? Still as close as first. Numbers don’t matter when it comes to family. A title is a title. Just like a leaf on a tree is still part of that tree, no matter how far from the root.
Bugsy once told me, “We don’t have friends. We have cousins.”
It seemed like the entire famiglia had come out to celebrate my co
usin Bianca’s wedding. There were too many people to keep count. They were vetted at the entry gate, and then led to an archway that led to the backyard. Guests were backed up, all trying to get to the source of the music at once.