Saints and Savages (A Mafia Series Book 2)
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Note to readers
Dedication
Description
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
This book is a work of fiction. Names and characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © A.C. Bextor 2017
Saints and Savages Book Two - A Mafia Series
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Note to readers
Dedication
Description
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Other titles by A.C. Bextor
Note to readers
Due to the numerous family backgrounds involved in this series, you may notice I did not use the formal names for each position within the organization.
To simplify and keep the flow consistent, I’ve used terms such as “second-in-command” or “guard” versus what they’re actually called per family, per unit.
I hope this doesn’t affect or take away from your enjoyment of the story, but clarifies any possible character confusion.
Thank you,
A.C.
For Bean.
Thank you reminding me how many more stories I still have to tell.
Carrie
Three powerful families.
Two people lost among them.
One secret that threatens to tear apart their legacy.
The story of Empires and Kings continues with its next installment inside the Palleshi reign as Liam Dawson fights to save the woman he loves and bring peace between the families once and for all.
Wren
I’ve lived a quiet life.
After my parents’ unexpected death, life as I knew it irrevocably changed. I was no longer an ordinary girl kept safe and surrounded by my family’s extraordinary love.
I was alone, lost, and afraid.
Until I met a man who gave me reason to believe in a future I never thought I could have.
Liam Dawson became my friend.
I wanted to trust him.
He became my solace in a prison I couldn’t find my way out of.
I wanted to believe he could keep me safe.
He became my strength.
It was so easy to fall in love with him.
Then Liam discovered the truth of who I never knew I was.
And I needed him to become my savior.
Due to content, this book should not be read by those under 18.
We used to wonder where war lived, what it was that made it so vile. And now we realize that we know where it lives… inside ourselves.
Albert Camus
Five years ago…
“Ciro, you’re as greedy as you’ve always been!” Killian furiously exclaims, slamming his hand on top of the cool metal table all of the men are seated around. “This meeting is becoming a waste of time and energy.”
“No, Killian. It isn’t,” Ciro mindfully rebuts. “This meeting is exactly what it needs to be.”
Two years.
Four months.
Six days.
The length of time passed since Ciro sent Vlad’s beloved sister to her death, to be left buried next to a barren tree in the middle of a cold and desolate cemetery.
She was his only sibling—the first innocent witness to his life.
She was a loving fill-in mother to his only son, Veniamin.
She was a loyal best friend to his now wife, Klara.
She was the ever-challenging but faithful companion and guide to all of his men.
In essence, Faina Zalesky was the matriarch to the stateside Zalesky reign. And after all this time, Ciro still revels in knowing it was on his order that the ever-glowing flame that was her life had been extinguished.
Her death wasn’t an unprovoked act of utter violence carried out by unmitigated cowards. It served as payba
ck for ruining Ciro’s operations on more than one occasion.
And it had been justly coming.
Savagely beating, violently raping, and leaving Faina for dead was the punishment Vlad received in exchange for thriving in a city which Ciro feels rightfully belongs to the Palleshi name.
Ciro understands that no number of years, no amount of time can ever quench Vlad’s thirst for vengeance. Those responsible for his sister’s torturous mutilation have yet to receive his revenge. And with each day that passes, every second he walks this earth free to breathe its air, Ciro Palleshi knows Vlad’s men grow more and more restless—if only for one taste of his tainted blood.
The aging, run-down warehouse this meeting has been called to is in the middle of nowhere. Once a well-known and rich industrial factory, the abandoned structure now acts as a meeting place for Chicago’s most powerful of families. The cement walls are jagged and worn, the floor cracked, and the chilling drafts wafting in from broken windows are symbolic to the hearts of these men.
For years, they’ve bartered exchanges and brokered deals within these stained walls. Collectively, they’ve decided which family prospers and from where. They decide who outside their ring of criminal minds gets to live and those who don’t.
Because of its location, this property is also considered neutral territory.
When Ciro himself called the meeting, having one of his young messengers personally deliver a cryptic invitation to one of Vlad’s men, he wasn’t sure how it would be received.
And he still isn’t.
“Not a single one of us can determine the territory of another,” Ciro chimes in to admonish his adversaries with frustration. “Our families will go on from us. They’ll continue our work by taking over what we’ve built.”
His nephew Liam Dawson and Vlad’s son Veniamin are who Ciro speaks for.
From all Ciro has heard and understood, Veniamin will not follow in his father’s footsteps. He will not continue the tumultuous road Vlad’s been forced to take in this life. Not because he doesn’t want to, but because Vlad won’t allow it.
Ciro and Vlad do not share a like mind when it comes to family following in their footsteps.
Namely for Ciro, his nephew Liam. The grandson of the Irish dynasty. The heir to the Palleshi name. He’s a born mix of criminal blood, a piece of each side of rivaling families. And unfortunately, Ciro is as determined as he’s always been to bring Liam into the life of lucrative crime under the Palleshi name.
Pushing the meeting along, Ciro orders, “We all must agree. Here. Now. Today. Once we do, we’ll be out of each other’s business once and for all.”
Vlad scoffs, then clears his throat before casting a quick glance to his side. His faithful second-in-command, Abram Wiles, stands with his hands clasped at his front. He looks down on Vlad with angry eyes and a tightened jaw.
Ciro surmises the Russian leader has something important to say.
“I think you’re forgetting something, Palleshi,” Vlad states ever so patiently, waiting to hold Ciro’s complete attention. Vlad’s body trembles, ire visibly coursing through each vein. “I still owe you.”
“Owe me?” Ciro parrots with confidence, relying on Vlad to state his threat in front of all in attendance. Taking another toxic drag of his expensive cigar while sitting back in his chair with a heinous smile, Ciro deliberately prods, “Do tell, Vlad. What have you forgotten to return?”
“Your blood in exchange for Faina’s,” Vlad hisses, then accuses, “You and your men are responsible for the early death of my sister. And I’ve yet to seek her retribution.”
Ciro’s cocky grin fades, not from fear but from hope. He wants nothing more than for Vlad to act out his plan for revenge sooner than later. He’s been waiting for the day the coward will come out of hiding and face what was done all those years ago.
Ciro’s hand drops from his mouth, slowly moving to rest against the table as the smoke from his cigar billows around him.
“I’ll have vengeance for her,” Vlad promises. “And when I strike against you, I’ll strike against all those responsible. All of those in the Palleshi name.”
Ciro is well aware of the reason Vlad hasn’t yet taken his revenge. His same reason is both simple yet complicated.
After Faina’s passing, he’d heard Vlad’s wife, Klara, pleaded with him to grant peace between the families. As if that were ever possible.
At the time, Klara had been carrying their child. She and his then young son Veniamin both feared for their family’s safety—as they should.
Surprisingly, Ciro knows firsthand that Vlad’s father, Vory, sided with Klara in that decision. No doubt Vlad’s father was never his daughter’s greatest champion, but blood is blood and family is family. You act against one, you act against them all.
Or so Vlad believes.
However, Vlad’s patiently waited for Ciro or any of his terrorizing thugs to step out of their bounds. Just one time. One breath breathed inside his territory. One threatening glance slighted in the direction of his family. He’s readied his men to be poised to strike.
Yet over two years have passed and Ciro’s heard nothing from anyone—including Killian Dawson.
“Bygones, Vlad,” Ciro lightly suggests. “You’ve taken as much from me and you know it. In truth, you did so many times over.”
“I’ve never killed one of your innocent,” Vlad marks.
“Not directly. But you ruined my entire operation. My business, my family’s inheritance, suffered greatly. You cost me both time and money.”
“And I will again,” Vlad boldly promises.
Ciro holds himself steady, avoiding a grin or sneer.
“Nothing has been accomplished here,” Killian, the old Irishman Vlad once considered a trusted ally, admonishes.
Sunlight filters in through broken windows, shining down on a room full of men anxious to war with each other.
“You’ll keep your territories in the north, Ciro,” Vlad directs, as if he has the right. “And I’ll keep all I have in the south.”
“Finally,” Ciro agrees.
Vlad turns to Killian. “And you, Killian, will keep whatever you have left.” Vlad drags his gaze back to Ciro. “No other family in this city will make a move against you. Am I understood?”
Rage and disgust churn behind Ciro’s putrid and narrowed gaze.
Smug fucking Russian bastard.
“Understood,” Killian agrees before turning in Ciro’s direction and nodding.
“Understood,” Ciro utters petulantly.
“Then we’re nearly finished,” Vlad decrees.
Killian stands, his men mirroring his movements and holding at attention.
“We are,” Ciro complies, doing the same, the three men he brought with him following.
Xavier, the most trusted of all Ciro’s men, links his malevolent gaze to Vlad’s as if baiting the Russian to say more. No doubt Vlad has heard Xavier was the monster who personally stole Faina’s life.
And he’d be right.
“Ciro,” Vlad calls once he’s adjusted his coat and gathered himself to leave. Not until Vlad is sure he has Ciro’s complete attention does he continue. “There will come a day when you and I will settle all that’s passed between us.”
“But we’ve agreed,” he returns with innocence, inside relishing what’s to come.
Without entertaining his reply, Vlad warns, “Not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But rest assured, we’ll meet again. Not family to family but man to man. And no talk of peace nor any lies of remorse will save you. Until that day comes, continue looking over your shoulder as you’ve always done. Because I give you my word that there will come a day you’ll wish you had.”
“As will you, Vlad,” Ciro answers before turning to leave.
“Uncle, I can’t talk right now. Can I call you later?”
“Always so busy.” Ciro tsks in disappointment. “You haven’t been home in so long. I’m asking for dinner, Liam. Surely you can set aside
a couple of hours to share a meal with your dearest uncle.”
My dearest uncle Ciro is the patriarch to our Sicilian “family.”
From the time I was born, my mother, Ciro’s younger sister Gina, pleaded with him to keep me out of our “traditional” family business. A business which includes producing and distributing a wide variety of illegal drugs, purchasing and selling guns, and laundering money through a multitude of supposed legitimate Palleshi family-run businesses throughout Chicago.
Not to mention, my uncle holds close ties to other questionable mob-like organizations populating the city—namely my informally adopted brother, Elevent, and the chaotic crew who make up his Saint’s Justice motorcycle club.
Elevent, formerly known as James Scott, was a boy Aunt Sofie found stranded as a child. He’d been only about eight years old when he was caught dumpster diving behind one of their favorite Italian restaurants. Ciro wanted nothing to do with him at first, but Sofie insisted they bring him home, wash him up, and help him find his parents.
That happened, but not exactly the way my aunt had intended.
Ciro didn’t grant Sofie’s wish, taking him in as charity or pity. Instead, my uncle used him. Elevent’s misfortune in circumstance was taken advantage of and molded to fit Ciro’s needs.
“I’ll come for dinner,” I reluctantly agree.
“And perhaps you stay longer than a meal this time? We have so much to catch up on.”
My uncle has a way of making you believe you’re the issue, not him.
“I’ll see what we can do,” I tell him. “But I’ll need to call you back to confirm a time.”
“You’re so much like your mother,” Ciro chides. “God rest her soul, my sweet Gina spent all her waking hours doing deeds to serve others. She disregarded those who loved her the most.”
“I’m not disregarding you, Uncle. I’m busy. There’s a difference.”
Until their deaths, my mother and father were good, proud, tax-paying citizens who just happened to be born into families choosing to live their lives as high-stature, organized criminals.