Cosa Nostra
Nicci Harris
Contents
Also by Nicci Harris
Trigger warning
1. ONE: Max
2. TWO: Max
3. THREE: Cassidy
4. FOUR: Max
5. FIVE: Cassidy
6. SIX: Cassidy
7. SEVEN: Cassidy
8. EIGHT: Max
9. NINE: Cassidy
10. TEN: Cassidy
11. ELEVEN - Max
12. TWELVE: Cassidy
13. THIRTEEN: Cassidy
14. FOURTEEN: Cassidy
15. FIFTEEN: Max
16. SIXTEEN: Cassidy
17. SEVENTEEN: Cassidy
18. EIGHTEEN: Max
19. NINETEEN: Cassidy
20. TWENTY: Cassidy
21. TWENTY-ONE: Max
22. TWENTY-TWO - Max
23. TWENTY- THREE: Cassidy
24. TWENTY-FOUR: Cassidy
25. TWENTY-FIVE: Cassidy
26. TWENTY-SIX- Cassidy
27. TWENTY-SEVEN: Cassidy
28. TWENTY-EIGHT: Cassidy
29. TWENTY-NINE: Max
30. THIRTY: Cassidy
31. THIRTY-ONE: Cassidy
32. THIRTY-TWO: Max's letter
33. THIRTY-THREE: Max
34. THIRTY-FOUR: Cassidy
35. Epilogue: Cassidy
Goodbye. . .
Her Way - Book Four
Review time. . .
Goodbye. . .
Facing Us - Book One
Our Thing - Book Two
Nicci Who?
The District - Origin Story
Also by Nicci Harris
The Kids of The District
Facing Us
Our Thing
Cosa Nostra
Copyright © 2020 by Nicci Harris
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.
ISBN ebook: 978-1-922492-04-3
ISBN print: 978-1-922492-03-6
Edited by Writing Evolution. @writingevolution. www.writingevolution.co.uk
Internal graphics by Nicci Harris
Cover design by Nicci Harris
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
For guitars.
For playing them.
Making them.
Buying too many of them.
Without you, my husband would have noticed my absence.
And Cosa Nostra may have never been written.
Cosa Nostra
If you are triggered by:
Violence.
Gore.
Trauma.
Graphic sex!
Too many emotions!
Then do not read this book!
Max
Most of our dirtier jobs go down outside of the city, at Capel Grove - Jimmy's abattoir. But Mickie happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time and we needed to get the deed done before he left the District. Or worse.
Which is why I'm in downtown Connolly, freezing my balls off in the walk-in freezer at Sergio's Meat Market. I cross my arms over my chest. My breath marks the air around me with grey clouds of vapour. The freezer fan above me creates a drone - a kind of white noise.
Our cleaner, Armad, moves to the metal table in the corner, a bounce to his every step. He is a slender man who walks with a peculiar gracefulness. Outside, in the real world, he could easily be mistaken as an easy target – gullible. A fool's mistake.
I watch him as he hums a soft tune and rolls his tool sheath open, displaying its sharp, shiny contents. Carefully, he selects the implements needed to complete tonight's job and then places them gently on display. He take a moment to caress the polished blades one by one. A ritual I've seen many times. He told me once that it's like greeting a colleague.
He's fucked in the head.
Glancing to my side, I notice Bronson is watching Armad, his blue eyes sparkling, his fingers stroking his palms. But it's not our job to cut. As much as he may enjoy getting his hands bloodied, I frown at him, reminding him he's not a soldier.
Armad and his two boys sling Michael's bound feet to the hook hanging from the ceiling. There is a big, viscera-encrusted grate directly below him on the cold cement floor, so when he finally wakes it'll be a chilling sight to behold. A hint at what's to come.
Bronson moves in beside me, chomping at the bit to get his hands dirty. He'll watch every moment of this, reaping satisfaction from Michael's pain. I look down at his feet as they shuffle with a kind of anxiety. A kind of anticipation. All I feel is bored.
Michael now hangs from his feet like a carcass ready to be divided into muscle groups. Armad steps back as one of his boys throws a cold bucket of water onto Michael's head. The water drips from his face and hair and then slides down the drain.
As Michael comes to, the rhythmic hum of the freezer fan is interrupted by his panicked whimpers. Fast gasps follow snivels follow stutters of words that make no sense. Then his body gyrates as his adrenaline spikes. As his body tells him something is wrong. He grunts with exertion while he attempts to dislodge himself from the hook. His own weight and small muscles prevent much success. And with his shirt hanging partially over his chin, he can't see our faces. Not that it matters. He knows who we are.
As he continues to flip around on the hook like an overfed goldfish, I sneer. What a sack of shit. What a weak useless waste of space. I've known a lot of dirty bastards in my twenty-four years of life - that's part of being a Butcher - but a man can be nasty and crooked and still have honourable qualities. Their integrity. Their pride. Often, they even have traits to admire. Strength. Loyalty.
This piece of shit is as empty as his pockets.
He lets out a guttural, incoherent groan. "Oh God, please. Please don't do this."
When he's met with further silence, he shudders. My heart beats steady and rhythmic, but when he starts to cry, I cringe. There is no place for tears in my world. Fight us for fucksake. Threaten us. But don't whimper like a little bitch.
"What is this?" he cries. "Where am I?"
"We ran out of pigs," Bronson states simply. "I promised my family a spit roast. You like spit roasts, don't you?"
Michael whines. I roll my eyes at my brother's wide, soft smile. Taking a step closer to our hanging friend, I only stop when his eyes lock on to my shoes. "Where's Jimmy's truck" –I tap my foot– "and where are our diamonds?"
He tries to jolt his body around, attempting to catch our eyes
