Santi s Wish

Who the fuck did you talk to?" "My father demands it." “Nobody John,” Uncle Marco replies. -You know it... "I know what I've been told and what you're saying doesn't add up!" - Him pokes his brother in the chest. -Is that you. — He points to my aunt who is standing in the corner of the living room with her back against the window that faces the yard. “You've been talking too much. Tears her brown eyes as she stares at my dad. Her shoulders shake and she bites her lower lip, trying to swallow a bite.

hiccup. John Bianchi puts the fear of God in you. Because he is God. As Don, the leader of the Italian-American mafa, he decides when his time is up and how you pay for your sins. He was born in New York, but he and my uncle moved to Las Vegas when my father was fourteen.

Uncle Marco was twelve years old. Laws in Sin City were more fuid back then, so my dad got to get his hands even more dirty. Him likes a complicated life. "Don't talk to her like that!" Marco pushes my dad. “I'll talk to the bitch any way I fucking want! - He gives a punch at my uncle, knocking him to his knees. Aunt Ava screams as blood trickles down his chin, but she doesn't dare to go to her husband. No, she stays in her corner, knowing full well that there is nothing she can do. At that point, all she can hope for is may my father spare her life. “You son of a bitch,” Marco growls, wiping away the blood. My dad pulls the gun from the waistband of his pants and points it down for your brother. -John! He raises his hands, eyes so dark they're almost black, begging my father to spare his life. -We will. We will resolve this. I swear it wasn't me... My father pulls the trigger. I jump, momentarily deafened by sound except for the buzzing in my ears. Ava screams, falling to the ground. Bringing the knees against the

chest, she sobs openly. I look back at my uncle. He never lived up to the expectations of

Bianchi family. My father was born in the mafa and will die in it, but his brother younger always played a role. Marco wanted out for years and

that was the only way to get it. Putting a bullet in his head was John Bianchi's way of sparing him. He could have made my uncle suffer. He turns to face my aunt. -Not! - She screams. -Please... -

She shakes violently as tears run down her face,

smearing the makeup she put on earlier. It's their birthday. We we caught them going out to dinner to celebrate teen years of marriage. “Take off your clothes,” my dad orders. -Please! she sobs, shaking her head. "Take off your dress." Now! - He screams.

Using the window for support, she slowly gets up. With the hands trembling, she lets go of the clasp that holds her dress around her neck. Falls

across his chest, stomach, and hips before pooling around his black heels. Her fragile body trembles as she covers her bare breasts with her arms. My dad smiles at her, obviously happy with what he sees. Or what he doesn't

see. A wire. Someone has been feeding information to the feds and he suspects

let it be her. But the things that reached my father were sure, so, if she wasn't the snitch, then her husband was. He walks over to her, grabs her red hair and throws her head back.

Placing the gun under his chin, he shows no emotion. when she closes her eyes and sobs uncontrollably. "Do you keep your damn shut mouth; you understand me? She starts to nod, but he pushes her head further.

further back with the barrel of the gun. “Fuck, say that, Ava! He snarled in her face. “Keep…my…mouth…closed,” she snaps. He releases her, and she screams as he pushes her to the ground once more.

Turning to me, he tucks the gun back in his waistband. if approaching me, he says, “Never let anyone get in your way, son. Not even the damned blood. They will be the frst to undermine you and should be the frst to die for it. Twenty-two years old The morning air is cool on my skin. The strong wind whistles while

blows through the tall trees on this mountainside. the sun is starting to dawn on this glorious Friday. My heart beats with adrenaline. Anticipation. The sound of screaming is like music to my ears. a beacon of hope calling to me, letting me know that I am close to my destiny. But as much as I like the sound, I don't need it. I know where he is

because I set the traps. A week ago, my dad called me into his home ofice in New York and told me to go hunting. But this is not the kind of hunt where you hang your game on the wall like a trophy to impress the others. No, that's the kind you let the wild animals feast on and

then leaves it to rot after hunting its prey. I reach the clearing and see a man named Bernard lying on the ground.

He looks up as I approach with my two men. Your lips pull back in a snarl and drool runs down his chin like a