2

DOMINIC’S POINT OF VIEW

I was born in blood- and I've been spilling it ever since.

The first person I killed was the woman assigned to bathe me. She touched me, her bony hands rubbing on my skin suggestively.

I hated it.

So, I grabbed a toothbrush and drove it into her eye. I proceeded to slit her throat after that, my small hands sticky with her blood as the metalic smell wafted into my nose.

I was ten.

Ever since, I've carried a towel around me wherever I go.

The next person was a judge.

I remember the way his face scrunched up as he spat dirty words at me.

'Bastard'

'Psychopath'

His labelling amused me- you can't fix what's already broken.

He sent me to a correctional facility, gave me a therapist. The red-haired woman did her best to enter my head, soothing voice and all-like I was a normal twelve-year-old.

She didn't live long either. I made her swallow a bottle of pills and watched as she choked on her spit, convulsing and losing breath until she went limp and pale in her office.

She had called me a sociopath, whispering the words to her friend, thinking I wasn't listening in on their comversation, as the fucker regarded me with a twinge in his eyes.

The ones I made him chew on later that night.

That night, I killed twelve other guards, escaped, and never looked back.

The system would never cage me again,

Weeks turned to months, and months into years, as I lived on the streets of Manhattan, surviving off scraps, trash, and anger. Figiting in underground rings to make ends meet until I met a man.

Luca 'padrino' Moretti.

He took me to Italy.

The country welcomed me with open arms- a prodigal son returning to the underworld.

I built an empire brick by brick-my drugs, weapons, men.

Anything that is paid in power.

I started small.

LCA ruled through terror, pain, and fear.

So, I got close to him, watched his every move till he made me his guard. I rose in ranks faster than anyone else in the mafia had in years, earning a target on my back after I exposed a rat in his army.

He gave me a knife, said it was a reward for my loyalty.

I buried the same blade in his spine.

He never saw it coming, had trusted me too much ever to suspect my intentions.  One moment, we were standing in front of a burning warehouse; the next, he was choking on his blood, eyes wide in shock, pain, and anger as he fell to his knees.

I made it look like the Spanish did it.

But killing Luca was easy.

His underbosses were much harder to kill.

I sent them a message from Luza's phone.-an emergency line only his trusted men knew about. They gathered like lambs to the slaughter.

Once they gathered, I had the doors shut with titanium steel, filled the room with gas, lit a match, and watched as they burned to ash.

Their screams didn't haunt me.

They thrilled me.

All to sit on the throne as I do now, overthrowing Luca, and making everything my bitch.

I carved out a name for myself the only way I knew how- Blood and fear, earning my name on the streets of Italy, as I did in the underground rings.

"Dono Della Morte"

After I cleaned house, I brought in my men- those loyal to me, ready to kill anyone at a simple nod from me,

I handpicked them, trained them, made them, broke them.

But I don't trust them- I don't need to.

Loyalty can be bought. And fear...fear makes men obedient, especially with the knowledge of their lives and that of their loved ones in my hands.

But last night, that woman.

Her taste, her smell, her moans, her touch, her feel....it lingers.

Her skin was soft. Her mouth tasted like sin. 

Most woman blur, fade into oblivion....their bodies made for nothing for pleasure and nothing more.

But her?

There's something about her.

I can't stop thinking about her.

The curve of her neck, the feel of her skin, her mango scent, her whimpers and moans.

I didn't ask for her name.

But for some reason, I want to.

I never ask for their names. They were meant for one thing.

To make me come.

But her, I experience a need to possess, to own, to dominate.

This is a goddamn problem.

Women become complicated once they believe they matter.

They believe they could mean something to me.

They thought they could carry my child, my last name.

That they'd be 'the one' 

They thought a night in my bed made them special.

I had them handled, silenced.

But this one....she might be different.

"Sir, we're here," Alessandro says from the driver's seat, drawing me from my thoughts, as the car comes to a slow stop. 

I shake the woman from my thoughts.

We are outside my warehouse- one of the more discreet ones by the docks.

Alessandro stands beside me, ready to receive and comply with my orders. 

"What is this?" I ask, knowing exactly what it is.

"A new shipment of cocaine, sir. Doc says it's the cleanest batch we've ever had."

I sliced a packet open with my knife, dabbed some on my hand, tasted it, and spat it out.

I never use my produce- rule number one.

Never get high off your shit.

I'd seen what it did to Luca and some of his men.

It turned a king into a twitching addict.

It would never be me, or any of my men.

For verification, I pulled some of the white powder and poured it into my properity reagent.

IF it turns yellow, it's fake.

If it ruens purple, It's the most potent shit, and would turn men into addicts, and addicts into crazed maniacs.

More than they already are.

"Shit." I muttered.

It turned green.

Three times as good as the purple stuff.

"Send Doc my congratulatory message," I order Alwessandro, who nods, and pulls out his phone. Grinning, I mutter. "This will ruin the American market for others."

Suddenly, it got quieter..too quiet.

"What is it?" I ask, turning to look him in the eye, already irritated.

He looks away from me.

"Speak!"

"Michael called...the police...they're on their way, sir." 

"How long?

"Five minutes."

I close my eyes, rage seething through me.

Five fucking minutes.

Then I open my eyes, suddenly calm, collected, cold.

I punch him square in the jaw, breaking his lip as blood spills from it.

"You failed me," I say flatly. "And there's one road that leads in and out of here."

I pull out my phone. "Call Judge Harris. Tell him he's about to sentence me, and if he dosen;t fix this, his daughter ends up in my whore house." 

"No shooting," I order. "Let them take me, I'll handle it on the inside."