The Diávolos: Part One by Nouha Jullienne
Fifteen Years Ago
Three men quietly stand a safe distance apart, forming a crescent in the empty space of an abandoned warehouse. The flicker of a yellow lamp, the only source of light other than moonlight, illuminates the dark area around them. The ceaseless sound of water dripping on the concrete echoes throughout the building.
One man, the eldest of the group, sporting a three-piece grey suit to match his hair, breaks the silence. “What did you tell the girl about her mother, Peter?” he asks the youngest.
The similarities between the two are unmistakable. Both are of equal height and stature, but while one’s face is wrinkled with age, the other’s is still young, the only lines are those between his brows, caused by his incessant frowning. Their eyes have the same shades of green and brown and change color depending on the light around them. Right now, in the dark, they appear light brown.
“That she accidentally died from a head injury,” Peter replies. Not necessarily a lie.
“Will she be a problem?” the older man questions, crossing his arms at his chest.
“She’s eight years old.”
“Yeah, but you know kids her age are more curious and fearless than they ought to be.”
“Don’t worry about her.” Peter’s eyes glint with annoyance.
“We can always send her away until things calm down,” the third man suggests, his tone full of mischief. He is middle-aged, and his unappealing looks match his unpleasant energy. He follows the eldest around like a loyal hound.
Peter knows exactly where he means and that option is out of the question. He might be a hypocrite, but he learned not to mix business with family the hard way.
“Fuck no. You know where those little girls end up. I’m not sending her into the lion’s den.” He readjusts the peaked lapels of his blue jacket and pulls on the collar of his shirt to give his throat some more room. Despite the large open space, the walls feel like they are closing in on him.
The grey-haired man intervenes, “He’s got a point, Peter. She could use some structure now that she has no mother.”
“I said no,” Peter snaps.
“Then make sure she doesn’t end up like her mother.”
That hits a nerve. Her mother.
Despite the way they got together, and the hate she had felt toward him, Peter had loved the little girl's mother something fierce. Maybe it had been her unstoppable drive to find ways to leave that had him getting more and more attached over the years. As fucked up as that may be, the fact that she hadn’t wanted him in the beginning had made him want her even more.
She hated loving him. But that hadn’t stopped her from being the Bonnie to his Clyde, until something in her had switched and she’d wanted out. Really wanted out.
He’d had no choice.
Either she left and they risked the whole empire crumbling, taking the whole city down with them, or they got rid of her for good. It wasn’t a total lie when he’d told the little girl that it was an accident. The main detail he’d left out was that he was the one who had caused it.
“I don’t need your advice, Father. I know how to run my household,” he spits, his pupils contorting with anger.
His father raises his hands in the air and takes a step back. “I’m just looking out for my family and the future Godfather of the Night.”
At that exact moment, the three men hear an engine whirring and they notice a white, medium-sized cargo van with tinted windows as it turns the corner. The grey-haired man rubs his hands together and looks at the other two. “Let’s see what we got.”
The driver exits the vehicle with a clipboard and approaches them for a signature. Peter’s father signs off and the driver nods, making his way back to the truck to unlock the back doors.
Eleven.
Peter counts eleven pairs of eyes staring right back at them. Terrified, tear-filled eyes.
This confirms it. There’s no fucking way he would send his daughter there.
The little girls, none looking older than ten years old, flinch and clutch each other hard as the hound approaches the bed of the truck. He motions for the others to join him, and the smell of urine invades their nostrils. Peter turns away while the other two examine the girls. When they’re done, the grey-haired man closes the doors and gives him one final look, a question in his eyes. Peter shakes his head.
His father taps the side of the van. “Send them to the Sisterhood.”