Everybody knows the story of the Saints of South Boston. They took out a "notorious crime syndicate" and saved the city! All of Southie celebrated on the streets...just another excuse to get wasted and make a fool of themselves.
You know what else they did? They killed my family. They left me to pick up the pieces. They will pay.
They preach their Holy Mission and everybody buys it. Except for me. I will teach them a lesson straight from the Bible; Exodus 21:23 reads: "But if there is serious injury, you are to take life for life..."
They call themselves Saints.
My name is Angel. We will see who is more righteous.
It was cold. Bitter, New England cold. I overlook the city from my modest Boston apartment and can't help the chill that runs down my spine. This is the place it must happen. The war must end, once and for all, in the place it began. I sip my coffee and sigh as I turn away from the window.
"You deserve this." I state quietly as I run my hand through my hair. "I don't want to do it, but I must. I cannot let you get away with what you did. I have a responsibility to avenge my family."
I look into the eyes of the bleeding man in front of me. There is no fear; only anger. The blue depths flash in fury and I shake my head. Such violence poisons the soul. God have Mercy. I look over to his brother. His eyes tell a different story. He has resigned himself to his fate. He does not struggle against his restraints. He does not scream through the gag. He simply watches me with a calmness that would baffle even the most Faithful.
"I feel the need to explain myself." I look to Connor MacManus and smile. His brows furrow in confusion. "We haven't been properly introduced. My name is Angel Maria Yakavetta. You killed my family."
His brother goes still next to him. Connor gives a slight nod; he's already figure that out. I look to Murphy and notice the rage has boiled off. He is scared. He knows what is going to happen. He knows what I must do and why, but he doesn't want to face his judgment. His apprehension has me wondering how strong his Faith really is, how strong his dedication to God's Mission was; was he only in it for the thrill? Did he like having others' blood on his hands?
"I know your story." I sit across from them and sip my coffee. "Now it's time for you to know mine."
The bullet rips through its intended target with deadly accuracy. I've never missed a shot. My cousin Concezio voices his approval and pats me lightly on the shoulder. I trot over and pick up the bird. A small goose, but it will taste especially good; the best tasting food is the food you grow and kill yourself.
When I reach the house, I drop the bird with the cook and dash upstairs to get cleaned up. A good hunt makes for a good sweat. I change quickly and make my way to the sitting room to talk to my uncle. He's always been the rock of The Family. Even before he was made Don, we all flocked to him for advice and help, when needed. Uncle Guiseppe is the wisest man I know. When I reach the study doors, they are closed. I sigh and sit in a chair outside the door. Closed doors mean business. Nobody interrupts business.
Rocco walks out, looking jumpy as always, and I smile at him. He only nods his head, ducks his chin and disappears out the front door. I wait for Vincenzo to leave before standing. Of all of my uncle's associates, he is the one I cannot stand. He leers at me, making my skin crawl, and I quickly duck into the safety of the study.
"Ah, Angel!" Uncle Guiseppe greets me with a kiss. "How has your vacation been, young one?"
"It's wonderful to see you all again, Uncle." I grimace slightly at being called young one, but smile, nevertheless. "I will be sorry to go."
I leave for Italy shortly, to return to school, but if I had a choice I would stay on the estate forever. My family has always been my rock, and they have done so much for me; it is always hard to leave them. I must fulfill my obligations, though. Education has always been important to the Yakavetta family, and so it is important to me; especially with Uncle Guiseppe paying for the expensive Italian school.
I had a rough time finding a school that would accept me, because of my name. Regardless of my flawless attendance and high grades, the local university didn't want to be associated with The Family, and so, denied my application. They had enough respect to tell me at a meeting, though, so I accepted it and walked out like a lady. I came home crying that evening and my uncle comforted me. He told me not to worry and promised he would get me into the finest school in the homeland. He's never broken a promise.
"I hate to bore you with the details, gentlemen." I stand to refill my mug. "However, you must understand. I know your story. You've never heard of me. I don't take lightly to killing without a purpose; I intend to teach you the purpose of your death, so that you may go in peace."
Connor gives me another small nod of understanding while his brother screams against the gag. I wish his anger didn't consume him. Murphy is a beautiful man, with a beautiful heart; his soul is blackened with fury and I worry, once again, for his salvation.
I returned from University the following year, having heard of my Uncle's death. I consoled my cousins and my aunt, but I was undone inside. Guiseppe had always been the calm voice in this family of hot-heads. I knew Concezio would have to take over the business, now. He couldn't handle it. He was far too stubborn for something that requires a delicate hand.
I missed a semester at school because I wanted to be sure that the family would pull together. The ones who were responsible for his death had all but disappeared, but the turmoil they left in their wake was not something to be taken lightly. Nonna had taken her son's death especially hard. She would not eat, could not sleep, and eventually exhaustion took her from us. Aunt Celeste followed shortly there-after.
With the elders of the family all but gone, Concezio was forced to become Don. He handled the day-to-day fairly well, so I took my leave to Italy, once again. While there, the news of my family's tragedy had spread. I was either coddled or avoided. I didn't talk to anyone about it. There was no point of discussing something that I could not change. It was God's will; these men who murdered my family were called upon, by God Himself, for the task. I wouldn't dare question it.
In between my studies, I learned all I could about the MacManus clan. I watched the news reports, read the papers, and did some research of my own. I found out that their father owned a small farm in norther Ireland. I figured that's where they had gone, so I made a few calls and got a tail sent out for them. Their orders were to follow and observe, for however long it took. I knew there would come a day when they would return to the States. I just didn't know when.
I got word that they had left one morning, about eight years later; the boys had packed up, in the middle of the night it seemed, and left their father, Noah, alone. I immediately called the tail back to Italy while I made plans to return to Boston, myself. It was a few weeks before I was able to touch American soil, once again. I knew there would be carnage.
I learned of the death of my family, the last remainders of my American bloodline, during the flight from Rome. Instantly, I saw red. My fury ate at me until I wanted to scream, then a picture of Uncle Guiseppe flashed upon the screen. The anger dissipated quickly as I remembered his words to me when I was teen.
"Anger is only valuable when it is useful. There is no need to carry it with you. Don't let it control you; use it only when you need it."
I smiled slightly, and tried to channel my emotions into something constructive. In the end, I decided that I would listen to God's words, and do as he has called all of his flock to do: protect my family, no matter the cost. I thought, briefly, about the paradox of following God's Law to kill these men who were on a Mission for Him.
When I learned that The Saints were in prison, I vowed to wait. I was blessed with a long patience. I took over Sal's diner in Southie and made the best of what I was given. My employees were loyal, my menu was grandiose. I took great pride in running that little diner for three years. The Saints escaped the Hoag, then.
At first, I was disappointed that I had let them slip through my fingers. A few months later, though, people in New York started dying; bad people, mob people. It wasn't a coincidence, everybody knew that, so I made a few quick phone calls to my Uncle's associates in the city. Not a year later, I was ready to strike my vengeance.
"I've spent what feels like a lifetime searching for you." I say to them. "I knew that I wouldn't be able to rest until you were dead. I vowed to myself, to my family, that I would find you. And I don't break my promises."
I walk over to my gun and pick it up. Making sure it is loaded, I walk back into the living room.
"I don't want you to die ashamed. You did as you were called to do, and I must do the same."
I lift the weapon and point it at Murphy. His eyes flash anger and I close my own as a tear escapes. I take a shaky breath and open my eyes. Connor whimpers and I glance to him. His head is bowed and he seems to be praying. I lower my weapon and cross to Connor. Kneeling in front of him, I remove his gag. He looks up at me through tear-filled eyes, and I am forced to swallow the lump in my throat.
I return to Murphy and raise the gun. I hold it with shaky hands as I listen to Connor's prayer:
Eternal rest grant unto him, Lord,
and let perpetual light shine upon him.
May we rest in peace.
I take a deep breath and pull the trigger.