Chapter 1
The huge Hi-Def plasma screen attached so solidly to the basic beige wall of the vast living room suddenly departed from the anemic comedy currently insulting the intelligence of millions even as the always attention-attracting words "Special Bulletin" captured the collective attentions of TV viewers this morose Monday night…
"We interrupt current programming to bring you this special bulletin released by the FBI in conjunction with California law enforcement affiliates," said the stony-faced, yet still-handsome, anchorman associated with one of several nationally-known reporter programs in regards to an incident recently occurring on the other side of the country. "Just one day after the wrap of the final episode of the long-running HBO series called, The Sopranos, several lead actors, as well as some supporting, have been found murdered by what has been unofficially referenced as 'gangland killings'. So far, no suspects have been arrested however…"
The word Mute promptly appeared in the lower corner of the incredibly crystal clear confines of the attached-to-wall plasma screen at the remote control command of a chunky, full-faced, middle-aged man, just starting to lose once thick black hair, seated on side of his plush sofa. Heaving a heavy sigh of tense frustration that such had become news so surprisingly soon.
In this New Jersey Boss' not-so-humble assumption, his numerous Soldiers should've never allowed their bloody labors, on this singularly special, to him, Monday night to ever become police, as well as public, comprehension.
"Fuckin' idiots," said the man with the perpetually half-closed dark-brown eyes while letting a tense wheeze whistle forth via his prominent pug nose sitting in the middle of a bulldog visage of violent intent.
Then, flipping open his ever-present, untraceable-by-FBI cellphone, which he would ditch the very next day and purchase, anonymously, yet another with an entirely new number, the New Jersey Boss, no relation to Bruce Springsteen!, made immediate contact with one of his most trusted Lieutenants.
"Yeah," the voice harshly said even as the sound of someone's screams could be easily detected in the not-so-distant background.
"I thought I told youse guys to finish this and not attract any attention," snarled the Boss with a cross of accents belonging to both New York City as well as New Jersey. "They've already got the first fuckin' jobs you guys did on the fuckin' news. What the hell's goin' on out there in California?"
"Don't worry, Skipper," the equally insidious voice said as the whispered gunshot was heard over the Boss' cell to swiftly silence someone's screams. "We'll be outta here before the cops can figure all this out."
"Youse fuckin' well better be," the Boss angrily growled, "'cause I've been waitin' years to pay these motherfuckers back for all the shit they've been spreadin' about me and mine. So finish up or else I'll have youse whacked!"
With that, the casually-dressed Boss thumbed the red End button on his soon-to-be-replaced cell and tossed it exasperatedly onto the top of his imported-from-Italy table situated in the center of the lavishly, if not garishly, embellished living room within a posh mansion situated on the outskirts of the New Jersey shores.
"Bastardi della spia," he swore in the Italian not only he, but his whole Family, heard and spoke all of their criminal lives, before recalling how this Night of Blood began.
Or as one would've referred to it in blessed Italiano: Notte di Anima…
END OF CHAPTER 1