Chapter 2 Prologue

Earlier

Somewhere in the USA

Paval Rudenko looked at this nephew, Dusak, the One-Eyed as they referred to him behind his back.

He was a formidable fighter and his anger, his aggressiveness, was unmatched. Of course, the driving force behind his anger was to claim the life of Gaston St. Claire, the man who had blinded him and killed his beloved uncle, Dmitri Rudenko, before his eyes.

But the monk was a man of the steely reserve.

"Not yet,' he cautioned the hot-blooded youth.

Handing a photograph of Ria St. Claire, the eldest daughter of the Mafia Don, he said,

'Look at this girl, my son.' he said in his soft tones, the wheedling voice he used when he wanted something from someone, 'Look at her. For when you finally get her, you should know what to do with this beautiful creation of God.'

And the youth calmed down as he traced a finger over the picture and he waited.

*

Mexico

Cole whirled around as he heard the woman who said she was his aunt, leave the house.

His fists curled and he steadied his breathing with difficulty.

Finally, finally, they were going to meet the man who had fathered him.

This was the day he had been waiting for ever since his aunt and uncle had told him that they were going to the US to meet his father.

To claim his rights.

He was excited. His mother had passed away a few months ago, hit by a car as she lurched across the road, drunk, seeking customers, an ageing, ugly wh*re, he thought in disgust. Seeking customers to satisfy her fix.

The young man grimaced. She had been a wh*re and as desperate a one as ever to keep her habit intact.

He studied himself in the mirror. Long mousey brown hair which he fastened in a ponytail , and cold blue eyes that deepened to grey when he was angry. Not too tall, but broad. He went gymming regularly. he was also in one of the gangs in the seedy part of the town they lived in and kept his knuckles in good shape, he thought with a smile that was more of a scowl.

"Daddy O,' he thought coldly, 'I am coming to meet you and he picked up the photograph. Once Britney, his aunt, had told him of his parentage, he had gone scouring the internet till he found information about the man.

Avidly, he kept reading and re-reading articles on the dreaded Mafia Don who reigned over the American arms market with an iron fist. Eagerly, he had clasped his hands and whistled. Yes, he would also get a fair share of what was HIS entitlement. His eyes narrowed as he studied the sparse pictures of the family of six, yes, SIX children the Don had sired.

So he had a whole brood of siblings to contend with, eh?

His eyes wandered further down and he studied the face of the woman who was reputed to have brought the Don to his knees. The man who had had a formidable reputation for being a sex crazed maniac, had changed, become a man devoted to his wife.

Well, that was one bubble that was about to burst, he thought as his eyes skimmed the photograph greedily and he looked at the woman who was dimpling up at the Don, her eyes shining with love.

Cole was curious to meet the lovely woman who was his wife, almost two decades younger than him. He felt a strange desire as he studied her photograph. The young man smiled, a cold, hard smile.

'I am coming to meet you, Step-Mommie and my beloved siblings,' he thought, rubbing his large hands in glee.

Cole Brant, the name his mother had given him, was a dealer. He dealt in drugs but knowing full well the damage they could do to a person, he studiously refrained from using them himself. Yes, he permitted himself a sniff here, a shot there, but all under control.

*

Cole dreamt big.

He wanted to become rich. Fast.

He smiled thinly as he stared at the grainy picture he had downloaded from the internet, showing Gaston St Claire glowering at the camera. The man who was in the photograph was around fifty, thickset and dangerous looking.

My Daddy, the Mafia Don, he thought with a smile.

Right now, Cole was an angry young man. He had been denied his true rights because his wh*re of a mother had scurried away after the Don had knocked her up. That was what his aunt Britney had told him, her thin, manicured hands steady as she smoked, perfect rings of smoke as her gaze held fast to his eyes.

*

Aunt Britney had appeared a few days after his mother died, and he had been taken aback at kept her appearance.

Where she had been all these days, he shouted.

She had smiled a cold, thin smile that had frightened his seedy heart.

"But why?' he had demanded as he paced the room, furious.

'Why did she run away?'

Why had she robbed him of a chance to live a luxurious life? That had been his unspoken question.

His aunt had shrugged her thin shoulders. Strange, he thought, except for the basic facial resemblance, his aunt was totally unlike his mother. The stringy blonde hair his mother had had, was like a coiffured crown on this woman's head. The eyes were the same, he thought, cold, hard and grey.

*

He had not had any inkling that his mother had any family.

She had always been the ugly fat c*w slinking about the house, dead drunk or wandering on the streets, selling her fat, ageing body to satisfy her fix.

But had she ever mentioned Gaston St.Claire?

Never, he concluded, furiously slamming the wall with his fist.

The evil bi*ch.

No matter, he thought, throwing his head back and giving a shout of laughter.

You are going to make me become a rich man, Daddy O, he thought and threw his head back and roared in laughter.

The photograph of Gaston St. Claire stared back at him, stonily.

*