Free The Assassin's Prayer by Mark Allen Page A

an electronic buzz, followed by Frank Giadello’s
voice. “What is it, Jean-Luc?”
    “Kain’s
here to see you, boss.”
    “Send
him in.” Frank’s usually strong, authoritative voice sounded tinny and
distorted through the small speaker.
    Jean-Luc
motioned for Kain to go in. As Kain stepped past him, Jean-Luc said, “Maybe
I’ll see you later. Been a while since we did a job together, eh?”
    “That’s
because I prefer to work alone. Nothing personal.”
    Jean-Luc
gave him a grin. “Don’t worry, no offense taken.”
    Kain
headed down the hall toward Frank’s office. Despite his declaration that he
liked to work solo, he had to admit that Jean-Luc was one of the few people he
could stand. They weren’t exactly friends but Kain found the Canadian’s
constant cheerfulness and sense of humor refreshing. But he also knew how to be
serious when the time came; that the only kind of cutting up that should be
done in the midst of combat was the kind that involved a sharp blade and an
enemy’s throat.
    To
Kain’s left, portraits of various Giadello family members adorned the walls,
hung in perfectly symmetrical rows. Frank referred to it as the Wall of History
and the last portrait on the wall was his. Kain had been regaled with the tale of
Frank Giadello’s rise to power so often that he sometimes felt as if he knew it
better than his own life story.
    Frank
had inherited the shadowy empire from his father, Vinnie Giadello. Vinnie had sown
the seeds that Frank would later reap, laying the groundwork, building
contacts, establishing suppliers, all the things necessary for a successful
illicit business venture. But while Vinnie’s efforts had garnered moderate
success and wealth, it was not until Frank took the reins that the name
Giadello became a force to be reckoned with in the NYC organized crime food
chain.
    Frank
had embraced the role of crime lord with near-religious zeal, his utter
ruthlessness quickly rising to myth-like proportions as he climbed to the top
through sheer balls and brutal amounts of bloodshed. He had carved his niche by
out-gunning his competitors and showing his enemies no mercy. Silas now had
command of the day-to-day operations but he was just a puppet. Nobody,
including Silas himself, thought he was in charge. Frank was still the master,
a puppeteer pulling the strings behind the scenes, making Silas and the rest of
his criminal clan dance to his own cutthroat tune.
    The
hall ended at a set of solid oak double doors that led into Frank’s office. Two
more bodyguards bracketed either side of the entrance. Kain nodded at each of
them as he approached. “Pierre,” he greeted. “Andy.” Pierre was the brother of
Jean-Luc and though the two bickered like cats and dogs, the animosity was a
façade; in reality, the two were inseparable. Of the two brothers, Jean-Luc was
the better gunman, but Pierre was the more dangerous, possessing a cruel,
sadistic streak.
    Andy
Torlini was a newcomer, some wet behind the ears street punk that Frank had
plucked out of the gutter. Kain had no idea what Frank saw in the kid; it was
obvious that Andy was too soft for this line of work. There was more to being a
gunslinger than just packing a gun. Andy was too eager to please, too eager to
make his mark. Out on a strike, eagerness often led to mistakes, the kind of mistakes
that got people killed. Kain had seen it happen all too often and hoped he
wasn’t along when Andy went out on his first job. He would rather lick a public
toilet seat that hadn’t been cleaned in three weeks than babysit a rookie.
    Pierre
returned Kain’s nod, then pushed the doors open and stepped aside. “The boss is
waiting for you.”
    Kain
stepped past the two guards and into the inner sanctum of Frank Giadello. A
large bulletproof bay window offered a view of a pair of cherry trees, the
branches stark and skeletal in the moonlight that was just beginning to seep
through the clouds that cloaked the sky. Off in the distance the