La Cosa Nostra

Plot synopsis:

When eighteen-year-old orphan Raphaele Santiago gets plucked from his quiet life as a painter on the edge of a mysterious forest in 1954, he has no idea how much his destiny is about to change. His kidnapper is none other than Chiara Luciano, the infuriating and stubborn daughter of mob boss Lucky Luciano, who was sent to his doorstep with orders to bring him back alive.

Raphaele is forced to choose between a life in La Cosa Nostra or death, and he knows the only way he will ever find out what truly happened to his parents is to live in a house of murderers. But he isn’t going to go through it alone. In his first week of Mafia training, Raphaele meets Luca and Anton, two mysterious boys who soon become his best friends.

While Raphaele grows accustomed to the new leg of his journey, the day-to-day life of the Mafia continues around him. Chiara’s seemingly meaningless job to commit a murder becomes something far bigger when she realizes he’s at the head of a Chinese mob that wants revenge. In order to stop them from getting it, there has to be extreme levels of damage control. Raphaele is given his first job, which goes disastrously wrong and leaves him in the clutches of the enemy and Anton seriously injured.

When Chiara and Luca risk it all to rescue Raphaele, what they aren’t expecting is a treachery that shocks La Cosa Nostra to its core. Will they all survive? Or will the Mafia be torn apart forever?

LA COSA NOSTRA is an action novel with historical elements and hints of romance and mystery, finished at 91,000 words as a stand-alone novel with series potential. LA COSA NOSTRA has a diverse cast and a powerful female anti-hero with an internal struggle as a main character. It's a good fit for a pre-teen/teen audience.

My name is Abby Sawicki, and I have been working on writing this book for about two years. For as long as I can remember, I have read and written countless stories of dazzling lands and awe-inspiring heroes. And yet, no matter how thrilling those tales may be, they tend to be lacking diversity. I want to write to break stereotypes and introduce new types of characters to a world which needs to see them.

The first chapter of my manuscript is included below. Thank you for your time!

Chapter 1 – Chiara

A heavyset man in a dark coat sidles into the bustling tavern, face shrouded in the shadow cast by his hood. The shaky motions of his head as he scans the room tell me that he’s looking for someone, and I know long before he spots me that I’m the one he’s here for.

Took him long enough to get here, I reflect, swirling the mug of disgusting beer I ordered after the first ten minutes of sitting at the booth in an attempt to blend in. I take a swig, shuddering at the taste, and lower my fedora over my features as I lean back into the bench to regard my client.

His unsteady gaze floats back through the tavern, wavering from face to face as he makes sure to take his sweet time. Frustration surges through me and just as I’m about to stand or call to him, the man spots me and begins waddling over. From my vantage point, I can see the rest of the happenings in the tavern, but I’m almost completely hidden from sight.

Shaped like two rectangles stuck together in odd angles, the small room has creaky, dirt encrusted wooden floors and dull brick walls. The only lighting comes from dim lamps flickering along the walls that look like they’re about to go out any moment and throw the whole room into darkness.

I shudder, looking around at the other people in the room. The boisterous, heavy men who spend so much time here that it’s practically a second home are the clientele the tavern caters toward, but it’s also the perfect place for a darker crowd that comes here for a different reason. People like me.

My client appears in front of me, blocking my view of the rest of the room as he stands with his hands clenched in his pockets in the perfect picture of discomfort. I arch my eyebrows before narrowing my eyes into a glare that makes him squirm.

“I’m here,” the man says, hesitating another moment before pulling out the chair across from me. His voice is garbled in his throat, sounding almost as unpleasant as the grating of nails on a chalkboard. His small, beady eyes bore into my own, and I adjust the black fedora on my head for a second time, shifting in my long, brown trench coat to make sure that he can't see any of my features.

I don’t reply to his greeting, opting to narrow my cool, dark eyes into slits instead. The man’s thick leg twitches below the table and his gaze flights around the room, unable to hold eye contact with me or even stay at one spot for too long. His rough, red hands curl into clammy fists on the table, but he unclenches them and drops them to his side as if not wanting to stay still for a moment more than he has to.

He pulls his coat off and drapes it around the back of his chair, leaving the short, brown hair atop his head messed up from where the hood sat seconds before.

“Matteo, is it?” I ask. The only information given to me two days ago when I received the call requesting my services was a name and a request for a meeting, as what we have to discuss was deemed ‘too important’ to speak about over the phone. I was wary at first, but agreed to meet up with Matteo to hear what he had to say and collect payment for my services.

This tavern is the perfect place to conduct my deals, but I’ll have to find a new location soon. It’s not a good idea to make more than a few visits to one establishment, especially when dealing with as sensitive matters as my clients often discuss.

Matteo squirms when I say his name and slumps back into his chair. I arch my eyebrows at his disgusting posture, and lean over my slim arms on the table, enjoying how uncomfortable I'm making him.

“Yes, that’s right,” he answers, eyes flicking nervously to the left in a move that would be imperceptible to an untrained eye. Why is he lying? I narrow my eyes again, scanning him up and down to look for the telltale bump in a pocket that belongs to a weapon. Could this be a trap?

“Why am I here, Matteo?” I ask, crossing my arms as Matteo pulls an envelope of money from the inner pocket of his wrinkled brown suit. His meaty fingers tremble as he places it on the smooth table between us.

“I represent an organization that needs someone killed, and I hear you’re the people to get it done,” Matteo replies. There’s a flicker of unease in my stomach, and I fold my hands on the table in front of me. It’s your job, I remind myself, glancing down at the thick, white envelope sitting in front of me.

“Who?”

“Chengli Zhang,” Matteo says. I frown, tilting my head. Most people won’t hire an assassin to kill anyone unimportant, but I’ve never heard of this man before.

“D-do-will you need any more information?” he stutters, fidgeting with the coat on the back of his chair, making me roll my eyes again. It couldn’t be more clear that this is Matteo’s first time making this kind of a deal, and I won’t be surprised if I find out it’s his first time ever speaking with another human being.

“Yes,” I drawl with sarcasm as I can muster. Matteo nods, shakily pulling a letter from a different pocket in his coat. I can almost swear there’s a bead of nervous sweat dripping down his red forehead as he sets it on the table next to the envelope.

“This should be everything you need to know.” With long, lithe fingers, I pick up the paper and tuck it into my pocket, then flip through the money in the envelope to make sure it’s the correct amount.

“We’ll take it from here, Matteo,” I reply with a cold smile. Matteo flinches, standing up to bolt from the tavern, tail between his legs.

I wait until he’s completely out of sight before jumping to my feet, throwing a few bills on the table, making one last sweep of the room with my eyes, and striding through the door.

A small car sits next to the building, and I walk over to it, keeping my gaze trained on my black boots. With one last look over my shoulder, I pull open the passenger door and slide into the vehicle, sighing loudly as I collapse into the seat.

As soon as the door slams shut behind me, I fold the collar of my coat back and remove the fedora. The breeze from the open window hits my long, black hair and pushes it into my eyes, and I shiver, running my hands through the soft curls. The driver smirks at me, and I punch him on the arm.

“Shut up, Anton. I don’t need to pretend to be a man to beat you in a fight,” I quip, and Anton chuckles. His bright hazel eyes glint in the sun as he shakes his head.

“Of course, Chiara, I wasn’t doubting you,” Anton says, shooting me another smirk before starting the car.

“Watch your tone, Moretti.” I narrow my eyes, but Anton isn’t intimidated as he pulls the car into the street to drive home. “I didn’t need you to come with me, anyway. I can always leave you here,” I say, frowning. Anton shakes his head.

“You would die without me,” he replies with a laugh.

“That’s likely,” I mutter, and he rolls his eyes, pressing his foot to the floor on the gas pedal. “Slow down! You’re insane!” I exclaim, grabbing the safety handle with a tight fist as he speeds down side streets to get us home in record time.

“Am not,” Anton replies as he runs a red light.

“Anton!” I shout, and he shrugs, speeding the rest of the way back to the mansion.

“It was yellow,” he explains, making me throw my hands in the air in protest.

“I’m never getting into a car with you again,” I announce, jumping out of the door as soon as he comes to a complete stop.

“You say that every time, darling, and yet you do it anyway. You know I’m a great driver,” Anton insists, pouting as we walk up to the mansion. The old, white house sits at the edge of a pathway that leads into the driveway and sits in the center of a grass arena. A thick meadow full of gorgeous purple and yellow wildflowers hovers on the edge of a forest that stretches as far as the eye can see, and it surrounds the rest of the house.

“I beg to differ,” I reply, punching him playfully in the arm and striding through the front door with Anton following close behind. The two guards that stand outside nod as they close the wooden double doors behind us, and I continue into the entrance hall.

“I have to go right back out,” Anton says, gesturing to the door. “I have a meeting in the forest, so if I don’t come back, it’s because I was murdered and hidden in the trees.”

“Shut up,” I say, glaring at the boy as he smirks. “See you soon.” He gives me a mock-salute before turning away, running back outside to his car, ready to make a couple more illegal maneuvers.

I watch him leave before I stride down another long hallway, moving toward the office of the boss of the Luciano family of the Mafia, though we know it by another name. La Cosa Nostra.

Smooth, hard floors feature in all the hallways and rooms, and the walls are a bland, nondescript white. Stunning paintings of countryside and mountain landscapes in brown frames cover the walls, giving them an artistic and expensive taste.

While most of the other corridors in the mansion have rooms on either side, only one menacing door waits at the end of this hall. I reach it and hesitate, composing myself and squaring my shoulders, before knocking three times.

“Come in,” calls the voice from the other side, and I take a deep breath before striding in.

“Hello, father,” I say, and Dad looks up from the paper on his desk. Lucky Luciano, as he’s known by the rest of the men, is a formidable, dangerous, and deadly mob boss. He got his nickname because of the innumerable close scrapes he worked himself out of, and he’s one of the more powerful of the five bosses.

Despite the cold exterior and macabre past, he’s a caring leader and can occasionally be a good father. It’s not his fault, not entirely. He can’t help that I was born a girl, even though I know he would change it if he could.

“Chiara,” he says, acknowledging my presence with a tilt of the head before turning his gaze back to the paper he’s reading. “How did it go?”

“I’m not sure,” I reply, and he gestures to a chair. I sit carefully, being sure to keep my back straight, and fold my slight hands in my lap. “I’m not sure who’s behind this or what they’re hiding, but the man I met with was a fraud,” I explain. My father shifts in his chair, concerned.

His office is large, black, and dimly lit. Dad sits behind a tall desk, his broad shoulders, incredible height, and powerful aura making it seem as though he’s standing. Even though he’s getting older, he’s still as strong, smart, and dangerous as he’s always been. His short, speckled hair sits atop his head like a thin layer of cotton, and his dark eyes glimmer with a pernicious light as he studies me, prying for more details.

“In what way?” he asks, arching an eyebrow as he folds his hands on the table.

“It just felt off. I’m pretty sure he gave me a fake name, and I could tell he had no clue what he was doing. But he did give me this along with the money,” I say, pulling the letter and money from my pocket. I set them both onto my father’s mahogany desk, and he unfolds the letter.

“Interesting,” he says, scanning the paper. “Chengli Zhang is the leader of the Flying Dragons, a faction of a Chinese mob. On the seventeenth of November, 1956, be at the Saratoga Conference center at 12:00 PM to kill him,” he reads.

“Trap,” Dad says, setting the paper on his desk.

“I would like to do some more research before jumping to conclusions,” I decide, making him nod.

“If Zhang is truly as bad of a guy as this makes him out to be, it would be beneficial for us to remove him,” Dad says, frowning.

“Do you know anything about the Flying Dragons? Have you ever heard of them?” I ask. He cocks his head, thinking, then nods.

“I heard something a few weeks ago,” he says. “There’s an article somewhere, give me a few minutes to find it.” My father’s office isn’t exactly the most organized place, so it takes him almost ten minutes to find the article. I sit, staring at him awkwardly, unsure what to say, but I’m glad that he’s looking out for me. I know he won’t let me go on this job if it’s not legitimate.

“This is what I was looking for. He was in the news for some weapons deal that went wrong. He got captured by the polizia,” he adds. I nod, glancing down at the paper as he hands it to me.

“How dangerous is he?” I ask, scanning the flimsy page.

“I don’t know, but whoever wants him out of the water appears to be doing us a favor as well,” my father responds. “He never even had a trial, they just let him go.” I frown, leaning back into my chair to read the article.

“If this really is some rival gang, could there be backlash from killing their leader?” I ask, thinking aloud as I flip the paper to read the other side. “Wait, what is this? He’s one of the leaders of the Triad? What happened to the Flying Dragons?”

“I’m not sure, Chiara.” He says, standing up, to walk over to an overflowing filing cabinet. I’ve been in this office enough to know that the cabinet is full of blackmail and dirt he’s dug up on just about everyone through his mysterious connections and sources.

It takes my father another few minutes to find the document he’s looking for, during which time I look around his office. It’s a big, rectangular room, with doors on either side, one of which leads to the hallway and the other goes into his private quarters. I’ve been in there a few times, and he offered me an extra room, but I prefer to stay in one of the upstairs rooms to better connect with the others who stay in the house.

“This is everything we know about the Triad,” he says, walking back over and handing me the file. I set it in my lap, snatch the letter and newspaper article from his desk, then hesitate.

“Do you really think it’s a trap?” I ask, running a hand through my hair again. A hang-nail gets caught and I tug it through anyway, feeling blood gush from the torn skin. I study my rough hands, looking at the short fingernails and bleeding nail bed, then close my hands into fists to listen to what he’s saying.

“I want to say that it should be fine, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be careful,” he warns.

“I know,” I groan. The phone rings, and my father leans over to pick it up with one hand while motioning for me to stay with the other.

“Who is this?” he asks. There’s a pause, before he replies, “Moretti?” I freeze, heart thundering in my chest. Anton? What could he be calling about? How much could have gone wrong in the twenty minutes since he left that he had to leave so quickly to find a phone?

“I see. Chiara will come deal with it,” Father says into the phone. “Goodbye,” he says, hanging up and turning his dark eyes toward me.

“What was that about?” I ask, spring from my seat.

“Someone was spying on Anton in the forest,” Father says, shaking his head.

“Who am I going after?” I ask, and my father leans forward, folding his hands on the desk.

“We have his plate number,” Father replies, picking up the rotary phone again and dialing a sequence. The person on the other end answers after one ring, and my dad doesn’t waste any time before giving them the plate number. There’s a long pause on the other end, and my father looks at me with serious eyes.

“Get the keys, and get ready to go as soon as he tells me the address. This is bad,” he explains, and I nod, cracking my knuckles. While it doesn’t happen often, there are a couple times a month when I have to go on these kinds of retrieval missions to cut off loose ends. Our continued secrecy is essential to what we do.

“Yes, I’m still here,” my dad says. “Uhuh,” he picks up a pen, jotting an address down, then reads it back to the operator. “Thank you,” he says after a pause, and hangs up.

“Well, well, well. Raphaele Santiago, we’ve been looking for you for quite some time.” There’s a triumphant smirk on my father’s face when he hands me the paper. “Go find him, Chiara, and bring him here. Alive.”