Tiernan
Ten years ago
Fucking hurricane.
It’s a bad omen that the first time the most influential mafia families in the world come face to face with each other, it’s under such dire weather conditions. Who the fuck had the brilliant idea of meeting up in Bermuda during hurricane season anyway? I don’t care if this island is considered to be neutral ground. Saint Brendan himself wouldn’t have wanted to face such a storm.
The howling wind continues to bang furiously against the green shutters, threatening to bring the whole luxury hotel down with every ferocious pound to its walls, while the trembling windowpanes do their very best to keep from shattering completely and exposing us to the violent storm outside. How ironic that for all Mother Nature’s fury, it still can’t compare to the destruction made by every man sitting in this very room.
What is God’s wrath compared to the devastation we can conjure up when we put our minds to it, aye?
We’ve been killing each other for so long, I can’t recall a time when we weren’t at war with one family or another. Such a thing has never happened in my lifetime, at least, that’s for goddamn sure. Just because I can’t remember when our feuds began doesn’t mean that the memories of burnt flesh, dismembered bodies, and coffins being lowered into the ground with my friends inside them haunt me any less. Everyone here has lost more than just mere foot soldiers. We’ve lost friends, family, and loved ones all in the name of pride and honor.
Every boss sitting around this table knows he’s responsible for all the death this blood war has provoked. The weight of that certainty, and the knowledge that if we continue on this route our way of life will undoubtedly become obsolete, forced this meeting to be unavoidable. Peace amongst the families is the only way we will be able to survive. If we insist on killing each other one by one, then soon there will be nothing worth fighting over.
My features remain carved in stone as I take in the sight in front of me. In a twisted Arthurian version of the round table, each family’s boss takes his seat, ready to craft an arrangement that will ensure no more innocent blood is spilled.
Compared to the expensive suit-wearing assholes in this place, my father looks like just another tourist. In a colorful, flowery-patterned shirt that strains over his Guinness belly, Athair looks like your run-of-the-mill blue-collar worker on his first retirement trip to the tropics. No one would ever peg him as the boss of the Irish mafia.
Never let them see ye coming, lad.
In all the years I’ve been a made man , Athair’s mantra has never led me astray. Besides, it’s easier to throw out a bloody t-shirt than it is to replace a five-thousand-dollar Tom Ford suit. Even those Bratva pigs look like they spent a pretty penny on their designer clothes to be here today. I’d expect such pompous attire from the Italians, not those assholes. But I guess the occasion called for them to be on their best behavior considering where we are all meeting. It was a strategic idea from La Cosa Nostra to have planned this meeting in a hotel conference room in the Caribbean and not in some vacant warehouse where someone might get the itch to blow the competition into smithereens.
And when I say someone, I mean me.
Nothing would give me greater pleasure than seeing all these motherfuckers blow up in smoke. Can’t do that with a clear conscience when innocent lives could be lost, too. But maybe I’m the only one who considered the hotel guests and staff as unacceptable liabilities. The Butcher twins haven’t arrived yet, and with each passing second that The Firm’s boys aren’t here, my impatience morphs into dreaded uneasiness.
I’m two seconds away from getting my father far away from this place when the double doors to the room swing open–Benny and Danny Butcher finally making their grand entrance. As Benny takes his seat at the table and his twin stands tall behind him, we all notice how their clothes are covered in dried blood.
“You’re late,” Giovanni Moretti, the boss of the Outfit Syndicate, scolds annoyedly.
“We’re here, aren’t we?” Benny replies, his utter boredom making his thick British accent even more pronounced as he slumps back into his chair. “Count your blessings, Giovanni, that we came at all.”
“Go n-ithe an cat thú is go n-ithe an diabhal an cat, ” Athair mumbles under his breath, meaning may the cat eat you, and may the devil eat the cat.
The old Irish proverb might not offend these twats, but it’s my father’s humorous way of telling the English fuckers to rot in hell, all while having a smile on his face.
If I had it my way, it wouldn’t just be the Butcher twins I’d send off to the underworld where they belong. But then again, this whole fucking table deserves a little corner in the fiery pits of hell, considering how we make our money.
Take the Bratva, for example. Like us, they are all about guns and women, but that is as far as our similarities go. The way we conduct business could not be more different than how they go about it. We treat our whores with dignity and respect. We don’t traffic them into the country against their will in shipping containers like those pigs. Our girls get a piece of the pie for their hard work, while the Russians beat and starve their girls to within an inch of their lives should they even think of asking for the same rights. Rumor has it that they like to keep their whores high as kites while their johns have their way with them, as a form of payment for their services.
Bratva scum.
But if there is one thing we Kellys hate more than treating women like garbage, it’s the drugs that infest our streets. And all that supply can be traced back to one family—the Hernandez Cartel. They’ve made their fortune off of junkies’ backs and the devastation of their families. The Mexican Cartel never once batted an eye at turning most of the U.S. into jittery zombies who would suck cock and kill their own grandmothers to get their next fix.
That’s the only thing La Cosa Nostra and The Outfit have in common with us. We despise drugs. Selling, trafficking, anything related to the business we find unsavory. Not that it makes us any better than the Hernandez Cartel. We might turn up our noses on smack, but we’re totally okay with smuggling enough guns around the world to start a civil war.
Then we’ve got The Firm.
The two English pricks, who just waltzed in looking like they went three rounds with Mike Tyson and won, are totally fine with us killing each other stateside, just as long as it doesn’t interfere with their business ventures across the pond. Still, it’s kind of hard for them to claim they are the most influential mafia family in Europe when the Russian mob continues to play on their turf and we, in turn, refuse to let the English bastards do any business in Ireland. The old Sicilian gangsters in La Cosa Nostra also haven’t taken it lightly that London has crowned itself boss, when they are the original vanguard family that birthed the first godfather, no less.
All this animosity made it so that when word got out that Benny and Danny’s father died earlier this week, no one was really surprised. Word quickly spread that Trevor Butcher died on the crapper with a bad heart, but we all know how that scenario could have been easily manipulated to disguise the true cause of his death. I know that everyone sitting around this table has their favorite suspects, but if I had to choose, my money would be on the Cosa Nostra. It was too clean a hit for it to have been anyone else.
Hell hath no fury like a Sicilian scorned .
“We all know why we have come together today,” Carlo Rossi, the head of the Cosa Nostra, announces. “Every head of family sitting here has come to the realization that to preserve our way of life, sacrifices need to be made by all. We must put past grudges aside in order to guarantee our future.”
At the word grudge, I feel Vadim Volkov’s gaze drilling a hole into my forehead. I meet his loathsome stare head-on, knowing the old fucker is still pissed I got the drop on the son sitting at his side. I left a pretty little scar on Alexi’s neck and completely fucked with his vocal cords. Every time he opens his mouth to speak, he’ll have no choice but to remember how I bested him. The smug smile I offer Volkov in return only widens when I watch him white-knuckling his fists. Not that he’ll do anything about it. Not here, and if this meeting goes through as planned, not ever.
“This peace treaty comes at the expense of our pride, but it’s a sacrifice we all must make to ensure our survival,” Rossi adds, while Vadim and I continue our little staring match.
“What are you looking at, Kelly?” The old fart snarls gruffly in my direction.
My smirk is now a full-blown taunting grin.
“Just appreciating my handiwork. It’s not every day I get to see it so proudly flaunted in my face.”
“Tiernan,” my father reprimands under his breath.
“I’m just teasing him, Athair . No harm in breaking the ice with a little jab, right Volkov?”
I wink at the motherfucker to goad him and his father further.
“One of these days, the only thing I’ll break is your fucking teeth, Kelly!” Alexi spits in hatred, while his father growls in fury.
“Tsk. Tsk,” I taunt.” That would defeat the purpose of this meeting. You ain’t got a whole lot in here, do ye, big fella?” I point to my head to drive the point home.
Even from where I’m standing across the table, I can see his nails pierce the flesh of his palm, drawing out blood, resulting in me laughing in his face.
“Basta!” Don Rossi exclaims, irritated at our antics. “Niall, tell your son to keep his witty remarks to himself before his mouth gets him killed. And you, Vadim! As boss, you should know better than to be so easily rattled. Tiernan has misguided youth to excuse his behavior. You don’t have that same luxury.”
“Mne nasrat’, chto ty dumaesh ’. The day I listen to you, is the day hell freezes over. You know what you can do with your condescending advice, Svoloch ’? Za cyun v shopu ,” Volkov snarls, spitting to the floor in distaste.
You don’t have to be fluent in Russian to know Volkov just told Rossi to shove his advice where the sun doesn’t shine.
Not a great start to this fucking peace treaty meeting.
Everyone glares at their enemies from across the table and there is no mistaking the animosity we all have for one another. There isn’t a man here who wouldn’t like to wring the neck of the man sitting at their side or across from them.
“We came here to ensure peace in order for us to continue on with our livelihood. That can only happen if ego and pride are set aside,” Don Rossi continues with less vehemence in his tone.
“That’s a tall order to make, old man,” Benny chimes in.
“It’s an order that will ensure you get to be as old as me. Or is life so dispensable where you come from?”
“Depends on the life.” Benny shrugs, back to his bored facade.
“Are we going to sit here and do this whole song and dance of who has the biggest cock in the room, or are we going to come to an agreement where we stop killing each other?” Giovanni Moretti exclaims, frustrated. “We all know why we are here, what needs to be done. Now, are we men who want to ensure that our way of life continues, business as usual, or should we just kill each other and save ourselves from these childish tantrums?”
“As much as the idea of gutting your bellies open like fish amuses me, Moretti is right. Business must come before pleasure,” Miguel Hernandez adds his two cents.
Of course, the El Jefe of the Hernandez Cartel has business on the brain, and it has nothing to do with saving his kins’ lives. It’s a well-known fact that the South American boss lives off the misery of others and doesn’t care if it’s one of his own that perishes in this war. All he cares about is his fat bottom line, and that his drugs continue to be spread out around the world.
I’m not ignorant to the fact that The Cartel are the richest dipshits in here. While the rest of the families have billions at their disposal, these fuckers have trillions. Enough money that they will never be able to spend it all in their lifetime. However, Miguel Hernandez’s greed for more knows no limits.
That’s another difference between our families. We don’t want world domination, but like fuck will we roll over and concede to any man’s greedy ambitions. I want their drugs out of Boston and as far away from our domain as possible. I know that will never happen unless this treaty goes through. One of our demands is that only a small percentage of their drugs enters Irish territory. I have no idea what the other requests stipulated from these assholes are, nor do I care. This is the only one that, for me, is non-negotiable, and I know Athair feels the same way. Especially since we know firsthand what that junk can do to a family.
“It has been a year since we started our deliberations, and the time has come to put them into action. I admit it will take some time to get used to this new reality, but resistance is futile,” Carlo Rossi deadpans.
My gaze falls to the man who, in an even note, just told us to either bend the knee now or die, without looking one bit flustered at the threat he laid at our feet. The fucker is old school through and through. Like the Outfit, he is cold and pragmatic. It’s served him well so far. To his discontentment, though, the only part of New York City that he hasn’t been able to reign over with an iron fist is Hell’s Kitchen. And that’s because we rule it. I have no real beef with Rossi or his well-tailored goons, even though I highly doubt they would say the same. The Cosa Nostra think we Irish are an unruly bunch. Too unpredictable to be trusted. They like everything nice and tidy. Organized. And we Kellys have always thrived in chaos and disorder. You can’t control a loose cannon, and for those who view control as a precious commodity, the unpredictability of the Kelly family sets them on edge. Still, the Cosa Nostra has been in this game way before the word mafia was even a thing to be feared. They deserve some respect, even if just a sliver of it.
“To ensure blood will stop flowing, we need to mix the families together,” he proceeds with his rant. “We must make sure we are all connected in some way, so no one thinks twice before waging war on us.”
“Agreed,” the heads of each family reply in sync.
“We all have daughters, and a woman’s reason for being has always been to be used for alliance purposes, so it fits that they be the ones to be sacrificed here,” the Cosa Nostra Don continues on.
I bite my inner cheek at that aloof comment, thinking of little Iris back home being thrown to the lions just to end our combined strife. Unfortunately, I don’t see another way, either.
“Once the girls are of age, they must marry the leaders of their family, or soon to be dons and bosses. This exchange must all be done within the same time frame. We don’t want to have anyone back out because they got cold feet and are no longer interested in the union. Can we agree on those terms?”
No one says anything to the contrary, establishing a silent agreement.
“Good. Now seeing as my daughter is only eight and the youngest of the girls, I propose marriage should only occur in ten years’ time when she’s of age.”
“That’s preposterous!” Miguel exclaims, looking red-faced with fury. “My daughter is of age now. How can you expect Rosa to wait to be married until she’s almost thirty? People will think there is something wrong with her.”
“When has public opinion ever been a concern for us?” Benny retorts smugly with an arched brow.
“This will make a mockery of my family. It will only bring shame to my daughter. At that age, who knows if she’ll even be fertile enough to bear children!?!”
God, this asshole is a misogynistic pig.
Miguel Hernandez doesn’t give two shits about his daughter’s reputation. All he cares about is how having a twentysomething unwed daughter will look on him.
“My mother bore children well up to her fortieth birthday. I’m sure she’ll be ripe enough to breed when the time comes, not to mention my father bore more bastards than you can imagine at that age,” Volkov retorts with a scowl.
“Then you take her!”
“No one is calling dibs on any girl. This needs to be fair to all parties concerned. Therefore, there will be a lottery,” Rossi explains patiently.
“A lottery?! What pinche puta solution is this? Is my Rosa supposed to be awarded like cattle to you?!”
My father, having had enough of the Hernandez’ outrage, pushes his chair back and gets up to his feet. All the men in the room instantly go to their waist to grab their guns. Athair, unbothered by the reaction, walks unruffled to the breakfast table set at the corner of the room. My brows pull together, observing my father grabbing the large bowl of fruit and walking back to his seat. Before he sits back down, he tosses the fruit over his shoulder, and places the bowl in the center of the table. Everyone is silently observing his every move, wondering what he’ll do next. Athair grabs a yellow pad of paper, then proceeds to rip a piece, doodling the Kelly name on it and then dropping it into the bowl.
“We all pick a name. Should the name pulled out be of our own daughter, we pick again until we have a new name.”
“A little childish, but I guess it serves our purpose,” Danny scoffs behind his brother.
Fucker.
“Aye, but I find simplicity always gets the job done. Why make a mountain out of a molehill, I always say.”
I smirk at Athair teaching these Brit assholes a lesson.
“It will do,” Rossi adds, throwing his name into the bowl.
One by one, each boss writes their family name on pieces of paper and throws them into the pit of despair, while looking none too happy about it.
And why would they be?
The bowl symbolizes conformity where once free will prevailed.
Yet, it’s the only way to guarantee we live another day in this messed up world of ours.
Ten years.
That’s all I have.
Ten years of blessed freedom until I’m chained to a woman I’ll despise on mere principle alone. Worse still, she will have to bear children of my blood, making sure that every time I look at them, all I’ll see is an enemy ready to take my place. I guess I’ll cross that bridge when the time comes. Right now, I’m more concerned with my little sister’s fate than I am my own.
Iris doesn’t deserve this.
She’s a free spirit, but this is going to rob her of her freedom and place her in a gilded cage of our own making. Staring at the men around me, I consider who would be the lesser evil in welcoming Iris to their home and giving her some semblance of the life she now holds so dear. Unfortunately, the stone-cold faces around the table don’t give anything away, much less inspire any spark of hope.
Do they love their daughters as much as Athair loves Iris?
Do they love their sisters as much as I love mine?
Or do they only see them as pawns to be used in this wretched game?
I doubt any of them care one bit that these girls will be entering, without their consent even, into what most likely will be a toxic—maybe even abusive—relationship. That they will be forced to live in a hostile environment for the rest of their lives just to ensure the treaty is upheld. Just the mere idea of it makes me wish I could demand that Athair back out of this deal right now. Better we all die today than have Iris be subjected to such cruelty tomorrow.
I have ten years to come up with a plan to save my sister. If I can’t come up with anything that will help her in the end, then at least I’ll have enough time to teach Iris how to defend herself. To use her wits. Her brains and fists, if she needs to. Like my younger brother, Shay, Iris has always been fond of knives, so I make a note to gift her a sharp dagger as my wedding present. Whoever the cunt is that ends up calling her his wife will think twice about hurting her with that in her hand. Nothing keeps a man on his guard better than the suspicion that the woman lying beside him in bed can slice his throat while he’s at his most vulnerable.
Once all the names are in the bowl, Giovanni Moretti stands up from his seat and picks up a discarded pen from the table. He then proceeds to use it to slice his palm, creating an ugly gash. I store that piece of information away for the future. Although he might look like any other reputable businessman that wouldn’t dream of getting his hands dirty, Giovanni Moretti could kill his enemy by severing an artery in a man’s neck with just a tip of a pen if he were inclined to do so. Droplets of blood drip to soak the yellow papers in the bowl as he takes turns to look every man here in the eye.
“On my blood, I swear to protect and care for the woman who will ensure the life of the Outfit. Let her sacrifice bring union to the famiglias .”
I take his words in, dissecting their meaning.
Moretti has mostly been silent throughout today’s exchange. Not that I was surprised by his demeanor in any way, since it’s common knowledge that Giovanni prefers to keep his true thoughts close to his vest. He likes to observe his surroundings and catalog his foes’ weaknesses just by listening to them go on and on in their rants. A trait of a great leader, if you ask me.
But the oath Moretti decided to pledge today speaks volumes of his concern. Just like Athair and me, he doesn’t want any harm to come to his daughter either. My respect for the man increases tenfold as his blood continues to drip, and I find myself praying to the Almighty himself that if Iris needs to enter such a crime family, then let it be the Outfit.
Moretti grabs the paper and then reads it—rocks are slung to my stomach when it’s not my sweet sister’s name that falls from his lips.
“Valentina Rossi.”
He shows us the paper and pushes the bowl to the next made man sitting to his side. It’s no secret the Cosa Nostra and the Outfit hate each other. Picking the Rossi girl is a blow to both families.
The bowl continues to make its rounds, and when it’s Athair ’s turn to pick a name, he surprises me by grabbing my hand and pulling me next to him. My father then makes a show of slicing both our palms with the pen, clasping them together before droplets of our mixed blood fall into the wretched bowl that is to seal my sister’s fate as well as my own. I hold my breath as my father utters his oath and then looks to me to repeat it, word for word. As his heir, I follow his lead and do my duty. Everyone in this room knows what my father’s intention is with this one deliberate move—what it symbolizes. Even after his death, I am to uphold his oath as my own.
The men sitting at this table hear our vow and wait on bated breath to see who is chosen.
When the name Rosa Hernandez comes into view, a myriad of emotions assaults me all at once.
This is it.
This is the woman I will be shackled to.
And though I just promised not to hurt her, I hate her already.
The blow continues to make its way through my body, my heart beating a mile a minute with the realization that my future is now entangled with the cartel princess. The only thing that brings me out of my reverie is when my baby sister’s name is called out.
And God help me, I’ve never wanted to have a gun in my hands more just to kill the Volkov fucker who just breathed Iris’s name with a smirk.
The Bratva.
My baby sister is to wed the Russian pigs who view women as disposable property.
They will snuff my sister’s wild spirit out.
Iris will be a pawn in their twisted games.
They won’t stop until they break her.
“No,” I yell out. “Choose another.”
Vadim smiles sinisterly. “Now where would be the diplomacy in that?”
“You can’t have her.”
“I can, and I will.”
“Tiernan,” Athair mumbles softly, but unlike every man here, I hear the tremor of fear in his voice.
“I said fucking pick another one!” I slam my fists on the table.
“No. She’s my son’s now.” His eyes gleam in triumph, while Alexi stares into blank space, not moving a muscle. “Actually, Iris will belong to all my sons. As I see it, my family needs you just as much as you all need mine. These are my terms. The Irish girl is to be made a Bratva princess to all my boys.”
“Over my dead body!”
“That can be arranged.”
I launch myself at him from across the table, but two pairs of hands pull me back. I look to my left to find Giovanni shaking his head, ordering me to cool it, but it’s the man to my right that actually gives me pause and stops me in my tracks. Alejandro Hernandez stares me down with his dark eyes, silently commanding me to stand down. Never in my wildest imagination would I ever conceive of the idea that one day Alejandro would come to my aid and prevent me from starting a war. But in doing so, he’s already making it clear to everyone here where his alliances are, considering the fact that I’m to be his family.
Fuck.
This is so fucked up.
Too fucked up for me to wrap my head around.
I shrug their hands off me, my whole body trembling with rage.
“Carlo,” my father begins to protest, standing up with palms flat on the table. “This is absurd. You can’t honestly allow my daughter to be shared like some common whore.”
“She’s a woman, isn’t she? I haven’t met one yet who didn’t enjoy being fucked by three cocks,” Vadim adds, his eyes sparkling with triumph, reveling in our misery. “Besides, it is an old Russian tradition. The most revered czars practiced such ways in the old country. It’s a sign of devotion. And it’s my family’s way of showing just how much we will honor this treaty.”
Sick fuck!
“Carlo,” Athair repeats, his voice begging for mercy. “Don’t allow this madness.”
Carlo Rossi’s forehead wrinkles, thinking long and hard about this turn of events. Both Athair and I hold our breath, waiting for his ruling.
“Gentleman, we all knew coming into this that there would be sacrifices to be made in the pursuit of peace. If the Volkov family wishes to uphold their traditions that will ensure obedience to this peace treaty, then let no man here refute their will. It is up to each family’s moral code to do as they see fit.”
Athair slumps back into his seat, defeat written all over his face.
I watch in horror as Vadim retrieves a switchblade from his inner pocket and orders Alexi to stand up.
“On my blood and on the blood of my legitimate heir, Alexi, we swear to protect and care for the woman who will ensure the life of the Bratva. Let her sacrifice bring union to every family here.”
His demon eyes stare into his son, silently ordering him to say the same words out loud.
“On my blood, and on the blood of my brothers, we too swear to protect and care for the woman who will ensure the life of the Bratva. Let her sacrifice bring union to us all.”
The words coming out seem robotic, as if he doesn’t even care he just officially made sure that Iris will not only be his, but his brothers, too.
Alexi sits back down in his seat, while Vadim drinks up his victory over Athair and I like it’s the best sweet cherry wine he’s ever tasted.
“Don’t worry, Kelly. My boys will take good care of her. We’re family now. Isn’t that the point of all this?” Volkov goads, trying to get a rise from me.
I’m not sure what pisses me off more.
Vadim’s triumphant sneer or Alexi’s complete indifference and disregard.
“He’s right. It’s done,” Alejandro mutters evenly beside me, not an ounce of emotion in his tone.
“Tell me, Kelly. Do you want to go to war because of one little girl?” Vadim directs the question to my father, who is sitting down looking as stoic as ever.
“If you hurt her, I will kill you,” I reply when my father refuses to acknowledge Volkov’s taunts.
His haughty smirk chills my blood.
“We can call this whole thing off, if you want? We are more than prepared to continue this war if you are.”
“This war ends here. You might not like it, Tiernan, but should you prevent this from happening, then all of us will make sure your last breath will be witnessed by every man here,” Rossi warns. “And you, Volkov, should we hear that the girl is treated in any way less than with the respect she is entitled to as the mother of your future heirs, then the same fate will be bestowed upon you. Think long and hard, gentlemen, because this is what this treaty really means. We are now all linked. One misstep and you no longer have one or two families to war with, but all of us.”
“We understand,” Athair says somberly. “Volkov, we are honored to have you welcome our Iris into your home and family. You will not have any issues from us. I give you my solemn vow.”
My father’s words burn a hole through my chest.
“And you, Tiernan?” Rossi questions.
Through gritted teeth, I nod, unable to consent to my sister’s macabre fate with words.
“Good. This… gentlemen,” Rossi begins, planting his palms on the table as he makes eye contact with every man here, “is the beginning of a new dawn. Where we flourish and thrive in business, knowing that old vendettas are put to the side for the greater good. You have ten years to settle into this new way of life and put your demands into place. We will all honor it. This is our future now. Our survival. And if there is a man here that will put this agreement in any kind of jeopardy, then death will not only knock on his doorstep, but also greet every family member they have ever cared for.”
In other words, submit or die.
My family could survive a war with two families, maybe even three. But with all five? We would all be dead within a week. And the same can be said for every family here if they also oppose it. I just hope the threat of death is enough to keep them all honorable. If not, then the previous Mafia Wars will pale in comparison to the retribution of the future.
Whatever our destiny, no one wins here today.
But to truly lose would mean our extinction.
Ten years.
That’s all Iris and I have now.
Only time will tell if we’ll have many more after that.
And as the outside wind continues to blow, the storm taking up new heights, I make my own vow to Saint Brendan himself, asking him to give me the strength and fortitude to strike down every man here if the fate that awaits us is filled with Kelly blood.
If my life and that of my sister is to pay the price for peace, then I pity the fool who ever tries to disrupt it.
His death will be a thing of nightmares.
I’ll make sure of it.