Era of Evil Read online

  Era of Evil

  Spenser Warren

  Contents

  An Exclusive Offer

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

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  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books by Spenser Warren

  Copyright 2019 by Spenser Warren

  First published in Chicago, IL, United States in 2019 by Pulse Pounding Publications

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  has been applied for.

  ISBN: 978-1-7329901-6-6 (paperback)

  ISBN: 978-1-7329901-7-3 (hardcover)

  ISBN: 978-1-7329901-5-9 (ebook)

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, uploading, or otherwise, except as permitted under Section 107 or 108 of the 1976 United States Copyright Act, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor to be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Cover design by: Matt Davies

  Formatted by: Vellum

  Version1

  Will a hit man meet his end? Discover how to read your next Cal Boyle thriller — FREE!

  Find out how to get your FREE copy of the Callahan Boyle prequel novella, Marked for Murder!

  Read until the end to discover how to get your free copy of Marked for Murder, a book available only to my readers. Marked for Murder is an action-packed thriller that showcases one of Cal’s first kills as a hit man in the Chicago mafia. I’m confident you’ll love every page.

  What happens when Cal kills the wrong man? From ferocious fist fights to careening car crashes, read as Cal navigates a burgeoning drug war between the Chicago mafia and a rival gang, whose leader is hellbent on ensuring Cal never sees another day. Will Cal find a way to take down his never-ending list of enemies?

  Stay tuned for your exclusive offer to receive your FREE copy of Marked for Murder. Not only will you get your hands on a great read, you’ll also be among the first to be notified of new releases by signing up for my “hit list.” I’ll keep the emails fast, friendly, and fun, and you can unsubscribe at any time.

  Until then, I hope you enjoy Era of Evil.

  For Nannie. Your consistent happiness and true-to-self nature inspires me.

  1

  Callahan Boyle slowed his jog along Pacific Beach in America’s Finest City. He never imagined he’d be living in San Diego at any point in his life, yet here he was. With both Christmas and his thirtieth birthday approaching, he wasn’t sure if he should be grateful he was avoiding another Chicago winter or relieved that he had Uncle Judd as the only family member he could turn to following his escape from the mob. Either way, his mood couldn’t be described as merry or happy.

  The gentle waves of the Pacific Ocean crashed against the sand. Families in wetsuits were laughing and enjoying the high-fifty-degree weather, glad they were able to surf and paddleboard so close to the holidays if they were locals, or excited to avoid the snow and icy roads of their less temperate homes if they were visiting.

  Cal sighed as he spotted a group of college girls in jean shorts and bikini tops walking from the beach toward him. Even though the weather wasn’t frigid, Cal couldn’t understand how the young women were comfortable in the tiny clothing. He would normally wear a winter coat and perhaps long johns underneath his jeans at this time of year. Despite being away from Chicago’s hellish winters, Cal was still clothed in one of his uncle’s blue multicolored drug rugs and a pair of tan cargo pants.

  One of the girls, a blonde with windswept wet hair and a seashell necklace, smiled at him. Normally, Cal would’ve smiled back. He was an attractive man and stood a tall six feet three inches, with brown hair and calming but fierce brown eyes. His only blemish was a scar just below his right ear from where his drunken father slashed him in a fit of rage when Cal was just a boy. But this time Cal had no desire to flirt with the girl, attractive as she was. He felt dead inside and was still awash in grief at the loss of Maria.

  Cal wasn’t the romantic type, and it had been a year into their relationship before he told Maria he loved her, but he realized now that she was his one true love. She was passionate, she was comforting, she was independent, but most importantly, she was patient. Despite Cal’s mountain of faults, she’d stuck with him until the end. The end that was brought about when he was unable to save her.

  He couldn’t believe he put down Vinnie’s gun after he thought he’d finally vanquished his adoptive father, mafia boss Alfredo Petrocelli. Had he done exactly what he’d been trained to do as a hit man—not put the gun down until he knew his foe was eliminated—he and Maria would still be together, and Alfredo would be dead. He’d likely be on the run, but he’d have his love by his side.

  Cal wondered what else he could’ve done, what other avenues he could’ve pursued to ensure Maria lived that night, but he’d already exhausted all of the possibilities. The only thing he could’ve done differently was to leave the mob way before the Caruso business started, way before he met her.

  Maria had been one of the reasons—perhaps the biggest reason aside from discovering the truth about his mother’s death—that Cal chose to leave the mafia in the first place. Yes, he realized his desire to stop killing for pay, but he never would’ve found the courage to ask Alfredo to leave when he did had it not been for her.

  Cal’s heart remained stricken with grief, and his burden didn’t feel any lighter as he looked out onto the beach. The morning clouds had yet to part, meaning the typical Southern California sunshine had yet to appear over the sand. Cal noticed the group of girls had stopped their approach. A beer-bellied man around Cal’s height in a white tank top and open red button-down shirt was talking to them. He was paying particular attention to the blonde who had smiled at Cal. Cal could tell from the furrowing of their brows and wideness
of their eyes that they weren’t pleased the man was talking to them. The two girls flanking the blonde seemed unsure if they should make a run for it or stay and support their friend.

  Cal stepped forward, his eyes trained on the uneasy young women. He hoped their gazes would meet, and they would see in his eyes that he sensed their pain and was ready to help. One of them, a black girl in an orange bikini top and faded denim shorts, looked at Cal with hesitation and turned toward her friend, who seemed on the verge of exasperation talking to the man. Even from a hundred feet away, Cal could decipher from the man’s slurred speech that he was drunk. It wasn’t even ten in the morning.

  “Hold on, pretty little lady, I’m just trying to talk to you,” the man shouted.

  The girls darted toward Cal. The man stumbled after them. Now that the man was drawing closer, Cal realized the drunken beachgoer had a striking resemblance to Alfredo Petrocelli.

  “Get back here, ma’am.”

  The girls broke into a full-on sprint. The drunk continued his pursuit and wheezed as his feet swept through the sand in an effort to catch up. He reached out and caught the blonde’s right arm. She pumped her legs, struggling to escape his grip, but the man had both hands around her wrist and his feet set in the sand. There was little stopping him.

  The girl screamed as her friends kept running, scampering past Cal. His eyes hardened as he turned back to look at them. They were too scared to ask for help. Cal knew he had to act fast. But what approach would he take? He’d promised Maria to continue down the path of good, leaving his previously violent instincts off the table. He could shout at the man to stop, hoping that, when combined with the girl’s screams, it would motivate the other beachgoers into action.

  It was the drunk’s striking resemblance to Alfredo that caused his blood to boil and his mind-set to default to violence. He saw the same brown hair with gray streaks, the same bulging arms and shoulders, and the same devilish smile with wide white teeth that Alfredo had. Cal felt a rage build from his feet, through his legs, into his chest, and radiate into his arms. The tension escalated to a boiling point at the top of his head.

  Almost as if he were on autopilot, Cal’s protector instincts kicked into gear. He was off, racing toward the girl, ready to save her. There was no time for words, no time for diplomacy. Cal was determined to beat the shit out of the drunken man, to have at him as if he were pummeling Alfredo.

  As Cal charged and his eyes met the drunk’s, he noticed the morning boozer refused to loosen his grip on the girl. Cal had covered the distance between them rapidly, the pile of sand he ran through not even fazing him. His fist was raised, ready to strike. A blend of confusion and terror was written on the blonde girl’s face. He just hoped her reflexes were quicker than that of the drunken man.

  “Duck!”

  In a flash, the girl dived for the sand below, the drunken man loosened his grip, and Cal’s fist collided with the left side of his jaw. He was down on the ground in an instant and Cal was on top of him.

  Cal’s fist slammed into the man’s head again. This time the man cried out in pain, and Cal heard the crunching of bone beneath his punches. Seeing Alfredo’s face beneath him, Cal showed no mercy. His knuckle-clenched hands flew back and forth across his victim’s face. The other beachgoers ran over to watch. Out of the corner of his eye, Cal saw the girl stand from the sand and collect herself, a smile shining across her face.

  Cal grabbed the man by his shirt collar and looked into his slits for eyes, which became smaller by the second as his cheeks swelled.

  “You thought you could get away with it? You thought you could take Maria from me and not expect to face me? Well, you were wrong.”

  Cal stopped his punches and realized every set of eyes on the beach was glued to him. The drunk slipped from Cal’s grip, and his head collapsed into the sand. Cal knew he had to get out of there before the cops found out what happened. He’d done his part in saving the girl, but he couldn’t take the fall for beating up the bad guy. One major slipup and he knew he would be in serious trouble.

  Cal rose to his feet, brushed off the sand from his pants, and smiled at the girl. She winked at him, perhaps ready to resume what Cal had thought of as her attempt to flirt with him earlier. Cal could only nod, running off in the direction in which he’d come, ignoring the cries—some of support—of the beachgoers behind him.

  Cal kept running as fast as he could through the sand and up to the rock leading to the beach’s parking lot. He was ready to do whatever it took to get off of the beach without facing prosecution. He took one last look over his shoulder and saw that the commotion had stopped. He turned to face the other direction, but before he saw what it was, he knew he had hit something hard.

  He’d struck the muscled pectorals of a San Diego police officer.

  2

  From the moment his wife, Susan, had told him he’d become a father, Alfredo Petrocelli had a lot of inklings about what being a dad would be like. Not once did he ever envision the scene before him—the marked gravestones of his two children. Luca had been dead for years, during which time Alfredo had grown used to the gentle ache of his youngest son’s absence from his life. Yet it was the loss of his oldest son, Vinnie, whose death occurred just three months ago, that wrenched at him the most.

  He remembered his smiling boys, how happy they were in their early years. The gently falling snow and mass of cold mush piled gently beside his boots reminded Alfredo of the fateful family ski trip nearly twenty years ago to Breckenridge, a vacation the family planned to never forget. Little did he know that the trip would be embedded in his memory for all the wrong reasons.

  Alfredo shivered into the warmth of his coat at the recollection of the horrible accident leading to his youngest son’s death. He stiffened his neck to combat the movement of the icy wind whipping at his face. The only warmth his sons felt now was whatever cushioning surrounded their dead bodies in the finely adorned caskets buried beneath the icy ground.

  The wind passed, and Alfredo’s cheeks turned a shade less rosy as he chose to focus on happier times. He remembered two years before Luca’s death when an eight-year-old Vinnie gently guided his younger brother with a confident hand on his back as Luca rode his little bicycle without training wheels through the quiet streets of their Evanston neighborhood. Seeing Luca’s slightly fearful yet joyous smile and hearing Vinnie’s innocent laughs warmed Alfredo’s wounded heart.

  It was commonplace for most siblings to fight and vie for attention to the exclusion of loving relations. Alfredo and his oldest brother fought all the time as kids, always arguing over which toy belonged to whom, but that wasn’t the case with his two boys. He and his wife, Susan, raised two gentle boys who got along with all the other children in the neighborhood, despite the family’s mafia ties.

  Alfredo scanned his brain for more happy memories, hoping to recall the fond games of catch he played with both of his children, or the time he encouraged the two of them to start their own lemonade stand and get their entrepreneurial feet wet before moving into the family business when they got older. Perhaps it was the harsh temperatures chilling his brain and slowing its function, or maybe his age was catching up to him, but he failed to recall any such memories. Sure, he’d played catch once or twice with Vinnie when he played for his middle school baseball team and had shot some HORSE before Vinnie tried out for the high school basketball team, but Alfredo was disappointed to remember those few memories as the extent of his early bonding experiences with his sons.

  The time period had been a crucial one in his mafia career, a time where his father, Louie, then boss of the Chicago mafia, had agreed to let the family expand its fledgling drug empire into more neighborhoods. As new underboss of the family, it was Alfredo’s job to lead the capos in securing new territories, distribution, and warehousing of drugs the mafia wanted to flood the market with. It was a significant expansion, and something Alfredo felt only he could do. The cash flow from the new drug markets would more t
han set him and his family up for life, even if the family cashed out after a few years.

  Even if he had felt only he was capable of achieving the mafia’s drug aims, Alfredo felt a pang of guilt that he’d been so focused on money and growing his power within the mafia as opposed to being present with his children. He felt the family ski trip was his first step in the direction of committing to be the father he always wanted to be, more loving than his own father. Yet after Luca’s death, Alfredo went back to being Mr. Businessman.

  The mob boss wondered what he could’ve done differently if he had the chance. If he’d spent more time with his children in their formative years, would Luca or Vinnie still be alive?

  Alfredo stood at the graves, just one tiny plot of the larger section of Andersonville’s Rosehill Cemetery in which the Petrocelli family and close friends had been laid to rest. Alfredo’s good buddy Frankie Ramone had been buried a few yards away at the same time Vinnie went into the ground. To the south, Al Meransky’s wife and young children buried the former North Side capo at Graceland Cemetery.