Dominic (Made Men Book 8) Read online

  Dominic swiftly spun on his heel, turning back to see Lucifer’s critical glare as he sat on his throne. Placing his inked fingers on the front of the desk, he slid his fingertips across the mahogany wood, feeling the indentions of the grain.

  “I will do what you never could.” Giving his father one last defiant look, he whispered his final vow for Lucifer’s ears only, “I will be king.”

  As Dominic took a seat on the leather throne, Lucifer’s image disappeared into the wind; the ghost of his father vanishing as quickly as he had appeared. Son replacing father, underboss replacing boss, new replacing old.

  Never once had he sat in it as a child, to dream about this day. He’d always known if he even touched his father’s chair, the punishment wouldn’t have been worth the daydream.

  “Now”—Dominic sat back as he squeezed the tufted leather arms in the palm of his hands, the dark, gothic-style lettering of his tattoos spelling out the letters O-V-E-R-C-O-M-E across his fingers—“let’s begin.”

  One

  Jesse James Was a Mean Son of a Bitch

  Dominic, Age 5

  Sitting crossed-legged on the dusty wooden floor, a young Dominic stared up at the small TV that was a foot away. A Wild West movie was playing, which looked fuzzy when the signal went out. It wasn’t just his favorite thing to watch, it was the only thing he watched. He thought that was all the two-by-two-foot box played. When he’d gone to kindergarten and was around kids for the first time, they had asked him what his favorite cartoon was, and when he said he didn’t know, they all looked at him funny.

  Dominic quickly learned he was much different than the other kids in school. They wanted to play cops and robbers, and all he wanted to play was cowboys and Indians. The kids spoke of shows like Bugs Bunny, Rugrats, and something lame called Thundercats—that looked like a human fucked a cat—while all he knew was John Wayne, High Noon, and Clint Eastwood. When asked what he wanted to be when he grew up, Dominic confidently stood tall, telling the class he wanted to be Jesse James.

  Jesse James was a mean son of a bitch who could dual and wield two pistols all while riding a horse. He was the greatest outlaw to ever live, and one day he wanted the name Dominic Luciano to go down in history, right beside Jesse James.

  The front door opening had Dominic turning his little head away from the epic draw that was about to play out on the buzzing TV to see his father walking in carrying two baby carriers.

  “Where’s Carla?” he asked when Lucifer kicked the door closed behind him.

  Without hesitation, his father answered, devoid of any emotion, “She’s dead.”

  His little lip curled up, feeling a sudden sadness, but Dominic didn’t let himself cry, knowing he’d be punished if he allowed any tears to fall.

  Carla had been nice to him and even gave him ice cream a couple of times for breakfast when Lucifer was still sleeping. He thought he was finally going to get a mommy, but even at five years old, he knew he wasn’t going to see Carla again. When they left for the hospital, his father had been looking at her the same way that Clint Eastwood did right before he whipped his gun out to shoot someone.

  She had cried almost every day, and whenever Dominic asked what was wrong, Lucifer always spat out, “because she’s weak,” before mumbling under his breath that his sons better not come out weak either.

  When he set the carriers down on the living room floor, young Dominic scooted his knees across the hard floor, the head of an exposed nail tearing apart one of his hand-me-down jeans. Peeking over from behind the carriers, he saw the two tiny, sleeping figures.

  “Don’t you dare fucking wake them up.”

  “I won’t,” he promised on a whisper, just wanting to get a good look at them. They were so small and perfect. They looked just like the baby doll a girl in his class always carried around with her. “What are their names?”

  Pointing to the one on the right, Lucifer told him, “Angel”—before pointing to the baby on the left—“and Matthias.”

  “But, how do you know who is who? They look the same.”

  “You’ll see when they wake up. This one doesn’t stop crying,” Lucifer said, pointing to the one called Matthias. “Like that,” he grumbled when the baby woke up right on cue and began crying.

  “Go get the bottle out of the bag on the table,” Lucifer snapped at him.

  Dom quickly got up and ran over to the diaper bag, pulling out the plastic bottle. “I can feed him,” he said when he came back with the bottle that was still half full, wanting to help.

  “That’s all right.” Lucifer took it from Dom’s little hand and put it in the baby’s crying mouth before scrunching up the blanket that had been covering his tiny body so he could drink it without anyone having to hold it.

  Baby Matthias’s tiny mouth sucked the rubber nipple until it popped out and he began to cry again.

  “I can hold it.” Dominic went to grab the bottle, but his hand was slapped away.

  “He’ll learn to drink it just like you did,” Lucifer assured him, bottle propping the baby again, this time holding it steady until Matthias got in a rhythm.

  Holding his struck hand, Dom used his little knees to scoot himself back to sit in front of the TV, away from his father’s grasp.

  Dominic watched the fuzzy screen, seeing his favorite part was about to happen. He had seen this part of the movie about a million times and mimicked what was happening on screen as it played out. When the cowboy blew on the end of the barrel, blowing away the smoke coming out of his pistol, Dominic blew on his pretend finger gun, then placed it in his jean pocket right when the cowboy placed his gun in the holster.

  “Where’s DeeDee?” Lucifer asked, intently staring at him from behind.

  He shrugged. He hadn’t seen much of her since she had been here watching him. “Asleep upstairs, I think.”

  “Go get her.”

  He quickly got up, following the order, going up the creaky steps to find DeeDee passed out in his father’s bed. Dom shook her lightly at first, trying to wake the rough, woman who smelled like the yellow piss she liked to drink too much of. When she didn’t wake, he shook her harder and harder until she finally managed to open an eye and slur out her words.

  “W-What the hell do you w-want, kid?”

  “My father’s her—”

  Without even finishing what he was going to say, DeeDee hopped out of bed the second she found out Lucifer was here.

  Running over to the tiny attached bathroom, she threw water over her face and hacked out a thick spitball into the sink after clearing her throat.

  Going down the steps, she was just as quick, with only a few missteps from the hangover. If Dominic hadn’t been walking down in front of her, she wouldn’t have been able to catch herself on his head and would have drunkenly tumbled down the stairs.

  DeeDee tried her best to speak like she didn’t smoke a pack a cigarettes a day. “Yes, Lucifer?”

  “Watch the twins while me and Dominic go out back.”

  “All right.” She smiled, going to get a look at the babies. “They are so cute, just like their fath—”

  “Let’s go.” Lucifer pushed Dom along, paying the woman no mind.

  “What are we doing?” Dom asked as they headed out the back door and into the backyard that was a muddy, desolate area where grass mostly refused to grow, only yellowed-green patches here and there.

  “You’re ready,” his father told him, picking up an old, slightly scrunched up soda can that littered the yard. Taking it to a stump a few yards away, he set it down, then came back.

  “For what?”

  Lucifer pulled the pistol out from behind his back. “To become a man.”

  Staring at the shiny silver metal, he saw it glisten as the sun bounced off it, practically blinding his eyes, but he couldn’t look away. He wanted so badly to reach out and touch it, to finally touch the thing he wanted most in the world that would get him one step closer to becoming a great outlaw like Jesse James.


  He’d grown out of the toy gun he’d been given at two, when he realized it was for babies because a bullet never came out. He wanted a real one, always staring at the very gun his father was now holding out to him. But he would never forget what happened when he had reached out to touch it once after Lucifer had set it down on the kitchen table.

  Dominic had been three, and his father had covered his tiny hand with his own, stopping him before he could even see how it felt. Lucifer had only said one thing, “That’s not a toy for a little boy; it’s a weapon for a man,” right before he snapped his little wrist, breaking it. Needless to say, he had never reached for it again. Even now, he was sure it was a test.

  “Well, take it,” Lucifer insisted, pushing it closer to him.

  “For real?” Dom looked away from the gun to finally meet Lucifer’s eyes, seeing he had been serious. “I won’t get in trouble?”

  “You will if you don’t take it. Now take it!” Lucifer snapped.

  Jumping, Dom slowly reached for it, and when the metal fell into his hand, he almost dropped it, not expecting it to be so heavy. It felt different than he thought it would, but strangely right. When he lifted it again, he was prepared for the weight.

  “Good, you’re strong enough to hold it.”

  Dom wasted no time pointing it toward the soda can and pulling the trigger, only to hear it click.

  Lucifer quickly snatched the gun from his hand. “Did I fucking tell you to shoot it?”

  “I’m sorry. I didn—”

  “You’re not ready.” His father shook his head and started to walk away.

  “I am!” Dominic yelled at his back, promising he was. How was he supposed to know he wasn’t allowed to shoot it?

  “First lesson you’re going to learn the hard way.” Lucifer stormed back, snatching Dominic’s hand and placing the pistol in it correctly. “When you put your finger on the trigger, you have to be prepared for the consequences, whether you think the gun is loaded or not.”

  Dominic’s hand shook when Lucifer lifted the pistol, making him point it at his father’s chest. Staring up at the barrel that pointed right at his father’s heart, every death scene he had seen in the Wild West movies played through his mind, but instead of the dead cowboys, he saw his father in a puddle of blood.

  “Your finger rests here”—Lucifer touched Dom’s pointer finger that was resting along the bottom of the barrel—“until you’re ready to shoot, and only until then do you place your finger on the trigger.”

  Dominic felt tears well up in his eyes as his father forced his finger to the trigger.

  “Because you have to be certain of what’s on the other side when you pull it.”

  CLICK.

  When his father forced his finger to pull the trigger, wet tears fell to his cheeks and not because he was scared of killing him, but because he liked the thought of it.

  “Now.” Lucifer made him point the gun back at the soda can, then properly fixed his stance, showing him how to hold the gun while looking through the sight. “You’re gonna stand there until I say you can move.”

  Dominic didn’t say a word as his father walked back in the house, and no matter how tired his little body got or how badly his arms shook from holding the heavy weapon, he stayed perfectly in place without his finger on the trigger. Because one good thing actually happened—he finally got to hold the gun he’d been dreaming about.

  Staring down the barrel at the scrunched-up aluminum can, he prepared himself for the day it would be loaded.

  It wasn’t until the last bit of sun was about to fall did his father come back outside to take the gun from him, telling him he could go back inside.

  When his arms dropped to his sides, they felt like they had fallen off. He had to make sure when he was running back into the house they were still attached.

  Going back in, he watched DeeDee place the twin called Matthias back into the carrier before propping a bottle in his mouth. The only reason he was sure it was him was because when DeeDee got up to meet Lucifer in the kitchen, he saw Angel sitting happily.

  Dominic took a peek at the kitchen, making sure Lucifer wasn’t coming, before he went to sit between his brothers, then grabbed the bottle to hold it for Matthias.

  Sitting there, he fed his baby brother while he rocked the other one to sleep.

  He supposed two good things happened today.

  He got to hold a gun …

  And he was no longer alone.

  Two

  Patience

  Dominic, Age 6

  Dominic stood in the same spot he always stood outside, the dirt now slightly dipped from his constant weight. Going through the drills his father had trained him to do, he pulled the gun from his waist, loaded it, racked it, aimed, then pulled the trigger before he placed it back at his waist, then repeated it again and again until the sun went down. The only problem was … there was no gun.

  It had been one whole year since he touched the gun, twelve months of Lucifer’s gun-less drills and his father telling him to be patient. At first, Dominic thought it would only be a week before he could get the gun back in his hands, and when that didn’t happen, he was sure he’d get it in a month. When that still didn’t happen, time started to blur, and the only thing that kept him going was that he’d held it in his hands once. Hope was all he had to keep himself going, to be able to touch that precious metal again.

  Dominic’s six-year-old body had grown a lot in a year. His arms had toned from the motions, even though his hands had been weightless. Not knowing what he was training for, he looked like a dancer with how gracefully precise he moved. It was almost … beautiful.

  The thing he hated the most was the stupid scrunched-up soda can he had to look at that his father had nailed into the stump. For twelve months he stared at that thing, wanting to blow it to smithereens, like Jesse James would have. The dirty can was his constant reminder of how he hadn’t come any closer to becoming the great outlaw he wanted to be.

  Dominic felt Lucifer’s presence before he even opened the back door. It was another thing his father had trained him in, even though it wasn’t intentional. It was a survival instinct the six-year-old ingrained in himself to keep from getting beaten for the silly reasons Lucifer declared.

  He felt sorry for his twin brothers, who were just now starting to walk. The beatings were coming for them, and they were coming soon. Their size was the only thing that had saved them so far. That was another thing Lucifer complained about—how small they were for their age. Dominic might’ve had something to do with that.

  He didn’t let his brothers over eat, only giving them just enough milk and baby food to keep them from going hungry. He did everything to try to hold off the inevitable, even if it kept his twin brothers from being hurt—even for a month—then it was worth it.

  He hadn’t been as lucky as Angel and Matthias. Having been born a hefty baby, he’d looked about “six months old out the womb,” as his father liked to brag, proud of his firstborn’s stature. So,when Dominic was six months old, he had already been smacked.

  Seeing his father standing in front of him, blocking his view of the soda can, he continued his dance, never stopping until his father gave him the order to do so. Lucifer reached behind his back and pulled out the gun.

  “You’re ready.”

  This time, Dominic didn’t ask why, and didn’t hesitate to take the unloaded weapon.

  The last thing Lucifer held out to him was the magazine, fully loaded.

  Dominic took it in his free hand, but it wasn’t until Lucifer moved out of the way, giving him the go-ahead, did he snap in the mag in one swift motion and rack the gun before bullets flew out, each one nailing the soda can until the only thing that remained was the little piece of aluminum attached to the nail. Dominic then released the empty magazine, holding it and the hot gun out for his father to take back. It all happened in under a minute.

  That was the first time he had seen a slight smile touch his father
’s lips, and it almost scared him. Lucifer was a scary-looking man, but his smile made him look terrifying.

  “Wait here,” Lucifer told him, taking back the gun and magazine before going back inside.

  He waited outside for about ten minutes before his father finally returned, this time with a much different gun in his hand. It was a matte black revolver, requiring the five bullets to be loaded one by one, just like the ones they used in the westerns he loved to watch.

  Lucifer showed him how to properly use it. He first loaded the five bullets, flicked it shut with the flick of his wrist, then cocked it and shot it, hitting the stump right in the middle. This gun sounded fuller with a heftier boom. Dominic also noticed how his father’s hand flew farther back than it had with the Glock, meaning a much bigger recoil.

  Lucifer took out the bullets, then handed the empty gun over to his son before giving him the remaining bullets. “I want you to feel it, memorize how it feels in your hands, and load it. I’ll give you one hour with it, but I better have four bullets when I get back.”

  The fear of his father was enough to keep those four bullets from firing.

  Dominic did as his father asked, cherishing those sixty minutes like it was the last time he would hold the revolver. He began a new dance all over again, beautifully moving and ingraining the weight and feel into his mind. The hour seemed infinite … until it wasn’t.

  “That’s all you get,” his father said, taking the gun from his hands.

  Little did Dominic know that it would feel like forever before his hands would touch that revolver, as the cycle began all over again … sans gun.

  The next day when he went outside to practice, a new soda can had been nailed to the stump. Thankfully he didn’t have to look at it for a year, only three months.