Possessed by the Killer

Possessed by the Killer
BB Hamel


Contents
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1. Dean
2. Mags
3. Dean
4. Mags
5. Dean
6. Mags
7. Dean
8. Mags
9. Dean
10. Mags
11. Dean
12. Mags
13. Dean
14. Mags
15. Dean
16. Mags
17. Dean
18. Mags
19. Dean
20. Mags
21. Dean
22. Mags
BONUS: Dean
Also by BB Hamel


Copyright © 2021 by B. B. Hamel
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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1
Dean
My father, king of the Valentino crime family, greatest Don of his generation, hardened murderer and real piece of shit, was finally dead.
It was bittersweet. On the one hand, he was my dad, and I should be sad about that.
Except truthfully, I wasn’t. Not exactly.
Growing up wasn’t easy. My mother died when I was a year old and I had no memory of her. She was replaced by an endless string of nannies while my father remained a distant presence around the house, barely more than a shadow cast down the stairs, or a shout from his office, or the violent thump of his shoes stomping down the back hall out toward the garage.
I feared my father. My childhood was spent running from his rages and trying desperately to live up to his impossible standards.
Seriously, I should’ve been sad. He was my father.
Instead, if I was being charitable with myself, I was conflicted.
I stood to inherit a fortune along with the most important crime family on the East Coast.
The Valentinos would be mine. Assuming I could hold them all together.
So my dad dying was sad, sure. Real fucking sad.
But he was an asshole that made my life miserable, and now I would finally take my rightful place as the head of the family.
Like I said, conflicted.
I sat behind my father’s desk. It was cleaned out already. His body was barely cold before I began to claim that space for myself. I knew I’d need it—that office was the symbol of his power, the throne from which he ran his mafia kingdom. I felt strange sitting there, looking out at the room. I’d spent so many days and nights sitting on the opposite end, looking at my father, the Don, while he gave his orders.
Now those orders would come from me.
I threw out his chair and bought a new one. Something with lumbar support. No wonder my father was always in such a bad mood. His back probably felt like hell.
I leaned back and drank from a glass of good whiskey. It burned on the way down, burned in a pleasant way. Out in the hall, Bea moved like a fox darting through the forest. The doorbell rang and hushed voices echoed off the ornate wood paneling, the priceless paintings, the absurdly expensive rugs and statues, and whatever else my father bought with his illegal cash.
Art was a great way to launder money.
Bea knocked gently at the office door. I’d recognize her cadence anywhere. “Come in,” I said, sitting forward.
The door opened and Bea lingered on the threshold. Behind her, Roy Paganini stepped toward the desk, his graying hair slicked back, his massive framed shoved into a suit that looked much too small for him. He had dark eyes and a crooked nose, broken one too many times, and I wanted to break it again. His smile was lopsided, and his teeth were crooked, but behind that middle-aged construction worker looking asshole lurked a violent and shrewd killer.
He was my father’s underboss. Roy ran the streets while my father ran the family from this room. Or at least he used to.
I planned on being a much more hands-on Don, but I had to straighten a few things out first.
“Your father’s been in the ground for a single day and you’re already sitting behind that desk,” Roy said with a hint of a smile.
Bea grimaced behind his back then softly disappeared back into the hall, shutting the door behind her.
“I was at my father’s desk the moment he died and I became Don,” I said and gestured at a chair. “Sit down, Roy. We need to talk.”
Roy’s smile was infuriating. We both knew why he was here.
I needed his support. I didn’t want it—I would’ve rather thrown Roy out on his face, or better yet, put a bullet in his skull in the back yard like a rabid dog. I could bury him beneath the oak tree and give him a pretty little headstone. I’d carve it myself.
But Roy commanded the respect of too many Capos. He controlled a solid third of the family by my count. I had the numbers and the money, but if he wanted to make my ascension to power a real pain in the ass, he certainly could.
I didn’t want that. We couldn’t afford a civil war, not while the Healy family still wanted a piece of our turf.
Roy lowered himself into a chair with a grunt. “What do you want to talk about, young Don?”
“First, don’t call me that,” I said. “Be respectful when you speak to me.”
Roy laughed. “All right, Don Valentino. I can work on that.”
“Second, I know there’s been talk about the succession. I know you’ve been putting out feelers. Testing the waters. You’ve been seeing who’s loyal to you and who’s loyal to the family.”
Roy spread out his hands. “Only to ensure a smooth transition of power.”
That was vague and political, just like Roy. He might’ve been an ancient alligator, all hunger and teeth, but I couldn’t underestimate him.
“The real question is then, transition of power to whom?” I asked and tilted my head. “From where I’m sitting, the choice is obvious. I control more Capos and money. If it came down to civil war, it would be