Laverna Moiral looked up at the neighborhood church, “Our Lady of Sorrows” in the bitter cold of Chicago’s North Side, not seeking absolution or redemption, but retribution.
She walked through the sanctuary, past the confessional, heading deeper below the holy spaces, to a cistern carved out of the soil from a tribe’s graveyard. Constructing it cost the lives and souls of those cruel colonists who had previously massacred peaceful locals.
Years later, in that cursed ground, immigrants like the Moirals built their decidedly unholy shrine, unavailable to outsiders, before constructing their empire that often skirted the letter of the law.
The aged man in the black robe who accosted her as she stepped inside the cavern below the church gave her not a blessing, but direction, a finger pointed to the left, towards the shrine. He had earlier read the news report about the torture and murder of both her father and her husband and knew what she wanted and needed.
The shrine was dark, smelling of mold and fresh earth, lit only by special candles that gave off an oily pungency to them. Laverna crept past the rickety wooden chairs to the oaken railing between her and a small stone altar. She hiked up her black dress so her hose-clad knees could occupy a spot on the riser carved with ancient symbols. She removed the black veil obscuring her face and auburn curls and blood-red lips. She knelt only a few feet from the black sculpture.
To the novice viewer, it was a Madonna, so common in the shops of Little Italy. But on closer inspection, the trained eye could see the subtle tell-tale signs of the crescent moon, the outline of the stag and hunting dog deftly carved into the statue’s dress folds, or the shortbow cleverly detailed across her back that only a few had heard about, and fewer still had ever seen.
“Mistress,” she begged the Goddess of the Moon. “The bearded ones have brutally slain my father and husband.”
She fought back tears as she supplied their names, as well as those of so many of her family and friends slain in the recent gang war. “They have threatened to take me, as well as kill my children.”
A sharp draft extinguished the candles on the left side of the room. In the breeze, Laverna heard the question “What is it you want?”
Safety, she wanted to say, but knew that request could not be granted.
“Revenge upon their killers,” she replied in the same icy tone she gave to the detectives and medical examiner when asked to formally identify the remains of the bodies, knowing their investigative prowess and prosecutorial powers were useless. Everyone knew who was responsible. They were no match for the Shokov Mob, with the money of Russian “oilagarchs” and the regime resources of the dark one in Moscow. Even Detective DiMilano, a family friend, could only shrug.
The candles on the right went out one by one as if snuffed by an invisible acolyte.
“Have you the payment?” The words in the rush of wind could be made out more easily now.
Laverna nodded. She drew the small knife from her handbag, cut off a lock of her auburn tresses as she pulled her hair across the blade. The she removed her gold wedding band, and then used the knife to make a small incision on her ring finger. The cloistered space amplified the coppery smell of the red liquid, which turned black when it touched the hair and ring.
The sole-burning candle’s flame became amplified. More in her heart than words in her ears, she sensed her gift was accepted and the request would be granted. The bearded ones were too strong to be touched in the mortal world, but that was not where the emissary she just summoned would come from.
The brownstone apartments looked to the outside like any sort of upper-middle-class condominium building, so close to the heart of Chicago. But many of the flats on the westside were occupied by those who worked for mob boss Aleksay Shokov, whose personal living quarters took up the top floor, a place decorated in luxury that one who spent a life securing ill-gotten gains could easily afford.
His sons Viktor and Uri each controlled one wing of the floor below. The former was the syndicate’s chief executioner, while the younger brother could hide the ill-gotten gains so well that no one at the FBI could ever trace it.
As the concrete and rebar of the Berlin Wall came crashing down, the patriarch of the Shokov family left the poverty of the crumbling Soviet Empire for the riches of America. The new-found freedoms enabled his operation to grow, but powerful forces who had become wealthy from crime in the U.S. stood in their way. Yet the Shokovs had secret powers. First, they had access to the deadliest arsenal of the Red Army, much of it shockingly legal in many places in the United States. Second, they had the skills learned when employing the remnants of the KGB, from tactics to training, in the use of torture for information enabling them to destroy rivals and break informants for the United States government. Finally, they possessed a type of cruelty consistent with a harsh legacy born in the brutality of the czars and refined by the deadly Soviets with their putsches and purges.
Soon, their enemies would experience slaughter that either eliminated them or cowed them into submission. The Guardinos of Sicily, the Vittolas of Italy, as well as the Los Tigres de Tamaulipas and Cartagena Cartel of Colombia, were wiped out or fled the Windy City.
Only the Moirals dared to resist the Russians. But as of this week, their patriarch and top lieutenant had been massacred; the horrific deaths of the last two gang leaders splashed across the headlines and photos of the Chicago Tribune and other papers.
Members of the Shokov syndicate were summoned that evening to a meeting room, the result of four apartments knocked out to provide a long table. Around it were chairs worthy of the richest dot com in America, with technology to match it, in the way of screens, communication, and personal entertainment when gatherings were not in session.
“Now that Federico and Dante Moiral have joined the rest of that accursed family in death, what is being done to locate Dante’s wife?” Aleksay demanded, slamming his fist on the table.
“We are doing everything to find Laverna and her children,” promised Nicolai with a stammer, averting his eyes to avoid his boss’s harsh glare.
“See that she’s found by tomorrow before midnight, or you may report to the ‘Red Room’ yourself,” the leader of the Shokovs snapped.
The man nodded, eyes widening. He frantically typed a series of messages on his keyboard to the watchers, who had every place she had seemingly ever been in the last month staked out.
Viktor grunted something to his father.
“Yes, my son. As a reward for your ruthless double-execution the other night, you may have her as your reward.”
Several in the room shook their heads. Given Viktor’s famed fetishes, she’d never let them take her alive if she knew what fate awaited her.
“What about the children?” asked Konstantin. He was their liaison to the politicians and press who promoted the propaganda of the syndicate’s wonderful deeds.
The patriarch snorted. “Nits make lice.” A few chuckled at that comment, while others knew the horrible fate awaiting them.
“Money is coming in by way of Marseilles through New York to expand the distribution of fentanyl to enhance our marijuana product in Canada,” Uri the business executive reported to the dozen or so seated at the table. “The Fourniers control most of the weed trade up there.”
Aleksay Shokov hissed. “They’ll back down and settle for a slice of the pie or suffer the same fate as our enemies in the old country, or those we’ve dispatched in the new one.” Nods followed around the table.
Without so much as a knock, the door opened and a man dressed in dapper formalwear entered the room, flanked by Fyodor and Ivar, both thugs recruited from among the deadliest skinheads in the old country. It was not clear what happened to the other bodyguards.
“What is the meaning of this?” the leader of the Shokovs demanded.
“He requested a meeting with you,” Fyodor answered in a dull monotone, unusual for him.
Akesay frowned the unusual tone of his trusted bodyguard. It seemed Fyodor and Ivar would soon be the latest casualties of Viktor’s next training session for the bodyguards’ replacement, which would be instruction in following directions, such as not disturbing a meeting or bringing in an uninvited guest.
Ever the charmer, his youngest son Uri asked the guest “Do you have an appointment? And what is your name?”
This gave the Russian Mafia boss of the Shokov syndicate time to evaluate the guest before he was to be executed. Gray top hat, charcoal double-breasted suit with tails, matching pants, a white silk shirt, and was that a cravat? His face had a weatherbeaten look, a sharp contrast with his fine threads. His hands were covered with white silk gloves. He wore expensive gold cufflinks, carrying only a black cane with a bullet tip at the bottom, consisting of what looked like a giant ruby at the top, just above the grip. He looked as though he walked in from the set of a Hollywood movie about gangsters from an earlier era, like The Godfather. The man was a throwback, and either insane or unaware of the danger he was in.
“I am known by many names,” the guest replied. “But for you, my name will be Alessandis Paterelli.
Uri shrugged. “I have never heard of you, and I know many people in this town.”
Paterelli smiled. “I am not from around here, though I have been here before, in other times. It has been a few years.”
He looked around the room at the well-dressed mobsters assembled, muttering to each other. Aleksay noted that few had gone for their guns, not fearing this intrusion. The guest would be disposed of, after they heard him out.
“The last time I was summoned, your people were still quoting Marx and worshipping Stalin.”
All around the table looked at each other and chuckled at the ridiculous assertion. “That would make you decades old,” Uri observed. “You would be much older than you appear. Was alcohol illegal back then?”
Now everyone laughed. Alessandis fiddled with his boutonniere on his lapel before replying. “It was against the law back then, but those I worked for made sure any Chicagoan who was thirsty for a drink got one.”
“Who are you?” Konstantin guffawed. “The ghost of Al Capone?”
Alessandis shook his head. “No, but I talked with him this morning. He says Alcatraz was nicer than where he is now.”
Laughter from those in the chairs turned to wary looks, as one considers a crazy person. The Russians decided to play along. The man with the name Alessandis Paterelli wouldn’t last long.
“I did a few jobs for Capone in the day,” the guest added.
“What are you, then?” Viktor snarled. “Hitman? Enforcer? Boss? Well-dressed errand boy?”
Paterelli grinned. “A vampire.”
It was so quiet that one could almost hear the faint tunes from Tchaikovsky silently playing from a CD player to the side, before the room burst into laughter. Maxim, their torpedo, was the loudest. “What does that make you—Johnny Two Fangs?” Others joined in with similar insults and mocking. Aleksay had it. He would drain every drop of blood of this uninvited guest for his audacity, a warning to others who would challenge him by marching into a private meeting of the Shokov Mob.
“An Italian vampire?” Uri inquired. “I thought they were all East European.”
Alessandis smiled. “In reality, the first vampire was Italian.”
“Dracula was the first vampire,” Konstantin interrupted.
The guest moved closer to the speaker. “No, he was not the first. It was centuries earlier in Greco-Roman times. A man named Ambrogio tried to make off with Selene, the beautiful sister of the Oracle at Delphi. Apollo was enraged at this act and commanded that the sun would forever burn the skin of this abductor.”
“I like this Apollo already,” Aleksay laughed. Others joined in.
But Alessandis ignored his interruption. “Selene still loved the man, and Ambrogio sought help from Pluto. That god of the Underworld promised him he’d help if Ambrogio would steal the bow from Diana, the Moon Goddess. Ambrogio was caught trying to swipe Diana’s weapon, but he pleaded for mercy. She made Selene part of the moon, the only time it would be safe to come out and see her. And somewhere along the way, Diana gave him the power to live, but only if he drank the blood of others.”
Everyone flinched when Alessandis slammed down his cane on the meeting table. “That is why we vampires are immortal at night. As I said before, I am known by several names. One is Dispater.”
“Hey, it’s Mr. Mythology,” Maxim was the first to recover. He stood up and pointed to their guest. “Got any other fancy stories before we drive a stake through your heart?”
Alessandis nodded. “Yes, Maxim, I do.”
Surprised that he knew the torpedo’s name, the Russian stepped back.
The guest continued. “You may know some of the jobs I did for Capone, like taking out Deanie O’Bannion, the O’Donnells, the Genna Brothers, Hymie Weiss and Joe Aiello. Or perhaps the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre?”
Uri shook his head. “I’ve seen that on the History Channel. It was Capone’s gunmen, dressed like cops, that did the deed.”
“And didn’t recognize them during the bust?” The vampire challenged Aleksay’s son. “People only know the official story they were told, and not what really happened to Bugs Moran’s gang.”
Slowly, arms reached for shoulder holsters, coat pockets, and even ankle holsters. Several pistols now had Alessandis Paterelli in their sights. The time for toying with this guest was over. Eventually, the cat uses its claws on the mouse to finish it off, Alexkay mused. But the vampire seemed not to care.
“So, wise guy, why did you work for Capone,” Uri couldn’t resist asking.
Alessandis pulled up a chair at the table, while others looked on in bemused interest. “You know, Capone had a hitman. Legend has it that when he got gunned down, they found a card with him, saying ‘Nothing personal, just business.’ I think the ‘Godfather’ movies picked it up. That’s the way things used to be. Just businesses. Quick bullet to the head, or spray of bullets, maybe a knife. Only gangsters would be targeted. But you aren’t just about business. You guys slaughter women and children. You torture men. You kill slowly, like what you did to the Moirals. For you guys, it’s personal, not business.”
“What do you mean?” Aleksay snarled, clenching his hands tightly together.
Alessandis approached the table. “I was summoned by Laverna Moiral to meet with you all, and to exact revenge for what you did to her father, husband, and the rest of the family.”
Maxim pointed his revolver, a cannon of a gun, at the vampire. “You’re gonna be dead, and that widow’s got a date with Viktor, one she’s not going to like very much.”
In a flash, Alessandis whipped around and smashed the end of his cane onto Maxim’s hand so that he dropped the gun. The cane then smashed into the back of the torpedo’s head repeatedly, just like Robert DeNiro playing Al Capone doing the same with the baseball bat to one of his lieutenants in the movie The Untouchables.
Others watched in stunned silence for a moment, before guns erupted, slamming slugs repeatedly into Alessandis’s chest, who merely looked about in amusement. They could see the slugs having penetrated his clothes and skin. But after a few seconds, the wounds turned to ash, with a few wisps of smoke emerging from his coat where the shots had struck him. Then flesh replaced the ash. He turned to Konstantin, who was the closest and sank his teeth into the man’s neck. Blood spurted across the table and chairs.
Stephan, one of the enforcers, pulled out a Mac-10 machine pistol, but Viktor snatched it from him and used it himself to blast their uninvited guest. Though they ripped through Alessandis’s suit, the bullets had no more effect than the pistol shots. The vampire next feasted on Dmitri, draining the head of drug operations of his blood.
Alessandis spun around, then growled “This suit was Italian, you know. You’ll pay for ruining it!” He leaped upon the brutal Russian executioner and the two grappled while the others fled for the doors, which were blocked by the hulking figures of Fyodor and Ivar.
Aleksay bolted for the small panic room only he and his sons knew about. As he hit the button to activate the lockdown sequence, he could hear Uri’s voice outside.
“Father, save me!”
The Russian patriarch could reverse it, but that thing could also get in. He would have no trouble making new heirs.
“I am sorry, my son, but I cannot stop the security process,” he lied.
Uri whirled around. All of the Russian mobsters were dying or dead, and his older brother was being eaten alive.
Alessandis paused his feast, blood across his face, to command the bodyguards, whose minds he had turned.
“Fyodor, Ivar, hold Uri down, while I finish.”
As he said those words, Uri pleaded. “But I never killed anyone. I just ran the business financially.”
Alessandis finished his repast. “Yes, and Adolf Eichmann made sure the trains ran on time for the Holocaust. Fyodor and Ivar, beat this man to death with your fists.”
Two floors below, Mary woke again. Pushing back her sleep mask, she looked at her husband who had also just stirred awake. “Those loud noises—something terrible is going on above our condo, again. Maybe we should call the cops.”
John pushed back the covers. “Something bad is always going on up there. The Russians told us not to interfere unless we wanted to be the next victims.”
As he put his arms around her, Mary sighed. “I just feel bad for whoever’s getting slaughtered upstairs.”
John kissed her on the forehead. “It’s probably some bad people who deserve what they’re getting.”
He reached over and handed her a packet. “Here are some earplugs I got at the corner drugstore. They should help.”
“Thanks, sweetie,” Mary smiled. “You think of everything.”
John flashed his aw-shucks smile. “You’re welcome. Whatever’s going on up there is none of our business.”
After what seemed like almost an hour, the screaming stopped. Aleksay couldn’t even hear his son’s shrieks of pain anymore. But the mob leader would survive in his special sanctum. The authorities would arrive, and those on the payroll would clean up the mess. He’d sire some new heirs, send for his nephew from New York in the meantime, rebuild his empire, and employ an army of vampire hunters to track down Alessandis, and Laverna for summoning him, and make them pay dearly for his sons and the Shokov mob deaths. He imagined new tortures and creative deaths for both.
A cloud of black smoke drifted through the vents of the panic room, until it began to take shape. Standing before him was Alessandis Paterelli. The vampire smiled widely; the mobster could see his fangs now.
“Your late son asked my name. It’s Dis Pater, part of the Italian name I provided you all earlier in the meeting room.”
With a start, Aleksay remembered something. He pulled out the wooden Constantine cross worn around his neck, which was a trophy taken from a Russian rival in Volgograd before he killed him.
“Back to hell, you creature of Satan,” Aleksay commanded, and then slammed the cross into the vampire’s forehead.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then the vampire snatched the cross away and kissed it. “Orthodox Church Cross? I was once Catholic. But all the same, it’s made of wood. Silver might have left me with a nasty burn.”
The vampire offered it back to the mobster. “Want to say a final prayer? I doubt you have any real faith in it.”
Aleksay wet himself, stammering. “You are–Baba Yaga.”
The vampire shook his head. “Hardly.” He stood before the head of the Shokovs. “I’m going to make you suffer in here for quite a long time. It’s several hours until dawn, right?”
The Russian mobster tripped over a chair in the narrow confines. Alessandis, better known as Dis Pater, knelt next to him.
“Now, you know what I said about the old ways—Nothing personal, just business?”
Aleksay weakly nodded.
The vampire leaned in and whispered. “Well, Laverna told me to make this personal.”
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About
Born in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, and raised in El Paso, Texas, John A. Tures began writing sports for the El Paso Hearld Post.
In college, he worked for a radio station. He worked his way through graduate school in education outreach for the Milwaukee Symphony Orchestra. He earned his doctorate in political science at Florida State University, analyzed data on international politics in Washington DC, and is now a professor at LaGrange College in Georgia. He writes columns for a number of newspapers and magazines and has published several short stories in various genres, from thrillers and mysteries to nonfiction and flash fiction.
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