Donna Strega
Don Bonelli never imagined that he would die at a peace meeting.
He looked around in horror at the mutilated bodies strewn about the dining room; unable to even muster a scream thanks to the sheer shock. He limped to the door. His quickest possible escape. Before he could make it very far, a sharp pain shot through his abdomen. Looking down, he saw a steak bone embedded in him. He clutched the wound with trembling hands, trying to hold back the blood seeping onto his fine suit. With each step, he winced in pain. Almost completing the arduous journey to the door, Don Bonelli collapsed through it into the hallway.
For the past eight months, the Ruling Families of the city were at war, viciously scrambling to lay claim over every last inch of their new American empire. Killings went unsanctioned. Innocent people were caught in the crossfire. Nothing was off limits. Not that Don Bonelli particularly cared. He ordered many of the killings himself. These were desperate times after all. It was only the promise of submission from rival families, that enticed him enough to agree to a meeting. And so, a meeting was set at the White Obsidian Hotel to usher in a new era of peace and cooperation amongst the Ruling Families.
A burst of gunfire from a Tommy Gun rang out over the beautiful melody of Puccini that was flowing from the dining room’s record player. The sound tore through Don Bonelli’s eardrums. Wincing, he hastened his long crawl towards the elevator at the end of the hall. He heard a scream behind him. Fumbling to glance back, he watched aghast as Bruno, his most trusted enforcer, was flung off of his feet. For a brief moment, he hovered in the air while looking desperately into Don Bonelli’s eyes. Don Bonelli struggled faster towards the elevator. Flailing his arms ahead of him just to pull himself forward, he tried to ignore the crunching sound of Bruno’s spine before he crumpled to the floor, lifeless.
Don Bonelli thought back to his childhood in the old country. It was so different there, so peaceful. Until tonight, the Strega were just a story. A forgotten tale from a home an ocean away. The old witches of Italy. Allies of demons. Raising armies of the dead. They performed rituals and cast hexes in the dead of night beneath the walnut tree at the center of his village. Then, the Church came to power. Hunted them. Cast them out. Killed many of them. The few that remained went into hiding. This was a tale his Nonna would tell him time and time again before bed. The only impact it ever had on a young Don Bonelli was his first lesson about power: it never lasts forever.
It was only a few feet to the elevator. The broken glass on the floor crunched as Don Bonelli scrambled over it. A streak of crimson painted the hallway carpet in his wake. Now at the doors of the elevator, summoning the strength to reach the call button seemed an impossible feat. Before he even had the chance, a hand reached out and pressed it for him. A beautiful woman in a black cocktail dress knelt next to Don Bonelli. The Strega. She was here to finish him like she did to the others. Reaching out, she held his hand and began tracing a shape on it with her thumb. She muttered a phrase under her breath in a language that Don Bonelli did not understand. Suddenly, she let go.
“You know, I thought things would be different in this country,” her amber eyes were wide and glaring with hate. “This was going to be a home for us. Somewhere safe. But you and your...associates...” she trailed off, gesturing towards the dining room and frowning in disgust, “you bastardized it. For that you had to be punished.”
He screamed out in agony as a pentagram seared onto his hand. It became harder and harder to cling to life the more blood poured out of him.
The Strega continued, “this is my city now, Don Bonelli. You have seen what I can do. I will be unstoppable. Those that were not here tonight, they will fall before me. Or suffer. They will know me as Donna...Strega. It has a rather nice ring to it, doesn’t it?” She asked with a grin.
The elevator doors opened to a loud chime.
The Strega laughed as she dragged him into the elevator. She pressed another button with her blood covered fingers. The doors began to close, framing The Strega in the narrow space between them. She tilted her head and cackled as Don Bonelli feebly clung to the final fleeting moments of his life. He held on just long enough to hear her final taunt before the doors closed:
“Going down.”