“I’ve got to admit, Lucy, you’re pretty impressive, standing there, all cool, doing the talking for these two old men. But what did you actually think was going to happen here? That you were going to mediate? That your soft presence would change the outcome? That the presence of park custodians would prevent any violence? There are no Forestales here to help you! We paid them to take the day off.”
“So did we,” Dominic rumbled. “Before you did.”
“You haven’t been listening,” Lucy said.
Olivetti’s brow darkened. “So, enlighten me … why set up a meeting down in this dungeon where you have no way out?”
“Because you’re too young to understand that it is you who has no way out,” Dominic replied. “And from the look of your uncle’s men, so are they.”
“What the fuck do you mean? We have people outside! The building’s sealed! You’re not getting out unless I let you out. And”—he shifted his gaze to Lucy—“I’m sorry, but I can’t think of a single reason why I should.”
“As I was saying,” Dominic stated, “you’re too young, and clearly too arrogant to learn from your elders. We counted on that, so thank you.”
Olivetti leveled his weapon at Dominic. “Maybe you’d like to explain that statement!”
“Happy to. If you’d paid any attention to your family’s history, you’d know that your grandfather ran the Floristella mine for the Pennisi family. When the picuneri got sick of his brutal methods and tried to unionize, he started worrying about strikes and riots. He persuaded the owners to fortify the palazzo. That’s why you see all those gun slits in the outside walls. But, just to be safe, he also created a number of secret exits. Fifteen of them, in fact.”
As Dominic uttered those final words, the vast room was filled with the unmistakable sound of coordinated footsteps, and a dozen armed men stepped into view. Simultaneously, Carlo materialized next to Dominic’s chair. The big man was holding a MAC-11 .380 machine pistol, and it was aimed directly at Olivetti’s chest.
“You see, Mr. Mazzara,” Dominic continued, “the thing about exits is that they can also be used as entrances.”
A deafening barrage erupted, echoing through the chamber. Stitched with automatic fire, Olivetti and two of his men dropped where they stood. The third man sprinted for the stairwell. A shotgun boomed and he went down, his chest in flames.
It was all over in less than five seconds.
Lucy strode over to Olivetti.
He was still alive.
She bent and picked up his gun.
He blinked up at her in agony and disbelief. Coughing blood, he gasped, “You set me up?”
“You sound surprised. You came here to kill my father.” She kneeled. “And you murdered my husband.” She jammed the muzzle of Robert Olivetti’s gun into his blood-choked mouth. “Did you really think I would never find out?” she hissed. “Did you really think you could walk away alive?”
Lucinda Tartaglia pulled the trigger.
When she rose and turned away, the first thing she saw was a capsized chair and her father down on his knees, cradling Dominic’s head. She rushed over.
“He was hit?”
“Probably a ricochet. He’ll be fine.”
“How can you know that?” she snapped, tugging at Dominic’s jacket, searching for blood.
“Because we’re wearing protection,” Joseph replied quietly. He unbuttoned Dominic’s shirt, revealing the matt texture of a Kevlar vest.
“You both wore vests? What about me?”
Dominic’s eyes fluttered open. He grunted a reply. “Too restrictive. Thought you might need to move fast.” Forcing a smile through lips marbled with pain, he added, “And your boyfriend might have noticed the unwelcome change to your fetching figure.”
“Nice to hear you have so much confidence in me,” Lucy replied, touchily.
“That’s just it, Lucinda. I do.”
Carlo materialized above them. “Boss!”
“I’m okay. Help me up.”
Carlo lifted his boss off the floor and lowered him onto a chair. As he opened Dominic’s shirt, Lucca and several hard-looking men emerged from the shadows. “We’re cleaning things up outside,” he said, speaking Italian. He glanced around. “There’ll be lots of room for these pigs at the bottom of the Pozzo.”
“You can start by putting that fire out,” Lucy ordered, pointing at the body of the man who had been shot near the stairwell. His skin and clothing continued to smolder, infusing the cellar with an acrid odor. “If that smell goes all through the building, someone’s going to start asking questions.”
“Si, Signora,” Lucca replied, eyeing her with dark amazement. At a wave of his hand, two of the men jumped to comply.
“And why the hell is he still burning?”
“Lucca waxes the barrels of his lupara,” Carlo informed her, as he pried a deformed bullet out of Dominic’s vest. “He says it sends a stronger message.”
“We’re not sending this message. We’re dropping it down a mineshaft.” She turned to Dominic, who was watching her with an expression of grave amusement. “We should leave now.”
“Aren’t you forgetting someone?” He nodded toward a cowering form. Nicci Lanza had somehow managed to scramble away from the action. He was sitting with his back propped against a pillar, watching and listening.
Lucy walked over. “Can you get up?”
He accepted her offered hand. When he was on his feet, she grabbed him by the shirt front and marched him over to the archway, where she used the spill of gray daylight from above to assess the damage to his face. The skin was split in several places, and one of his eyes was swollen shut.
“We’ll get you to a doctor. But I wouldn’t want to be around when your father finds out.”
He stood before her, silent, trembling, and humiliated.
“You surprise me,” she said quietly. “You grew up with this.”
“And never wanted it,” he whispered. “You didn’t, but look at you now.”
For a few fleeting seconds after Nicolò Lanza uttered those words, it seemed to Lucy as if she had a sudden recollection of a previous existence.
Then it was gone.
She turned to face the silent, watching men.
“Get to work! There’s a little boy in Florida who needs his mother.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Readers who know something about the unfolding history of notorious Mafia families may not be entirely surprised at the thought processes that led me to dream up this story. I’m not talking about the “Medicare Mob,” as one media outlet described the recent string of “Oldfellas” arrests by FBI investigators. I’m talking about changing times, and the possibility that a few farseeing scions of the old families may have turned to CIA-style tradecraft, and MBA-inspired business models, to elude law enforcement interest. Although I have no direct, firsthand knowledge of such devices, I began to wonder how much the authorities were missing while they were busy applauding themselves for taking down a handful of sclerotic wise guys from yesteryear.
Storm Rising is partly the result of those ruminations.
Despite my own background in criminal prosecution and defense in non-U.S. jurisdictions, my roving imagination would not have been much use to me without significant help from a number of knowledgeable people, most notably my good friends in—yes—U.S. law enforcement. And so, a big thanks once again to Sgt. David Conte of the Bayonne, New Jersey, Police Department—my perennial guide and advisor. David not only assisted me “on the ground” in New Jersey in too many ways to catalogue here, but he also introduced me to Lt. Stephen Antisz (B.P.D., retired) and, through a mutual friend, to Sgt. Maria Dargan, who works at the Hudson County Prosecutor’s Office. Stephen’s firsthand experience of the terrors of Hurricane Sandy was of great help in developing the narrative, and Maria’s detailed and informative guided tour of the County Prosecutor’s Office was equally valuable. Thank you both for your time and your patience.
There
is another law enforcement officer whom I wish to single out for specific honor. She or he must remain anonymous, so I will refer to her/him as J.S. I may only say that this courageous officer has spent most of the past twenty years working serial undercover operations for U.S. federal, state, and local forces, and has been responsible for successive high-value arrests and prosecutions across the entire breadth of the nation. That J.S. agreed to meet with me on more than one occasion, agreed to share with me enough inside information for a dozen novels, and continues to respond to my (occasionally dumb) questions, is a gift I can never repay. Wherever you are, my friend, my heart is with you.
I also wish to single out the following friends and colleagues for their invaluable assistance and support:
In Bayonne, New Jersey: A big thanks to Susan Metelski, bartender at The Starting Point Bar & Grill, for making every visit to your establishment an adventure in itself.
At the University of Virginia: Jim B. Tucker, M.D., Bonner-Lowry Associate Professor of Psychiatry and Neurobehavioral Sciences. Dr. Tucker is a certified child psychiatrist, and is director of the UVA Division of Perceptual Studies, where he is continuing the work of Dr. Ian Stevenson with children who report memories of previous lives. Jim’s two utterly compelling books on that subject, Life Before Life—A Scientific Investigation of Children’s Memories of Previous Lives, and Return to Life—Extraordinary Cases of Children Who Remember Past Lives, were directly responsible for inspiring the character of Kevin Hendricks in this novel. Readers who found Kevin’s character intriguing could do no better than to read Dr. Tucker’s astonishing collection of case histories.
In the Cayman Islands: David Baines, the Commissioner of the Royal Cayman Islands Police Force. In years past, David was a member of Special Branch, an elite law enforcement agency in the United Kingdom, and his anecdotes, insights, and advice have been invaluable.
And now we come to Sicily! Let me just say that on that fabled isle, my wife, Melody, and I met, and came to adore, some of the most warm-hearted people anyone could hope to encounter on Planet Earth. Our joint heartfelt thanks must first go out to Silvia Sillitti and Silvia’s husband, Dr. Bruno Fantauzza, and also to Silvia’s brother Giuseppe, and her nephew Antonio. Over three lengthy visits to their farms near Caltanissetta, this wonderful family provided us with home and hearth, boundless affection, and vast amounts of local knowledge. We are eternally grateful.
I also wish to pay tribute to geologist and teacher Enrico Curcuruto. This most singular Sicilian gentleman opened my eyes to the fascinating geology of Sicily, and thereby inspired a critical aspect of Storm Rising. Dr. Curcuruto is professor of geology at Mining Technical School “S. Mottura,” and director of the Mineralogical Museum of Caltanissetta (more properly: “Museo Mineralogico Paleontologico e Della Zolfara, Caltanissetta”). Thank you, Enrico, for your time, your hospitality, and the amazing depths of knowledge that you so freely shared.
I would also like to express my gratitude to Genny Trovato, our guide—not once, but twice!—through the complex industrial archaeology of Il Parco Minerario di Floristella-Grottacalda. And thank you too, Genny, for arranging a private tour of Palazzo Pennisi. You are truly a gem!
Finally, and as always, my deepest love and gratitude go to my dear wife Melody, who year after year, and without complaint, accompanies me on various madcap research trips, and who never fails to patiently point out the often glaring flaws in the tales I propose to weave. So it’s hats off to you, my love—and to our keen-eyed editor and friend at St. Martin’s Press, Daniela Rapp—for keeping my stories just barely inside that blurry line between fiction and unreality.
Okay … almost.
ALSO BY DOUGLAS SCHOFIELD
Time of Departure
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
DOUGLAS SCHOFIELD is the author of Time of Departure and Storm Rising. He was raised and educated in British Columbia, where he earned degrees in history and law. Over the past thirty years, he has worked as a lawyer in Canada, Bermuda, and the Cayman Islands. Douglas and his wife, Melody, live on Grand Cayman, along with their most excellent and amazing talking cat, Juno. You can sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Epigraph
Soccorso Morto
Part I: Dolore
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Part II: Forza
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
Part III: Castigo
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
Acknowledgments
Also by Douglas Schofield
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
STORM RISING. Copyright © 2016 by Douglas Schofield. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.minotaurbooks.com
Cover design by James Iacobelli
Cover photographs: woman © wrangler/Shutterstock; street © Trevor Payne/Arcangel Images
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Names: Schofield, Douglas, author.
Title: Storm rising / Douglas Schofield.
Description: First edition. | New York: Minotaur Books, 2016.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016016263 | ISBN 9781250072764 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781466884625 (e-book)
Subjects: | BISAC: FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Police Procedural. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction. | Suspense fiction.
Classification: LCC PR9275.C393 S76 2016 | DDC 813'.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016016263
e-ISBN 9781466884625
Our e-books may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by e-mail at [email protected].
First Edition: November 2016
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