Vendetta

by Jack McSporran

  Maggie turned and waved off Isabella and the driver, but only for a moment. Rebecca wouldn’t waste time saying goodbye to those providing her transport from the airport.

  “We have the Pisani Suite reserved just for you. Very nice.” Guido led Maggie and Leon through a lavish foyer with pristine marble floors, plush sofas in royal reds, and large mirrors and paintings hanging on the walls in gilded frames.

  The elevators pinged open and they stepped inside. “At almost seven thousand Euro a night, I sure hope so,” said Maggie. Rebecca may be rich—and she certainly enjoyed that wealth—but she never forgot where she came from, or what it took to get to where she was today.

  As they stepped from the elevator and entered the suite nestled in the corner of the building, Maggie whistled. “This is a far cry from Miami, I’ll say that much.”

  The suite screamed indulgence across every inch of the lounge area, bedroom, and even the bathroom. Floor-to-ceiling French doors opened out from the lounge to two balconies that offered stunning views of the Grand Canal and the adjacent canal that ran along the side of the building and led deeper into San Marco.

  Majestic chandeliers twinkled in the breeze, created by the famed glassblowers of the neighboring island Murano. Venetians wouldn’t hang anything else, viewing all others glasswork as cheap imitation.

  Guido and the porters carried the luggage into the bedroom and offered to unpack their things into the ample storage provided.

  “No, I’ll do it myself,” called Maggie from the lounge. The last thing she needed was for one of them to open the suitcase with the knives and ammunition. She shooed the men off, and finally relaxed now that she and Leon were alone.

  Her calm didn’t last long.

  “Oh,” she said when she entered the bedroom and spotted the problem making Leon’s forehead crease.

  There was only one bed.

  A nice king-sized bed, perfect for a weekend getaway in one of the most romantic cities in the world.

  Leon ran a hand over the back of his neck. “I can sleep on the couch.”

  “You can take the bed,” offered Maggie, heat rushing to her cheeks. “I’m shorter.”

  “No, it’s okay.” Leon removed his bag off the bed. “I’ve slept in worse places.”

  “We can figure it out later.” Sleeping arrangements were the least of their worries. In less than three hours, they would come face to face with one of the most notorious Mafiosos in Italy, and Maggie had to be ready. “I’m going to change.”

  Rebecca had a meeting to attend.

  Chapter 5

  The meeting was scheduled for one o’clock at the Palazzina Grassi hotel, which was named after the seventeenth century palace it sat beside. No stranger to the presence of celebrities and foreign dignitaries, the hotel was famed for catering to high-end clients, and it seemed Carlo Rossi was no exception.

  The hotel housed the Krug Lounge, an exclusive place for the social elite to drink and dine among their peers. The lounge extended onto a roof terrace, tucked discreetly away from the busy streets and canals to create a hidden oasis.

  Maggie had checked online before leaving for the meeting to get an idea of the location. She would have preferred to scope out the area personally, but given the time restraints and the fact Rebecca’s presence could raise questions she didn’t want to answer, she settled for digital.

  The entrance was right on the Grand Canal, about halfway between her suite at the Gritti and the Rialto Bridge. Guido had arranged for transport, courtesy of the hotel of course. Maggie and Leon stepped out from the boat into the hotel’s arched waterfront entrance and were each greeted with a bubbling glass of champagne.

  Maggie tugged at Rebecca’s fitted white suit, feeling confined in the expensive fabric. She was more of a t-shirt and jeans kind of girl and enjoyed lounging around her apartment in her pajamas on days off. At least she didn’t have to wear a dress or force her feet into a pair of heels. Rebecca preferred flats, having learned early on that dressing with a masculine edge made men take her more seriously.

  A waitress led them upstairs to the restaurant on the roof’s terrace. Wrought iron chairs were tucked under round tables, surrounded by large pots with twisted trees canopying over them to create an intimate environment for guests. Beyond, the terrace looked out to the tops of surrounding buildings, a mass of close knit roofs crowned with terracotta tiles.

  “You ready?” asked Leon by her side, decked out in a sleek navy suit that, if possible, made him even more handsome than usual.

  “As I’ll ever be,” Maggie replied, taking a deep breath.

  She straightened her back and put on her best Rebecca smile, a knowing grin that hinted danger. Rebecca was many things, but boring wasn’t one of them. She exuded a charismatic confidence in everything she did. There was no doubt in Rebecca’s mind that the meeting with the crime boss would go her way.

  The waitress led them to the corner of the terrace where four people sat waiting on their arrival. They weren’t alone, of course. Maggie clocked the armed guards dotted around the rooftop, none of them trying very hard to be inconspicuous. Carlo wouldn’t go anywhere in public without a detail given who he was and the nature of his business.

  Isabella stood from her chair. “Ms. Sterling, so nice to see you again. Please, take a seat.”

  Maggie complied and sat at one of the two chairs left out for her and Leon, directly across from the Mafioso.

  Antipasto lay out across the table in a delectable spread of bruschetta, cured meats, soft cheeses, and ripe olives. In a normal setting, Maggie would have delved in and enjoyed the local delicacies, washing them down with the sweet champagne in her glass.

  Only, it wasn’t a normal setting.

  “Ms. Sterling,” said Isabella, playing her own role for the meeting, “it is my pleasure to introduce you to Carlo Rossi.”

  Maggie held out an expectant hand to Carlo. A rumble of unease rippled through the table, and she spotted one of the guards reaching inside their jacket. Touching, it seemed, was not allowed.

  Nevertheless, Maggie waited until Carlo took her offered hand and shook it. His grip was firm and confident. Maggie matched him and squeezed his weathered hand, earning her a surprised raise of his white bushy eyebrows.

  Rebecca was used to men like him. Where most grew intimated under the stare of men in power, Rebecca reveled in it and saw an equal. Someone worth doing business with. An opponent with whom to barter favorable terms.

  “Pleasure to meet you, Carlo,” said Maggie, holding his gaze. She doubted anyone there called the man by his first name.

  Carlo looked well for a man in his twilight years. He had managed to cling on to his hair, a thick mop of white which was combed back with product and matched the bristled moustache above his thin lips. A portly stomach bunched up against the edge of the table from decades of over-indulgence, yet he didn’t seem unfit or fragile with age. There was still fight left in the old Sicilian, and his dark eyes were sharp as he considered her.

  “Likewise,” replied Carlo in accented English.

  It was far better than her Venetian or Italian. Maggie was fluent in several languages, including French and Russian, but her knowledge of Carlo’s home tongue was limited to simple pleasantries.

  Isabella motioned to the man at her boss’s left and the young woman who sat at the bottom of the table. “This is Stefano, Carlo’s son, and Angela, Carlo’s granddaughter.”

  “Bondi,” said Maggie, greeting them with a good afternoon and deliberately botching the Venetian. Europeans expected as much from Americans.

  Maggie didn’t introduce Leon. Like the armed detail surrounding the little terrace, Rebecca’s bodyguard was to be seen, not heard.

  Stefano nodded yet remained silent, regarding Maggie with open interest. He was much like his father, only a couple of decades younger, with a stalky build and dark hair. They both shared a prominent Roman nose which took center stage on their faces.

  “How are you finding
Venice?” asked Stefano’s daughter, Angela. Her English was perfect.

  “Beautiful, as always,” Maggie replied, sending a subtle wink to Angela over the rim of her glass as she took sip. Rebecca liked women, especially those like Carlo’s granddaughter.

  Angela was a vision. In her early twenties, she was a mixture of sharp cheekbones and small, rounded features, framed by thick, black curls that fell past her shoulders. Maggie looked between the woman and her father and concluded Stefano’s wife must be a model.

  “Would you like to order something from the menu?” Isabella asked, her usual brisk and efficient nature altered to one more subdued and subservient in her role as Carlo’s assistant.

  “No, thanks. Let’s get to business, shall we?” Maggie replied, speaking to Carlo.

  The old man shrugged and chewed on an olive before taking a deep drink from his champagne. “I wasn’t aware we had any business.”

  “And yet you still agreed to a meeting.” Maggie shot him a smile, Rebecca unbothered by his slight. It was a play for power, and she was well versed in the art.

  Carlo’s hands made a steeple. “Only because I was advised to by someone I respect.”

  Stefano’s face fell at his father’s words and his eyes narrowed on Isabella. There was no love lost there, then.

  “You were advised well.” Maggie took note of Stefano’s reaction in case she could use it. “I hear you’re in discussions with Peter West.”

  “And how did you come to learn that piece of information?”

  “It’s my job to know these things.”

  “I wonder,” mused Carlo, swirling his champagne. “Have you been sent by my rivals to disrupt my current negotiations?”

  Maggie sat back in her chair and relaxed, like they were simply meeting for lunch. “I don’t work for the Marino family. I have my own agenda.”

  If the man was shocked at her knowledge, he didn’t show it. “Which is?”

  “A counter offer.” She took one of Carlo’s olives and popped it in her mouth.

  “I’m afraid you’re too late,” said Angela. “The deal has been agreed upon. Besides, we hardly know you.”

  “Quiet girl,” Carlo spat, cutlery clinking as he slammed a meaty fist on the table. “You speak when you’re spoken to.”

  Angela’s cheeks flushed, glaring at her grandfather as her eyes grew glossy. “Excuse me,” she said, raising her chin in a gallant attempt to save face. “I need to use the restroom.”

  Without another word, she collected her purse and marched off.

  Carlo shook his head as she left. “Bold youth.”

  “Not always a bad thing,” said Maggie. Angela was right to be suspicious.

  Stefano lit a cigar and blew a puff of smoke into the air, seeming unbothered by the transgression. Maggie balled a fist under the table and bit back a request for him to stop staring at her like she was a piece of meat. He blew a mouthful of smoke towards her, and Maggie considered how it would impact negotiations if she stabbed him with her fork.

  Leon’s body was tense beside her, and he stared at Stefano with open distain. Maggie placed a hand on his leg, a reminder of where they were and why.

  “Angela is right, though,” continued Carlo. “The deal is set.”

  Maggie focused her attention back to the boss. “Not from what I hear.”

  “We’re simply ironing out the details.”

  “I think we should at least hear what this fine lady has to say,” commented Stefano, speaking for the first time.

  Carlo spun on his son. “And I think you should shut your mouth.”

  The air grew thick with tension. Was Stefano testing his father? Were he not family, the repercussions of speaking out of turn could have been severe. Did Stefano think it was time for his father to retire and give up his throne? It seemed Maggie wasn’t the only one in a power play with Carlo.

  Maggie cleared her throat. “If you’re both quite finished, I’d like to propose my offer.” Rebecca nor Maggie may speak Venetian, but they spoke the only language that mattered. Money.

  Father and son broke their contentious gaze and listened.

  “I will offer you double what Peter West is offering for the distribution deal.”

  Carlo narrowed his eyes. “Why would you do that?”

  “It’s simple. You have an overabundance of quality product, and I have a market that’s always hungry for more.”

  “You’re from Miami, no?” Carlo held his plate out to Isabella, who piled on the antipasto. “Why not have the Colombian’s supply you?”

  Carlo was no fool, but neither was Maggie.

  “They do,” she replied, “but I need a more stable supplier. My government’s cracking down hard on imports, and I’ve lost too many shipments to their raids.”

  Over the years, the US had waged a hard war against drug trafficking, especially from south of their border. While the drugs still managed to find their way through, it was becoming increasingly difficult to ensure the safe passage of Colombian narcotics. Dealers in places like Miami had to adapt and be more inventive when it came to slipping their supply past the authorities.

  “What makes you think a shipment from us would fare any better?” asked Carlo, tucking into a slice of bruschetta.

  “I have a contact in immigration who can ensure safe passage of stock brought in from Europe. Border control isn’t as stringent with European cargo. I plan to have it land in Virginia and transport the rest of the way by road.”

  “Why not direct?”

  “There are too many random checks and security measures in place for my state. The authorities have gotten too good at weeding out deliveries coming into the ports at Miami and Orlando. It’s a risk I’d rather avoid.”

  Maggie couldn’t gage if she was winning Carlo over. Back in training, the Unit taught her to read body language, yet the man before her was an enigma. He had years of practice at these kind of sit downs, more decades than she’d been alive.

  “And the Mexicans?” he asked between chews. “Surely they can help you?”

  Maggie frowned and lowered her voice to a growl. “I don’t deal with those fuckers.”

  Isabella whispered into Carlo’s ear. He put down his fork and knife and met Maggie’s eyes. “My condolences about your father.”

  “Thank you,” she replied, making a show of recovering from the mention of the people who murdered Rebecca’s dad.

  Carlo wiped his lips with his napkin and tossed it over his empty plate. “That said, I’m afraid I cannot take you up on your offer. A deal is a deal, and I am a man of my word.”

  Shit. She was losing him.

  Stefano leaned close to his father and muttered, loud enough so everyone at the table could hear him. “She’s offering twice as much as Peter.”

  “And I can order more than him, too,” she added, grasping for anything to seal the deal. “The US is a much larger than little old Britain. I have a lot more customers to satisfy.”

  It wasn’t like she needed to follow through on any of it. All she had to do was ensure the deal with Peter West fell through. It would sour things between Peter and the Rossi family, enough that no further agreements would arise between them.

  Carlo sat in silence for a while, brows burrowed. Maggie’s heartbeat quickened, and a trickle of sweat ran down her back. She fought the urge to bite her lip.

  “You make an enticing offer, Ms. Sterling, but my answer is no. It is too late to–”

  Carlo never got to finish his last words.

  A bullet to his neck saw to that.

  Chapter 6

  Blood spurted from the bullet hole in Carlo’s neck and sprayed over Maggie’s white suit.

  Isabella shot up from her seat and shoved the table away to reach Carlo, who sat wide eyed and gurgling. Carlo cupped his neck, but the blood flowed through his fingers in a scarlet fountain that wouldn’t stop until it ran dry.

  It was too late.

  Someone had fired a kill shot.

 
; A waitress screamed and dropped a tray of drinks, the glass shattering across the floor as the guests dining on the terrace scraped their seats back and ran for cover.

  Carlo’s detail sprang into action. Two grabbed Stefano by the arms and dragged him away from his dying father. Isabella went without a fuss, her face pale and splattered red. The rest of the men picked up a squirming Carlo and carried him inside the building to the covered safety of the restaurant. A guard stood at either end with their gun raised and eyes on the lookout for the culprit.

  They weren’t the only ones.

  Maggie and Leon ducked behind one of the large potted plants for cover in case the shooter wasn’t finished.

  She scanned beyond the terrace, searching to the west based on the location of the entry wound in Carlo’s neck. Her heart drummed in her ears, and Leon held a protective arm over her as she narrowed in on the gunman.

  “There,” she said, spotting a man on the roof a few buildings away. Maggie looked around. The terrace was abandoned, empty in a matter of seconds. “I’m going after him.”

  Leon was by her side seconds later, his long legs catching up to her. “Not without me.”

  The streets were so narrow in the San Marco area, that there wasn’t a huge gap between the terrace to the nearest rooftop, but it was still a deadly fall should they slip. Maggie climbed the railing surrounding the terrace and jumped.

  Reaching out, Maggie caught the edge of the roof and hoisted herself up. Leon landed on his feet beside her and held out a hand to help.

  The shooter saw them coming and took off at a run.

  They followed, charging over the tiled roof. The shooter reached the edge of his building and hurdled across to the next one, taking off again as soon as he landed. Maggie caught sight of his face, but she didn’t know it.

  Italian. Five foot ten. Dark hair. Fast.

  A spurt of ruble burst from the tiles near Maggie’s feet as the gunshot echoed through the air. The killer aimed another shot at them, and they dived out of the way as he turned and hurtled through the rooftops.