by Cat Porter
A pained look morphed his features as he put the empty glass down on the table in front of him. He wanted this so bad nothing else was filling that need. He wanted it so bad he’d come to me. “I let Val negotiate terms on his own, and he went a little overboard.”
“How overboard?”
His lips twisted. “You know how he shoots his mouth off, gets started on a joke then takes it too damn far to get one more laugh? He must have insulted him. The deal broke down. I need you to fix it.”
And there it was. He wanted this so bad, he was asking me behind his son’s back to fix his fuck up.
“You’re good with the smooth talk, Turo. Gennaro Aliberti is very old school, like you. He’s got money and shows it off but in the right way. High end.”
That was me, moneyed and high end, as opposed to the lowbrow lugs who worked for my father.
“I mean, I can’t send Lou, can I?” Guardino let out a stiff laugh. “What kind of impression is my Underboss going to make in his For Members Only jacket?”
“They still make those?”
“I don’t think so. But Lou loves them.”
Lou. Major lug. And you could barely understand what he was saying through those fat lips of his, his swollen face. His brother owned a bakery and pizzeria chain, and that’s where he spent most of his time when he wasn’t tooling around in his old DeVille.
“I want this deal to go through,” Mauro said. “I have to be a part of Gennaro’s Chicago hotel. I need to get this sewn up before he goes to someone else. I know they’re lining up outside his door, but I was first in that fucking line and I’m not about to get kicked to the curb. He knows how things work. He’s a smart businessman, well known, respected. He doesn’t put up with any kind of crap, why should he? I need to be back on Gennaro Aliberti’s good side, Turo. You go impress him with your talk.” The Boss’s eyes lit up. He was being convincing, enthusiastic. “Your whole slick but firm thing. You never rush, you take your time—”
“Careful, Daddy, you sound like you actually admire me.” I lit a cigarette and sucked deep on the smoke until my lungs hurt. His eyes positively gleamed. Was I simply a convenient tool for him like Val had said?
“Do the research, quote some numbers at him,” Mauro said in his gruff commander voice. “Come off well-studied, and we’ll get him back.”
We.
Yeah. We.
He pointed that finger at me again. “You know how to handle these guys.”
I knew. Oh, I knew.
“And then I’ll give you what you want,” he said.
I held his gaze through the smoke that rose between us from my cigarette. “Val is threatening to feed me to the Tantuccis—his words—for killing their biker pal,” I said.
He waved a hand at me. “You do this for me that won’t happen. But—” that hand went rigid, index finger pointing, a threat. “—you stay away from Francesca, and no matter what Val does or says, you don’t lose control again. You even consider saying anything to my kids about us—”
“We’ve been over that a million times. I’ve kept my word.”
“They can never know, Turo. It would kill them and their mother.”
“We wouldn’t want that now, would we?” I inhaled deeply on the cigarette.
“No.” His low, jagged voice scraped up my spine.
“Then I guess you’d better work a little bit harder at keeping both your kids out of my way.” I squashed my cigarette in the Baccarat ashtray at my side and rose from my seat. “I’ll do the research tomorrow and head out to Miami.”
“Miami? What the fuck for?” said Mauro getting up from the sofa, heading for the front door.
“Gennaro—”
“He’s not in Miami right now. He just took off for an early summer vacation in Europe.”
“Ah.”
“His brother in Naples has this big yacht and he goes over every year for a cruise vacation. Last year they went to Malta, he’d told me. This year, I don’t know.” Mauro’s bottom lip curled, he made a face. Was he envious? He scoffed. “Nice, huh?” He was envious.
I helped him with his coat. “Very, very nice.”
“Find him. Find him now. You don’t have time to waste.” He pulled on the cuffs of the coat.
There was no slap on the back, squeeze of the arm, or wink as he left my apartment. There was only a stern glare as the elevator doors shut on him, separating us.
No, I had no time to waste at all.
I went to my laptop and started investigating the trails of Gennaro Aliberti in Miami, in Italy. His brother, his nephews.
Three hours later I had my answers, booked my flight, and went to my walk-in closet and packed my compact carry-on suitcase.
Mediterranean, here I come.
Athens
8
Turo
This was another Riviera.
A huge, blood orange sun hung heavily over the mountains in the sky across from the supper club. A thick breeze whipped around me on the grand veranda overlooking the pink blue sea. The Aegean Sea. The air had a fresh, salty yet sweet sharpness to it, laced with the fleeting rich intensity of the delicate jasmine vines I’d noticed in the courtyard earlier.
The burning sun dipped in the sky beginning its dramatic final bow, leaving us mere mortals with a sigh in our throats. Do we experience a petit mort in watching this spectacle over and over? A little taste of our mortality painted in rich pinks and reds before the sexy whisper of dusk emerged and darkness quickly swallowed it up. A good sunset was like an orgasm, an intense high for just a moment, that second that grabbed you by the throat and offered you heaven, but then you’re slung back down to earth.
“Here’s to you, Dionysus,” I heralded the mythological god of wine and good times, taking a good swallow of my smooth dark red nectar. “Watch out for me, would you? I need to make this quick and get back home and unscrew my life.” The god’s drink of choice and mine bloomed warmly in my mouth, sinking into my bloodstream. The lights along the coastline grew brighter, and I let out a short breath.
Greece. I’d never been here before. Lucky me.
I’d found out that Gennaro Aliberti had gone to Naples and joined his nephews Alessio and Luca on the family yacht and they’d sailed to Greece. First stop, Athens. Probably only for a couple days in the city at best and then they’d be back on the yacht to island hop. The yacht was now moored in Glyfada, a swanky suburb south of Athens right on the water.
I hadn’t been on a vacation since I started working for my father, and I’d quickly put the concept of taking recreational time for myself out of my head, except for trips to the gym. Vacations had been a way of life for my mother. Every year there was skiing in Aspen, relaxing in Saugatuck, trips to New York, Europe, Palm Beach in the winters to see my grandparents, the odd trip to the Caymans. That was our way of life. Standard. All of which I’d taken for granted. After I became a working boy, how quickly I realized that simply wasn’t the case for the common man. I missed it, of course, but put the loss out of my head. I was good at that, wiping the slate.
Even though I had a trust fund, I guarded it ferociously. I liked having it, my one constant, I liked knowing it was there. I had a few solid investments in the stock market as well and monitored them carefully.
I was my mother’s son, after all.
I never flaunted my money anyhow. It wasn’t wise in my line of work. Petty resentments built up easily, and I avoided it. I had to.
I’d taken Ciara on weekend getaways a couple of times, but it had proved challenging, always being on call to the Boss, plus, surprisingly, I’d gotten bored quickly. She’d complain about trying to organize a trip to Mexico or the Caribbean and me not being available or always changing the dates on her. She’d eventually given up. Once I sent her on a vacation with a friend to St. Barts, and that had appeased her. For a little while at least.
Now, Guardino business had brought me to Greece. Greece in May for a few days at the most. Not fucking bad at all.
/>
I made my way back to the bar through the growing throng of very well-dressed people. The club, aptly named “Island,” had filled up quickly. A colorful variety of foreign languages flowed around me just like the long canopies of fabric billowing in the breeze over the grand terrace. Great boughs of deep fuchsia and purple bougainvillea climbed over the stone archways along the terrace of the nightclub where Aliberti had arrived an hour ago for drinks with a large group of people at a table overlooking the water. Really, every table here overlooked the water at this beach nightclub, a tony, chic spot in Varkiza on the outskirts of Athens on the Saronic Gulf. A steady stream of house music filled the air, but without being obtrusive.
Gennaro Aliberti laughed at something his nephew Alessio said. Gennaro was in his late-fifties, fit and lean, well-groomed, an elegant figure in a blue linen jacket over a snow white T-shirt and perfectly creased linen pants. A full head of salt and pepper hair, wavy, and thick. Where he was a refined classic, Alessio was the artsy, tattooed, boho hipster. Tall, built, dark hair and eyes, a fine Roman nose, a cut jaw, and tanned skin which he showed off with a couple of long, thin chains with crosses and charms falling against his bare chest at the opening of his unbuttoned dress shirt. He wore lots of rings, an earring. He was an up and coming jewelry designer after all.
His double A logo was synonymous in Europe with his rock and roll bohemian aesthetic. He had a shop in Milan and had recently opened a small outpost on the Greek island of Mykonos. Their entourage was heading to the island on their yacht as Alessio was hosting a party at a beach club to promote himself and his goods.
Next to Alessio sat his brother Luca. Lighter hair than his brother and the same dark eyes, though his were leaden, heavy, not warm and electric like his brother’s. And unlike his brother, Luca only sported one leather cord with a small simple gold medallion around his neck. He wore a loose fitting jacket over a thin V-neck T-shirt, and a tattoo swirled on his chest.
Alessio and Luca’s father was a major drug kingpin in Naples. Luca was twenty-six, Alessio twenty-five, and on the outside, purely a civilian. From what I’d read online, since his jewelry line had taken off three years ago, he’d been focused on that, keeping his nose clean while his brother Luca had become more entrenched than ever in the family business, taking on more responsibility from Daddy. Was Luca like Val? Overly eager and overly arrogant, a hazard? Their father hadn’t joined them on this trip as he usually kept himself low-key and out of sight for security reasons.
Gennaro Aliberti traveled with his own security man from Miami. A tall, very built, very tanned guy, all muscle and angles and finely cut suits. Alessio glanced around himself frequently, Luca was more relaxed. Relaxed but alert. The brothers traveled with their own two man security team. Luca’s infrequent, subtle glances were check-ins with his two big, broad shouldered guards.
The Italians had a busy day. Shopping for designer Greek gold jewelry on Voukourestiou, lunch at the famous rooftop restaurant of the elegant Grand Bretagne Hotel in the center of Athens where I was staying. Visiting the Parthenon and its new museum, walking through the historic Plaka neighborhood, iced espressos and strawberry granita drinks in an outdoor café in the Thiseio area in the shadow of the Acropolis. I followed them, observing their interactions, the people they met up with, noted the behaviors of Gennaro’s bodyguard, of Luca’s.
At the café, they’d been joined by two fashionable young women, one of whom Alessio treated like a girlfriend—quick kisses, arm hung around her shoulders. Affectionate but low key. She had her hair pulled back in a low ponytail and wore huge brown sunglasses she never took off. I’d bet Alessio had a girl in every port. A few paparazzi had hovered and took photos until the bodyguards talked them down and then the entire group had taken off in their cars.
Now at the club, Alessio was flirting with some tall blonde as his brother nursed a cocktail on his other side, a look of ennui on his face, but he was anything but. I knew that stance well. All vigilance. Gennaro rose from the table and took his time cutting an elegant swathe across the dining area. The mens room? His bodyguard stood in the inner dining room where Gennaro would have to pass through on his way to the men’s room, his gaze on Gennaro.
I’d noticed a special rapport between them throughout the day. Alessio had his own car and driver which he shared with Luca sitting up front. That guard from Miami always got in the backseat with Gennaro in their own chauffeur driven car.
They shared a communication shaded with emotion and color that only the most closely acquainted could achieve. Intimacy. A nod of the head, a slight smile to the eyes, the lips, that delicate curl of anticipation. Of knowing. A protective hand on the back that was beyond the perfunctory guarding gesture. A gentleness and a fierceness. The way Gennaro had smiled at him when he bought him a bottle of cold water as the base of the Acropolis. A satisfied smile on his lips as he watched the guard greedily swallow and smile back at him as he wiped at his mouth. It was all there. And why not? I knew plenty of much older men who kept up with two or three very young mistresses in addition to a wife, and they weren’t half as healthy looking or attractive as Gennaro.
These two were lovers. Gennaro Aliberti was gay which was why this was such a clusterfuck for Mauro and Val.
Paul had told me that when Val had met with Gennaro in Miami, he’d made his usual asinine, crude jokes which included a shit load of negative comments about homosexuals. That’s what had pissed off Gennaro.
This would not be an easy fix. This was personal offense, an insult for Gennaro Aliberti.
Just like I was sure that Gennaro and his guard were not just taking a leak at the moment.
I rose from my chair, licking the last of the wine from the edge of my bottom lip. I had to see with my own eyes what these two were up to. Had to confirm.
“Oh!”
I rocketed to the side, a body plowing into mine. A woman’s hands speared my chest, hair lashing my face, stinging.
“Hey!” My hands seized an arm, braced a curvy hip.
Our eyes locked.
And in that thunderous split second, my life as I knew it changed course forever.
9
Turo
I quickly regained my footing and steadied the woman in one move. Coppery brown waves settled around her face and down her shoulders. Gray blue eyes held mine, and the wind sucked out of me.
My eyes roved over her. The dark purple metallic color of her dress lit up her eyes. Silky bronzed skin, full, sensual lips, a long throat, and breasts that were threatening to spill from her very short shimmery dress with split sleeves. Golden skin peeked out from slits in the shoulders down to her elbows. She righted herself, found her balance, yet her fingers still clung to my arms, and I didn’t let go of her hip and arm either.
A smile teased her lips and those large eyes widened at me. “Ach, signómi!” Greek. A breathy, rich voice.
“Are you all right?” I asked, my voice stern as I released her.
“Yes. I’m so sorry,” she said. Her Greek accent was shaded by a slight British lilt. She was young, early twenties at most. A girl woman. “Forgive me, I did not mean to—” She smoothed long fingers over my shoulders and the hair on the back of my neck prickled. “—crash into you.”
A strange warmth filtered through me at her slightly wicked intonation, that silky smile.
“Oh, I’ve annoyed you,” she said, straightening her posture, sardonic amusement in her tone. “Pardon.”
That once familiar burn flared in my chest, between my legs. I adjusted my jacket, my shoulders shifting. “No, not annoyed. I was supposed to meet with someone,” I managed to say, smoothing down the side of my hair, “But…” My eyes darted around the space. Gennaro and his bodyguard were gone.
“Ah, she did not show up?” the girl asked.
“No, she was here,” I replied.
“Oh, she left? Had you argued? You were about to chase her and I—”
My eyes narrowed at her, a smirk forming on my mout
h. “Something like that.”
“No. No.” She shook her head slightly.
“No?”
Her hands fell down my upper arms, lightly squeezing the muscles. “You are much too handsome to be with a woman who does not recognize your worth.”
“Do men always recognize your worth?” I quipped.
Her features tensed, an eyebrow arched high, and for just a moment she looked a decade older. “All men in Greece know my worth,” she said.
What the hell did that mean? There was acid in those words. Not hauteur or arrogance, but a cocktail of bitterness and resignation.
Her features suddenly relaxed, her eyes glittered at me. “Must I be with a man?”
There was something familiar about the graceful slant of her head as she chuckled, that lift of her chin, but I couldn’t place it.
She touched the edges of her shiny hair. “You are American, yes?”
“Yes.”
“On vacation?”
“Yes, on vacation.”
“Other than this evening’s disappointment, you are enjoying your visit?”
“Very much.”
“You’ve seen the sights?”
“All the usual.”
“You don’t sound impressed.”
“It was all very impressive, I assure you—the Acropolis, the museum, the Agora, Monastiraki. Shopping on Voukourestiou.”
She slanted her head. “Well, very nice.”
“But I had my mind on other things.”
“This woman?”
“Hmm. And you?”
“What about me?” she asked.
“Why were you in a rush just now? Were you escaping?”
“You could say that.”
“I caught you,” came out of my mouth which curved into a grin.
She raised a dark eyebrow, her lips parting. “I don’t like being caught.”
“I don’t either.”
Truth had met truth like the clang of two swords, the shock of first contact. That blue light in her eyes flared at me telling me I’d struck a nerve.