by LP Lovell
“And we all know Nero doesn’t do politics.”
I’m well aware of Nero’s blatant lack of regard for the mafia’s beloved rules and protocol.
“Either way, we don’t need her.” She jerks her head toward the doors.
Gabriella sits with her men, and yet, she seems completely alone. In a few short months, she’s lost her father and is on the verge of losing her sister. They say that power comes at a price. I wonder if she would sacrifice it to have her family back.
Una follows my gaze. “I can’t work out why Nero ever agreed to protect Adelina in the first place.”
I turn my sights back to her. “Have you asked him?”
“The usual bullshit about old blood and family alliances.”
So Nero hasn’t told her he once dated Gabriella, though truthfully, I’m not sure how much influence that would have had. Nero isn’t known for being sentimental.
“He never should have gotten you involved.”
I release a deep breath because I wish he hadn’t, too. Though where would Adelina be then? She might already be married, and her father would still be dead. Maybe I just delayed the inevitable.
Una eyes the Sicilian girl as though visualizing all the ways she could end her. “What do you think of this alliance?”
I lift one brow. “Does it matter?” What I want seems to be of little consequence these days.
Her eyes narrow, threatening violence. “That’s why I’m asking.”
“I want Bianchi dead.”
Ever since I first heard that man’s name, my life has descended into chaos. His death would solve all our problems, but it has to be handled right. Otherwise, Adelina will be a hostage in the middle of a turf war, and the carnage will continue until we lose in some fashion.
Una’s eyes meet mine, and her lips press into a flat line. “We’re not just taking him on; it’s the Elite as well,” she says.
“You can handle it.”
“We can handle it.”
“You took me off jobs, remember?”
“I need you, the smart, methodical soldier, not…whatever that was in Russia. You’re the best there is, Sasha.” She tilts her head to the side. “I know you love her.” She stares me down as I recoil from that word. “But this needs to be efficient. Planned.”
Gio strolls into the kitchen and turns on the espresso machine. He leans against the counter as black liquid pours into the unnecessarily tiny cup. “Nero wants everyone in the office. Ten minutes.”
I fork the rest of my breakfast into my mouth and push to my feet.
In the office, Nero sits behind his desk while Dante crawls across the floor. Una scoops up the little boy and props him on her hip. He instantly wriggles, annoyed by her interference of his father’s free-range parenting. She leaves the room for a moment and comes back without him. It’s Nero, Gio, Una, me, and Jackson in the office. We rarely see Jackson these days. He stepped into Nero’s role as the New York Capo, essentially handling all business in the city on Nero’s behalf. However, Jackson is ruthless, maybe even more so than Nero. He’s also one of Nero’s closest friends. Nero often brings him in when he wants advice.
Two sofas sit in the middle of the office, facing each other. Bookcases cover the walls, and at the back of the room is Nero’s desk. Nero leans against the front of the polished wood, and we all take seats.
“Gabriella Ricci has asked me for an alliance.” He looks at each of us, his face a mask of control. “We’d be stepping into something that shouldn’t concern us. But Enrique Bianchi brought a war to our gates.” His jaw tics, hinting at his anger.
Jackson leans forward, releasing a heavy sigh. “You’re Nero Verdi.”
A devious smile crosses Nero’s lips. “I am.”
Jackson shrugs, and the movement makes the already-strained material of his jacket pull tighter still. “So, let’s fuck ’em up.”
Una rolls her eyes. “Helpful, Jackson.”
“You let that go, and the sharks will all start queueing up for a bite.” Jackson clenches his fist, cracking his knuckles. “We have a reputation to uphold.”
“Or, you could put your dicks away, and think it through,” Una responds.
Jackson glares at her, and they share a small, silent standoff.
“This isn’t about Bianchi. He offered the Elite an opportunity to take us out under the premise of a legitimate job. That’s it. They took his job because they wanted us.”
“But he hired them in the first place,” Gio interjects. “Enrique Bianchi thinks he can stand against us.”
They start arguing, voices rising over each other.
I tune them out, sitting silently until I grow bored with their ramblings. “It wasn’t about us!” I finally shout. Silence falls over the room, and slowly, four sets of eyes focus on me. “It was never about us; he just wanted her.”
“Adelina is one woman. He could marry any Sicilian girl with a semi-decent bloodline. It doesn’t make sense for him to go to such extremes for her—”
“And yet, he did.” I cut him off. “It’s not about logic; it’s about honor. It’s about her father breaking his word. Bianchi thinks he’s entitled to her, and she made him look weak.” I glance at Nero, his brows pulled tightly together. I want Bianchi dead, but I force my emotions down. I slip into the calculated, cold thoughts of a soldier. There’s something comforting in it, like coming home. It feels safe. From here, Nero’s path is evident in my mind. “He has what he came for. If you leave him alone, you’ll undoubtedly never have a problem with him again.”
“That’s not the point!” Jackson growls. “The fucking gnads on the guy…” He shakes his head.
“Una is right. The Elite are the immediate problem,” I say, pushing all personal feelings aside.
Adelina’s face flickers through my mind, attempting to break through the icy wall I’ve erected between her and me. She slams against it, and I can feel the cracks winding through it. I grit my teeth, remembering her rejection. She doesn’t want help. She’s not my problem.
“We can’t get to the Elite,” Gio says, thrumming his fingers over the arm of the leather sofa. “Aside from picking off occasional groups of them like we’ve been doing.”
Una sighs and drags a hand through her pale hair. “Which will only make them close ranks in the long run.”
“So where does that leave us?” Nero asks.
“With one enemy we can get to and one we can’t,” Gio responds.
“But if we go for Bianchi, he may well call in the Elite again…” Una muses.
I nod in agreement. “Not to mention, the Italians won’t like you getting involved, Nero. I know you don’t care, but…” But he’d rather have an easy life. Fighting isn’t good for any organization.
“If we align with the Ricci’s, then we can hide behind them,” Nero says, that cutting edge in his tone makes my spine stiffen. He’s nothing if not prepared. Always thinking ahead and ready to use anyone.
“Agreed,” Jackson says.
Nero sighs, tilting his head back. He wants blood, but I know he doesn’t want a war. No one does, but especially not a man with a lot to lose. I can almost see the two sides of him colliding. The young, dangerous capo he once was, turned fearless mafia boss is clashing with the man who’s now a father. “Gio, please bring Ms. Ricci in,” he says.
Gio pushes to his feet, and we wait silently for his return. Gabriella enters the room ahead of Gio. Her two men are absent, which is a sign of trust if ever I saw one.
Gabriella wears a dress that wouldn’t look out of place in an office. It strikes me how different she is from her sister—well put together and presentable—though the two share the same features. Jackson slides over, and she takes a seat next to him while Gio perches on the arm.
Nero clears his throat, and Gabriella focuses on him as if there’s no one else in the room. “We have decided to align with you.”
A small smile touches her lips, but she quickly covers it. “Thank you.”
I groan. “No.”
He glares at me. “Well, if you’ve got a better idea…”
I sigh. “We can’t just kill him. Otherwise, someone else will just step in his place with a vendetta.”
“We need to kill off his network first and then starve his business,” Una says.
Gabriella smooth’s her palms over her skirt nervously. “I’ve been keeping tabs on the Bianchi’s for months: their operations, his men, their trading routes.”
Jackson grins, turning to stare at her. “I like her.”
“For God’s sake,” Una huffs under her breath.
Gabriella carries on. “His main business is weapons. As far as I can tell, he gets shipments from the Russians and moves them through Europe, but primarily Africa.” That would be good business.
“Explains why the Bratva might be more willing to lend him the Elite,” Una adds.
“The last Thursday of every month, a boat docks in the port of Aspra. They always receive at least four shipping containers. They’re taken to a furniture factory near Bagheria. I can’t get anyone inside, but my guess is they’re hiding the guns in furniture.” She folds her hands gracefully in her lap. “If we were to take his guns…”
“Any idea how he’s getting his cash?” Una asks.
The two women stare at each other, light to dark. Something passes between them, and I’d hazard that Una did not miss the way Gabriella looks at Nero.
“Not yet. Sorry.”
Una pushes to her feet with purpose. “Fine. Then start with the shipment. We have one week to plan it.” She turns to me. “Sasha, get the details from Gabriella. You and I leave tonight for Sicily.”
She walks out of the room, and everyone else seems to drift away until it’s just Gabriella and me. “Lorenzo,” she calls.
One of her men steps into the doorway, his colossal frame bursting out of his suit. His hands are clasped in front of him as he ducks his head. “Ms. Gabriella.”
“We need to brief Sasha on Enrique’s gun shipment.”
On a nod, he takes a seat next to her and begins.
9
Sasha
I place the binoculars to my face and focus on the only entrance to the port by road. It’s a checkpoint with barriers. The guards are armed, and as each truck pulls up to the gate, they speak to the driver and take paperwork. The same applies when they leave, with more paperwork exchanged. That means any of Enrique’s drivers that come in here need to be the same ones that leave. We need this to be discrete. Nero wants to hide behind Gabriella until the last minute. I think it’s hypocritical to get involved in this fight due to a personal slight, yet remain elusive because the political fallout within his own mafia will cause issues. But Nero is nothing if not ruthless.
The pickup must go ahead just as it normally would. Same trucks, same drivers. We can’t hit them here; it needs to be elsewhere, and that lends itself to further difficulty. The second problem is the trucks are constantly coming in and out, and the shipping containers are sealed. There’s no way to know which shipment is Enrique’s.
I’m going to need the inventory list for the shipping yard. Gabriella claims she has men on the inside of this operation, so it shouldn’t be too hard to acquire.
Una and I have been running surveillance on the port for the last three days, trying to find a way to pull it off because in there, behind those fences, it’s controlled. The vehicles are one hundred percent going to stop, giving us ample opportunity we may not have on the outside. We know where the security men are, and we can control how it goes. Outside that fence, the driver may not stop until he reaches his destination, which, as of yet, is unknown to us. We have the possibility of police and other citizens—a thousand different factors that could go wrong, and I do not like it.
With a grunt, I push to my feet and walk across the hot asphalt of the rooftop terrace. I duck through the door that leads to the dilapidated-looking stairwell. The railing trembles precariously as I brush against it, sending a smattering of yellow paint flakes to the stained and worn carpet. I descend several flights until I reach the lobby. The middle-aged receptionist doesn’t even look up from her book as I pass. The building is a rundown B&B with very little security and a slew of strangers passing in and out. It also has a clear view of the shipping dock. As soon as I step out onto the cobblestone street, I wince against the blinding sunshine that cuts through the tall, tightly packed townhouses. They seem to bow towards each other, making the road ever narrower. Though their exteriors are crumbling away from cracked brickwork, they still manage to look bright and cheery with their colorful paint and flowery window boxes.
The coastline around the docks isn’t as picturesque, lacking in the golden beaches and famous Mediterranean turquoise seas. A constant film of diesel from the regular shipping tankers taints the waters. It means tourists aren’t commonplace here, and that makes it harder for Una and me to blend in. As I walk down the sidewalk, I notice a few locals staring. I round a corner and unlock the hired car parked between two buildings, so close that I can barely open the door wide enough to climb in. The tiny vehicle is barely bigger than one of Dante’s ride-on ones. As soon as I sit on the cheap cloth seats, I can feel the sweat trickling down my back.
I start the engine and press the air conditioning button, but it’s about as much use as a small rodent wheezing on me. A few moments later, Una slides into the passenger seat. She’s wearing a sundress, and her hair falls loose down her back. It’s…not her usual look.
“We need to go. We’re drawing attention from the locals.”
She eyes me up and down before she snorts. “I don’t think it’s you so much as that shirt that’s drawing attention.” She shakes her head. “I cannot believe you actually wore that.”
I glance down at the bright-blue Hawaiian shirt and cargo shorts. “Tommy said I’d blend in with the tourists.”
She laughs again. “You aren’t blending in with anything right now.”
Ignoring her, I start the engine and pull away, heading back to the apartment we’re staying in.
I wait, watching another truck broach the security gate. We’ve been waiting for two hours, and still, no one has touched the three containers that I suspect harbor Bianchi’s shipment. Lorenzo managed to pay off one of the dock managers and got a copy of the shipping roster. There is only one company that collects on the last Thursday of every month. And so, I’m now watching the metal storage units listed for this week’s pick up. Their serial numbers are stamped on the doors, making it almost too easy.
I might be here all night because we don’t know exactly when his drivers pick up, only that they will. After two more hours, finally, a vehicle pulls in, and one of the containers are loaded. Just one. The other two remain with no other transport in sight. Of course, they would move them separately; there’s less chance of losing the entire shipment should they be caught.
Taking out my phone, I call Lorenzo. “Red truck, number 32465.” I hang up and watch the truck pass through the brightly lit gate and out onto the darkened road.
The taillights shrink until they disappear into the night. My job is relatively simple. The hard part is up to Gabriella’s men. Nero wants all of the hands-on interaction to fall on the Sicilians, essentially hiding behind the Riccis. So, Una is out there in the darkness somewhere with Gio. They are to follow the trucks and pick up the bodies before disposing of them. I smile as I picture Una’s face. There’s nothing she hates worse than clean up, especially when it’s not even her kill.
I wait another hour for one truck, and then another. As soon as the second is loaded, I hop up and jog through the building for my car. Once inside the tiny vehicle, I start the engine and gun it through the narrow streets. There’s only one road in and out of the shipping yard. It runs
for at least five miles before they can go anywhere else. I just have to catch up. The small engine lets out a high-pitched whine as I bury my right foot in the carpet. I finally meet the main road, and then I sit at the junction and wait. I count to thirty-two in my head, and then I see the lights cut through the darkness, illuminating the road before the eighteen-wheeler rounds the corner.
It passes me, sticking to the main road. I pull out and follow at a reasonable distance. When the brake lights illuminate, I know this is it. The truck slows and finally stops before sitting idle on the road. I pause, remaining a fair distance away. After a few seconds, the vehicle once again starts moving, leaving behind a body. The taillights disappear into the night, and I allow the car to roll forward, casting bright light over the heap sprawled in the road. The engine idles as I get out and approach, my footsteps the only sound in the surrounding darkness. When I reach him, he lets out a groan. Gabriella’s men were to simply disable the drivers by any means necessary, and as fast as possible. Una, Gio, and I are the cleanup. This one looks like he was just tossed from the cab, and I almost feel sorry for him. He’s likely nothing to do with the mafia, simply a driver doing a job. But he’s seen faces and knows too much. I’m a killer, and thoughts such as pity have no place in my world. Weak. I’m becoming weak. Dropping to a crouch, I cradle his head in my arms, and with a swift jerk, snap his neck. The sound of crunching bone permeates through the night, before a long, slow hiss wheezes past his lips. His final breath.
With a heave, I hoist the body over my shoulder and dump it in the trunk of the small car. He barely fits, and I have to bend his limbs at tight angles to squeeze him into the ridiculous vehicle.
I follow the coordinates Una gave me, deep into the countryside along winding roads. The scent of the ocean drifts on the warm night breeze, blending with the fresh smell of eucalyptus. It’s almost soothing and fits my upbeat mood. I’m happy to be working again, even if it is only this. It’s something that will hurt Enrique, and that in itself makes me smile.