I step out of the car. “Who started it?”
“Rizzuto,” Aurelio, my main man at the Catania Port, says. “One of the cranes has been out of commission since Friday, causing delays. Rizzuto tried to bribe the freight forwarder to get bumped to the top of the import customs queue and then through the inspections and out the gate. He went ballistic when they wouldn’t do it. Port security got involved, and there was a confrontation. Rizzuto holed up in the admin offices, taking the terminal operators hostage, and is threatening to start shooting unless his cargo is processed and released tonight.”
I look up at the third floor of the building that serves as the port control tower. Rizzuto is one of the biggest alcohol smugglers in Sicily. He brings in high-end French and Spanish wines and pays hefty bribes to have port and customs officials rubber-stamp the necessary clearances. I don’t give a fuck what he’s peddling as long as he keeps up his part of our deal and drops half a million into my bank account annually for letting him use the Catania harbor. Delays are not uncommon, as Rizzuto is well aware of. And he doesn’t have a history of being unreasonable.
“Has anyone checked his containers?” I ask.
“No. They’re still at the stacks.”
“Let’s have a look at them.”
Even at such a late hour, the port is buzzing with life. Shouted orders fill the air as the cargo is loaded and unloaded from the vessels by gantry cranes. Forklifts and terminal tractors move around the storage yard, stacking the containers that then undergo final inspections before being released for dispatch and loaded onto the distribution trucks. I don’t like all that commotion, so only come here when it’s absolutely necessary. Assassinating people is so much easier than working with them.
“Open the first one,” I tell the dockworker standing by the three green containers in the temporary storage area.
The man hurries to unlock the heavy-duty swing doors and then moves out of the way. I take the crowbar from Aurelio and step inside.
Wooden crates bearing the logo of a well-known French winery in Bordeaux are neatly stacked one on top of the other, filling nearly the entire steel container. A faint woody odor permeates the air. I jam the chisel end of the crowbar between the two boards of the closest crate and push. The planks break and splinter. White powder spills from the plastic package that got torn up by the busted edge of the destroyed box frame and drips to the floor next to my shoe. I catch a dribble of the fine particles with my fingers and bring them to my mouth. Cocaine.
Spitting out the bitter traces, I throw the crowbar aside. “Find a suitable place and incinerate the whole load. I want it done by morning, Aurelio.”
“Sure, boss.”
I nod and head back out, while fury rages inside me. There’s only one person on the island who can get his hands on coke this pure.
Guido is lounging by his sports car, chatting with one of the forklift drivers, but when he sees me returning to the control tower, he heads toward me. “Aurelio messaged me. What’s going on?”
“Calogero tried to smuggle his drugs in Rizzuto’s cargo.” I grab the rifle out of the back of my SUV and slam the door shut.
“Fuck. You sure it’s his?”
“Yes.” I cock the rifle and head to the tower’s main entrance. “Go help Aurelio organize the torching of that shit,” I tell my brother over my shoulder.
The bottom level of the building is a vast warehouse, used to store machinery and cargo that’s been held up at port for various reasons. The floors above are filled with administrative offices. My footfalls make hollow sounds as I climb the metal stairs to the top level where the control room and port operator center are located.
“Has he calmed down?” I ask the man standing guard at the door.
“A little. He still won’t let anyone leave the room, but he stopped waving his gun after we told him you’re here.”
I nod and step inside the control room.
Rizzuto is sitting in one of the chairs facing the wall of windows with a view of the container terminal, his gun is casually draped across his thighs. Four operators are gathered in the opposite corner, their eyes frantic.
“Rafael!” Rizzuto smiles. “I’m so glad you could make it. Hopefully, we can resolve this misunderstanding quickly so I can have my cargo processed and on its way as planned.”
His eyes fall to the rifle in my hand, and that smile gets wiped off his face immediately. “Umm . . . I’m sorry if I overreacted, but I’m on a really tight schedule.”
I pull a chair toward me, positioning it across from Rizzuto, and take a seat. “Why the haste?”
“I have a new buyer. Not a very patient fellow that one.” He tries to hide his nervousness behind his casual posture, but I see the beads of sweat along his temple.
“Mm-hmm. Tell me, how much did Calogero pay you to smuggle his cocaine through my port?”
Rizzuto’s face pales.
“It’s mine,” he chokes out while his hold on the gun tightens. “You know I wouldn’t dare bringing Cosa Nostra’s drugs here. I swear on my mother’s grave, Rafael. I—”
I press the barrel of my rifle to his forehead and pull the trigger. The top of Rizzuto’s head explodes in a mess of bone, blood, and brain matter, with some of the carnage propelled through the shattered glass. Lowering the rifle, I rise and leave the room, passing the group of hysterical workers on my way out.
Outside the building, I find Guido by his car again, staring at the blood and chunks of flesh scattered across his windshield.
“The fuck, Rafael!” he grunts. “Will you stop littering my car with people’s remains? That’s disgusting!”
“Sorry. I forgot you parked just below.” I throw the bloodied rifle in the back my vehicle. “Make sure everyone keeps their mouths shut about what happened here tonight. Let’s see what Calogero does when he realizes his drugs never left the port.”
“He’ll probably send his men to investigate.”
“If he does, you know what needs to be done.” I slide behind the wheel and step on the gas.
When I get home, I take a shower in the guest room, then slip inside my bedroom. My little hacker is curled up in my bed—asleep—still wearing the same outfit she was in when I left. The top two buttons of the pale-peach silk blouse are undone, revealing a glimpse of the white lace bra underneath. My eyes slide down her legs, clad in white skinny jeans, to the ivory stiletto sandals strapped to her delicate feet. She obviously dozed off while working, since my laptop is lying open next to her in bed.
I lean over and carefully unbuckle her shoes. As I’m doing so, my eyes fall on the lit-up laptop screen. It displays the website of my front company. The URL and the corporate name are correct, but instead of the dark-navy header and silver text, the feature image is of two cartoon frogs wearing pink hats. And the little green croakers are winking. Meanwhile, our customers’ reviews on the slider, have been changed to a cursive font with hearts dotting every lowercase “i” on the page.
Setting the heeled sandals by the bed, I move the laptop to the nightstand and pull up the duvet to Vasilisa’s chin. My little trickster. I reach into my pocket and take out the jewelry box I picked up on my way home, then place it by the laptop. The store owner nearly had a stroke when he found me on his doorstep at four in the morning. The blood all over my jacket and shirt didn’t help. It took him several attempts to spit out the words that the bracelet I ordered would arrive tomorrow. I had to pacify my irritation by buying a pair of ruby earrings instead.
They aren’t exquisite enough. Hardly the exceptional pieces I need, since the stones are nothing but a common cut. But they were the most expensive thing he had in the store. If it comes to it, I’m prepared to buy every exclusive piece of jewelry in Sicily for Vasilisa, in hopes that she may be open to accepting my advances. Maybe she’ll even consider going out to dinner with me.
After lightly brushing the tips of my fingers across Vasilisa’s cheek, I head to the recliner by the fireplace. It has a direct view of my sleeping tormentor, so I get comfortable in what has become my coveted nightly spot. It’s too late to get my own shut-eye anyway, and watching my sweet prisoner is much more enjoyable than a couple of hours of rest.
Chapter 10
“This is amazing,” I mumble while shoveling a mixture of scrambled eggs, bell peppers, and some sort of green stuff into my mouth. “Seriously, Irma, you should open your own place instead of working for Rafael. Nobody in this house eats here except me anyway, so it’s a total waste of your talent. Truly, you should just quit.”
Irma throws a look at Guido, who’s sipping his coffee on the other side of the dining table, and he translates for her. When he’s done, she just blinks at him in confusion, then throws me a smile and busies herself putting the dishes into the dishwasher.
Male voices drift through the open window—the handymen are still here. They’ve finished painting all the doors and windows, and have now switched to graveling the driveway. For whatever reason, they’re removing the existing cover—which seemed more than decent to me as is and didn’t look like it needed replacing—and spreading new crushed rock.
In the kitchen, the two maids appear to be busy. One is rewashing the pots—by hand—after she wiped (for a second time this week) the inside of the cupboards, while the other is tenderizing meat on the island countertop. Guido’s forehead creases, and he jerks slightly, with every loud strike of the meat mallet. It’s really funny to watch.
I have no problem with household noise. Compared to home, this is almost like being at a library. Still, it’s much better than it was before Rafael ordered the household staff to return.
“Why am I the only one who eats in this house?” I ask Guido between bites. It’s weird, and somehow sad, having all my meals alone. “You normally take your bowl of bird food somewhere else, and I’ve never seen your brother eat anything here at all. Does he even need sustenance, or does he just hunt his prey in the neighborhood and drink their blood?”
“Guido is an introvert who likes to eat his meals in his apartment.” The velvety voice rumbles behind me. “And I usually eat at work.”
My eyes track Rafael as he goes to the coffee machine and pours himself a cup. He’s in a brown three-piece suit today, paired with a black dress shirt. The top two buttons are undone. No tie. Brown and black together don’t sound like a good fashion combination. For him, however, it definitely works. But he looks really tired, and unfortunately, still drop-dead gorgeous, despite the dark circles under his eyes.
