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Howard sighs, standing. “Be careful, Mr. Donatelli.”
I don’t respond. Just watch him leave. When the door clicks shut, I lean back in my chair, my head swimming.
She must think I killed her brother. The thought claws at me, but there’s no way to explain it to her. Not now. Not without exposing the darker corners of my world, secrets she’s better off not knowing.
I reach for the whiskey again, pour a third glass, and take a slower sip this time. My mind races with the possibilities. What does she plan to do with this? Will she take everything she knows and run straight to her father? I wouldn’t blame her if she did. Even if some of what she thinks she knows isn’t true, it wouldn’t matter.
Perception is enough to destroy everything.
From the desk drawer, I pull out a cigarette and light it. The first drag calms my nerves just enough to focus.
“This is it,” I mutter to myself, staring at the smoke curling upward. Either Aria protects me, or she turns me in.
The irony is not lost on me. After years of successfully ruling the mafia world, my empire−my life−is now literally in the hands of the one woman I ever fell inlovewith.
And for the first time in a long time, I feel lost and completely out of control.
***
My meeting with Bruno Moretti is in a couple of minutes and with the whole Mario Abruzzi issue distracting me throughout the day, I’ve been feeling restless, snapping at the slightest provocation.
My hand reaches out to the walkie-talkie just beside me in the car. “Take ten men in a different car and wait ten kilometers away from the meeting point. When I give the signal, you guys are to move in immediately.”
We’ve already gone over the plan. He and the others will make their way to the abandoned airplane hangar outside town, the Morettis’ new hideout. That’s where they’re keeping Cortez’s girl. My stomach clenches with fury at the thought.
Cortez silently says, “Sì,Capo.” My gaze flickers to check my watch. It's 7:25 p.m. Five minutes until I meet that burly mass of stupidity face to face.
The designated meeting location is an uncompleted building site just outside town. I made sure to arrive thirty minutes before the rendezvous time so I could do a quick survey of the area. My wild guess is that the airplane hangar is somewhere close by.
The loud blaring of horns tells me Bruno Moretti has arrived with his convoy, rolling up like he owns the world. I make my way out of my car, monitoring his men as they station themselves outside their van as Bruno Moretti steps down, scanning the perimeter. What they don’t know is that my men are already here, lying in wait.
“Donatelli, it’s good to see you,” his cracked voice calls out across the night.
“I don’t have time for pleasantries, Moretti. Where’s the girl?”
“First, the ports’ right transfer document, Donatelli. This is an exchange, remember?”
As he walks closer, I chuckle. I settle on top of my car’s bonnet, hands gripping my walkie-talkie to prevent myself from bashing my fist into his face when he gets to me.
Bruno Moretti’s men walk closely behind him, dragging a lady whose head is covered with a sack.
So they did bring her out here.
The woman’s hands are bound, her steps unsteady. They stop ten feet short of reaching me, with Bruno standing in the middle.
“Hand over the documents,” one of the men demands.
I push my weight off the bonnet of my car and land lightly on my feet. “Not until I confirm the girl’s identity. Take off the sack.”
Bruno hesitates, then nods at the man who yanks the sack off. This girl does have dark hair, but she’s not the brunette in the picture Cortez showed me earlier today. My pulse quickens as I realize it’s a setup.
Before I can react, I catch the glint of a gun being drawn, and I pull mine just as Bruno Moretti fires. The shot sears through my side. Pain explodes, burning and sharp, but I don’t fall to the ground.
Gunfire erupts, and I dive behind my car door, gritting my teeth as blood oozes from my wound. Lifting the walkie-talkie, I say, “Muoviti(Move)!Ora(Now)!”
Moretti’s men surge forward, probably thinking they have me pinned. One comes around and lunges at me. His punch skims my cheek. I drive my elbow into his throat. He gurgles, choking and staggering back. Another swings a knife. I grab his wrist and twist until the bones snap. He screams as I slam his head against the car hood.
Two others come at me, but my hands close around the trigger of my gun, firing continuous rounds at both of them, as well as the other three who come after.