Page 7 of Dark Breaker

“He is,” Massimo replies. “That’s where we’re meeting him. Luciano, gear up.”

* * *

I ridein the back seat of Massimo’s Range Rover. Angela sits in the front passenger seat, while Luciano is on my right.

I tried to convince Angela not to come—sheispregnant, after all. But she wouldn’t listen to me. Said her place was here with her husband. Massimo caved mostly because he didn’t want to leave her alone in the villa, away from him and beyond his protection. He didn’t trust the D’Alimontes not to backstab us by attacking our loved ones at home while we were out.

Massimo drives us to the imposing building that serves as the prison. A large wall surrounds the entire street corner, so that we can’t see inside. Spirals of razor wire menacingly line the top portion of that wall.

My other brothers Enrico, Roberto and Stefano are already present, waiting inside another SUV.

Massimo stops next to them and opens Angela’s window. “Have you seen Fabio and his goons?”

Stefano, seated behind the driver’s seat of the other SUV, shakes his head. “You think they’re going to try a drive-by?”

“Who knows,” Massimo replies. “But this is why we took the Iron Wolves.” That was the nickname my brothers had given the bulletproof SUVs we were riding in. “Giovanni is on the way.”

Massimo pulls ahead of their vehicle and waits.

I gaze out the window nervously. It’s dark out, the street lit solely by lamps. It’s well past prison visiting hours, and I’m uncertain we’ll even be allowed inside. Sure, either Massimo, Fabio, or Giovanni must have some of the guards on their payroll, but I know the mafia world well enough to realize there are no guarantees. The guards in question could be on vacation or at home sick. There might be a prison-wide lockdown due to bad behavior. Fabio might not show up, or he might attempt a drive-by shooting like Stefano suggested.

Yup, there are tons of reasons this could go bad, which is precisely why I try not to involve myself in mafia doings in the first place.

I shift in my seat uncomfortably. We’re all wearing bulletproof vests underneath our clothes as a precaution—we plan to ditch our vehicles when Fabio arrives, along with the protection said vehicles provide, which means we’ll be momentarily exposed should the D’Alimontes decide to open fire. My particular vest feels tight, hot, and scratchy underneath my leather jumpsuit, but there’s nothing for it.

A convey of Alfa Romeo vehicles arrive shortly. Half of them park in front of our Range Rovers, the other half behind.

I glance at Angela. “Your father?”

“That would be him,” Angela confirms.

Massimo’s pocket buzzes. He grabs his phone, then glances at Angela. “Your dad.” He picks up. “CiaoGiovanni, thanks for coming. No, there’s still no sign of him. He’s late… you got it.”

Massimo hangs up and glances over his shoulder at Luciano. “Giovanni wanted to be the one who was late, and he’s pissed Fabio isn’t here yet. He says we’re all going to leave after five minutes if the D’Alimontes don’t show.”

“If Giovanni wants to be late, why don’t we just tell him to leave and come back again?” I suggest.

Massimo shakes his head. “Fabio could have men watching. He’d gloat if he caught us. Try to use it against us during the negotiations.”

“Not sure how that could be used against us…” I say.

“Trust me, during negotiations everything can be used against you,” Massimo explains. “Especially signs of weakness. Everyone is trying to get the upper hand.”

I keep an eye on my watch as the seconds tick past. Two minutes go by. Three. Four.

“They’re not going to make it…”

At almost precisely the five minute mark several more vehicles approach: piano-black jeeps and SUVs. They park well in front of us, then black-clad men emerge. I spot Fabio at their center. He’s dressed in a gray suit tonight.

Once again I’m taken aback by how unexpectedly hot he is. No one should be that hot. Especially not a gangster such as himself. He’s not wearing a fedora tonight, and his long dark curls tumble down either side of his beautiful face, reaching to his shoulders. I’d love to touch that hair, wrap my fingers around those curly locks, smell them.

Too bad he’s such an asshole. Plus, when I meet his eyes and see the anger in them, the overall effect serves only to reduce his hotness a couple of notches. Just a couple.

“Guess he’s decided to go without the lambo for once,” I mutter.

Angela gives me a confused glance.

“Showtime,” Massimo announces. He opens the door and gets out. I follow, as does Angela and a limping Luciano.