Page 22 of Niccolo (Mafia Kings #7)

I t was a four-hour drive from San Remo to Tuscany. I rode in the back of a chauffeured silver Rolls-Royce with Fausto. It was a custom vehicle with limo-style seats that faced each other and a privacy screen so the driver couldn’t hear a thing.

With our privacy ensured, we made good use of the time.

First came the terms of the deal.

I asked for a portion of the money upfront, but Fausto refused.

“I’m going to be investing a lot of time in this,” I pointed out.

“I don’t want you using the money to fund your lawsuit and then running out on me.” When he saw the surprise on my face, Fausto smiled. “Yes, I know all about your long-term plans, Sofia.”

“I wouldn’t stop working for you, even if I won the lawsuit,” I protested. “I want all 10 million.”

“You say that now – but what if you won 5 million euros in the lawsuit? You might decide that was enough, and that working for me was too dangerous. That it might jeopardize your newly restored reputation.”

“You think I’d cross a man who had his own brother killed?”

Fausto smiled. “You would be wise not to.”

But the cheap old bastard wouldn’t budge. He was insistent that I would only get my 10 million euros after all the nephews were dead.

“Then I’m going to continue playing in poker tournaments,” I said. “I have to earn a living.”

“If you invest it wisely, ten million euros could set you up for life,” he pointed out.

“Not if I never get paid.”

“Then make sure we destroy them,” he snapped.

“I will. But in the meantime, pay me a deposit.”

Fausto said no, so I refused to budge on the poker tournaments.

It was an important negotiating point. If I caved to every one of his demands, then Fausto would have control over me.

This way, I at least retained a bit of independence.

Game theory.

Fausto sighed angrily but finally agreed.

Until I completed my assignment, I would live in Fausto’s mansion. Being on-site would make planning and last-minute decisions easier.

In the meantime, I would continue to pay rent on my apartment in Bologna.

Once I got my payout, I’d move to a penthouse somewhere… but I was too cautious to break my lease until I was sure things would work out.

I figured it would only take a couple of weeks – a month at most.

How wrong I was.

When we were done with the financial details, I said, “Alright, give me the lay of the land. I need to know the targets and who I’m dealing with.”

He told me all about the six brothers.

Dario, the newly crowned don who was still in San Vittore, a notorious prison in Milan. He was slated for release in less than a week.

Adriano, the one with the vicious temper.

Massimo, a giant with an easygoing nature.

Valentino, the youngest – and a ladies’ man.

Roberto, the financial genius who handled the brothers’ money.

And Niccolo, the newly appointed consigliere.

“Niccolo Machiavelli?” I asked wryly.

Fausto smiled. “Both the name and his nature fit.”

Then he threw a wrench into the mix.

“There’s also a Swede they’ve hired named Lars Henriksson. Dario befriended him in prison. In fact, it was Lars who foiled my various attempts to have Dario killed in San Vittore.”

“Killed how?”

“I have back-channel connections to most of the organized crime groups in Italy. All of them have members incarcerated in San Vittore. I put a bounty on my nephew’s head, but no one has been able to claim it, thanks to Lars,” Fausto said grumpily.

I frowned. “What’s so special about this guy that he can single-handedly stop mafia assassinations?”

“He was a member of the Swedish Special Forces – and briefly MI6.”

My eyes widened. “British Intelligence?”

“Yes. During a mission in Italy, he was apprehended by the police while in possession of unregistered guns. Hence the stint in San Vittore.”

Great.

Not only did I have to contend with a bunch of ordinary killers; now I had to factor in an elite military-trained one, as well.

“You said Lars was hired by the brothers. That suggests he’s no longer in prison.”

“He got out a few months ago. At Dario’s insistence, he came to work for my brother.”

“Before you had him killed?” I asked.

Fausto nodded. “Before I had him killed.”

“So if Lars is no longer in San Vittore, why can’t you have Dario assassinated now?”

“Over the last four years, Lars trained my nephew and apparently turned him into a killing machine. I’ve upped the bounty to half a million euros, but Dario has left such a string of bodies in his wake that no one wants to make any more attempts.

Not to mention that there are members of the Cosa Nostra in San Vittore who run interference for him. ”

“Why can’t you pay off the other members of the Cosa Nostra to do the job? Or at least get out of the way?”

“I need to remain in good standing with them. If they knew I was trying to have my own nephew killed, the repercussions for me would be… unpleasant. Not to mention that someone would alert my other nephews, and all my plans would be for naught.” Fausto shrugged.

“It doesn’t matter at this point. Dario gets out in four days, which isn’t enough time to do anything. We’ll handle him once he gets out.”

The Dario angle seemed to be a dead-end for now, so I focused on the Swede. “What’s Lars’s job with the family?”

“His formal title is the Head of Security, but I think Dario is grooming him to be the Enforcer.”

I raised one eyebrow. “A hitman?”

“No. A hitman is anyone who kills for money. The Enforcer is the most feared instrument of a mafia don – the one who strikes fear into his enemies’ hearts, the one entrusted with the most dangerous missions. If the consigliere is the don’s right-hand man, then the Enforcer is his left hand.”

Another Godfather reference surfaced in my memory.

“Like Luca Brasi,” I said.

That was the name of the gigantic thug who had been Marlon Brando’s Enforcer – and who met an unfortunate end with a garrote around his neck.

“Exactly.”

I sat back and thought for a second. Then I said, “Tell me how you had your brother killed.”

“Through contacts of mine, I found an old Sicilian woman with a grudge against our family. It was actually me who ordered the deaths of her husband and son 20 years ago, but I told her it was solely my brother’s decision and that I had argued against it tooth and nail.

“Once I’d convinced her, I had her apply to be a servant in the household. Through ordinary channels so she couldn’t be traced back to me, of course. But I made sure she was hired.

“Five months ago, I slipped her a vial of sodium nitrate. When my brother was dozing after a couple drinks, she injected it into him, giving him a fatal heart attack. I paid the coroner not to ‘notice’ the pinprick in the autopsy.”

Fausto’s cold-blooded manner as he told the story gave me serious pause.

This was a man willing to kill his own brother.

My life would be worth far, far less.

I would have to watch my back around him every second.

“Why did you kill them?” I asked.

He frowned. “Who?”

“The old woman’s husband and son.”

Fausto shrugged like it was no big deal. “They were interfering with our business. I think. I can’t recall, exactly.”

His casual indifference chilled me to the bone.

“Where is the Sicilian woman now?” I asked.

“Still in the house. My nephews have no idea what she did.”

Interesting…

A pawn can become a queen if it advances to the opposite end of the board.

This particular pawn had already killed a king.

There was no telling how useful she might eventually be.

“I’ve considered having her try to kill the others,” Fausto said, “but it would have to be the ideal moment.”

“Hold off on that,” I advised him, “and tell me about anything else that might be of use to us.”

During the drive back to Tuscany, I learned a great many other things.

Fausto’s family had a partnership in Florence with a mafia family named the Agrellas. The Rosolinis handled judicial and political corruption, while the Agrellas handled street-level crime.

On the surface, the partnership had flourished for 20 years without incident – but Fausto had secretly struck a deal on his own with the Agrellas, giving them a piece of the corruption business.

As a result, the Agrellas had groomed their own stable of corrupt judges and politicians. They controlled a mere fraction of what the Rosolinis did, but it was a lucrative side business – and it put the Agrellas in Fausto’s debt.

He had struck the secret deal years ago when he first hatched his plan to kill his brother and nephews. He’d done it in the hope that if it came down to war with his own family, Fausto could convince the Agrellas to take his side.

“What happens if your nephews discover your deal with the Agrellas?” I asked.

“They’ll kill me.”

“I guess we better make sure they don’t find out, then.”

Fausto explained that there were nearly two dozen Cosa Nostra families in Italy. The five most powerful were the ones who ruled Rome, Milan, Venice, Sicily, and Naples.

“I thought Naples was controlled by the Camorra,” I said, naming another organized crime group.

“They’ve been in a shadow war with a family called the Amatos for over a decade now,” he said, then smiled. “I have contacts in the Camorra, as well.”

Fausto had contacts everywhere. Not only the family’s roster of corrupt cops in Florence, but moles in the police departments of the cities controlled by the Five Families.

Fausto paid them through the Agrellas so his own nephews wouldn’t find out how far his influence extended.

A lot of pieces on the chessboard…

Pieces I could potentially leverage.

“Anyone else I should know about?” I asked.

“Well… I’ve been talking to two potential business partners. One is from Turkey. He’s in talks with the Agrellas to supply them with drugs and women.”

“Women for what?”

“Prostitution.”

I must have made a face because Fausto paused.

“Does that bother you?” he asked coolly.

It did… but I wasn’t about to admit it.

“I’m being paid 10 million euros. I have no opinion on the matter.”

He smiled. “Good answer. The Turk has to move his wares through my territory in Tuscany, which means I’m entitled to a cut. The Agrellas have been urging me to meet with him so they can start up the pipeline. However…”

“What?”

Fausto grimaced. “My nephews control not only Florence but all the land immediately surrounding it. Which means that the Turk will have to cut a deal with them, too.”

“That could be useful. Anyone else?”

“Yes. My grandfather came from a little town in Sicily named Rosolini – it’s where we got our last name. There’s a man who runs that region and knew my grandfather. His name’s Mezzasalma – ”

“‘Half corpse’?” I asked. That was the literal meaning of ‘Mezzasalma.’ “Is that a mafia nickname?”

“It’s also an old Sicilian word for a small parcel of land,” Fausto replied. “Although the other meaning is useful in our line of work.

“Mezzasalma got the blessing of his boss, Don Vicari – the mafia don who runs all of Sicily – to expand to the mainland. Mezzasalma contacted me recently, seeing as I’m the newest don in Italy, and asked if I was interested in a partnership.”

“This Mezzasalma… he’s Sicilian?”

“Obviously. So am I, by the way,” Fausto said with a hint of pride. “Although I grew up in Tuscany, both of my parents were from Sicily.”

“What’s Mezzasalma like?”

“Fearsome and quite dangerous.” Fausto smiled. “Don Vicari wanted him out of Sicily for a reason.”

Interesting.

“Let’s put him on the back burner for now,” I said. “But you never know; he might be useful.”