Page 24 of Niccolo (Mafia Kings #7)

I was in Paris at a poker tournament on the day Dario Rosolini got out of prison.

I would have gladly skipped the tournament, but Fausto was still being a miserly bastard, so I went on principle alone.

Paris was only a two-hour flight from Florence, so it wasn’t a big deal. And I had already registered and pre-paid my entry fee months in advance.

Unfortunately, the game in Paris paled in comparison to the one I had left behind in Italy. Next to my new Cosa Nostra sideline, poker seemed boring and insipid.

I was so distracted that I played horribly and busted out after the third round.

Oh well. The pot had only been a million euros. I had ten times that amount at stake in the other game – the more important game.

I flew back to Florence that evening. When I arrived at the mansion, the foot soldiers told me Fausto and Aurelio had gone to Dario’s house to say hello. I was shocked to find out my new mortal enemies lived only 30 minutes away.

“How did it go?” I asked when they returned.

“He’s still as big an asshole as when he went to prison,” Aurelio snarked.

“Wonderful, but how did it go?”

“About as well as could be expected.” Fausto shrugged. “They still blame me for letting Dario take the fall.”

“Any regrets about that?” I asked.

“Only that I didn’t manage to have him killed while he was still in San Vittore.”

His comment sent a chill down my spine.

I loathed both Fausto and his son…

But ten million euros was ten million euros, and I had dealt with assholes before.

Just not ones in the mafia.

We met with the Turk two days later.

He was around 45 years old, tall, and dressed in an expensive suit. His most interesting feature was a jagged scar that ran from his left ear to the corner of his mouth. It made him look even more dangerous than he already was.

While his men waited outside with Fausto’s foot soldiers, the four of us – the Turk, Fausto, Aurelio, and I – talked in the library.

The Turk spoke surprisingly good Italian, though with a heavy accent.

He struck me as a shrewd negotiator, but he also seemed like he was hiding something. What, I didn’t know.

Fausto and the Turk reached an agreement: for a 10% fee, the Turk could transport his wares across Fausto’s territory to the Agrellas in Florence. The fee included protection by Fausto’s men and ensured no entanglements with local law enforcement, whom Fausto controlled.

“Ten percent seems like a suspiciously good deal,” the Turk said, then smiled. “Not that I’m complaining.”

“Well… there is a bit of a wrinkle,” Fausto replied. “My nephew controls the area surrounding Florence. You’ll have to cut a deal with him, as well.”

The Turk grimaced. “Dario Rosolini and his brothers.”

Fausto nodded. “You’ve done your homework.”

“I have. In addition to the Agrellas, I’ve spoken with nearly every Cosa Nostra family in Italy.”

“I see. Well, you’ll probably have to give Dario 10%, too, which is why I’m charging such a low price.”

“Ah, well… the price of business. Can you make the introduction for me?”

“I can,” Fausto said. “However…”

“What?” the Turk asked with a frown.

“There’s a bit of… tension between me and my nephews. As I’m sure you know, their father – my brother – died about six months ago. After his death, I started my own family and took half of the territory. They still haven’t forgiven me for leaving them at a critical juncture.”

The Turk narrowed his eyes. “Is there bad blood between you?”

“Let’s just say there’s no love lost. And, to be quite honest, I don’t approve of Dario taking the helm. He’s not ready. After all, he just recently returned home after four years in prison.”

“I heard,” the Turk said. “San Vittore is a notorious hellhole. He must be quite a man to have survived.”

“Hrm,” Fausto grunted.

“No?”

“I fear that he went a bit… soft in prison, and that’s how he survived. If you get my meaning.”

“Really,” the Turk said in disgust.

“I fear so. At least, that’s what my sources tell me.”

I kept my expression blank – a perfect poker face – but I was happy that Fausto was following the plan I had suggested.

Implying his nephew had been a prison bitch meant Dario was weak –

And thus an easy target.

The Turk peered into Fausto’s eyes. “I have to ask: why don’t you reassert control?”

Fausto gestured helplessly. “You have to understand, my hands are tied. You said you’ve spoken to almost all of the Cosa Nostra families in Italy, correct?”

“I have.”

“The rest of the Cosa Nostra would never trust me again if I were to move against my nephews. Besides…” Fausto smiled benevolently. “They’re family.”

“But there’s no love lost between you,” the Turk said, repeating Fausto’s earlier words.

“None.”

The Turk sat there for a long moment, weighing what to say next…

And then he took our bait – hook, line, and sinker.

“…would you be inclined to strike back against an outsider who moved against your nephew?”

“Not at all,” Fausto said. “In fact, if he were a good businessman, I’d be inclined to work with him.”

“…interesting…”

“It’s not just Dario, though,” Fausto cautioned. “There are five other brothers and an Enforcer. A formidable bunch.”

“Led by a finocchio,” the Turk said contemptuously.

‘Finnochio’ was the Italian word for fennel –

And also a slur against gay men.

Fausto laughed. “Yes, unfortunately.” Then he grew serious. “But you can never say you heard any of this from me. My dealings with my nephews are already complicated enough. I don’t need any more trouble.”

“Just a better business partner, perhaps,” the Turk suggested.

“Just a better business partner,” Fausto agreed.

“You’ve given me a great deal to think about, Don Rosolini,” the Turk said.

“Good. If you can, strike a deal with my nephew…” Fausto trailed off and smiled darkly. “…or don’t. You have my blessing to do whatever you feel the situation warrants.”

The Turk narrowed his eyes. “And I have your word there will be no hard feelings on your part?”

“My dear fellow, I can assure you, I would feel only gratitude.”

Fausto and the Turk shook hands, and that was the end of the meeting.

After it was all over and the Turk was gone, Fausto said, “Well – I think that went smashingly.”

“He’s hiding something, though,” I cautioned.

“So are we, my dear – so are we,” Fausto replied. “The point is, we’ve planted the seeds. Now we sit back and wait to harvest the crop.”

We didn’t have to wait long.