Page 2 of Taken By the Enforcer
I assess his face and body language.
His eyes lower in respect. Beyond the change in demeanor, he remains unnerved. No sweat beads on his forehead, or eyes blink rapidly. Even his jaw remains relaxed. He stands before me, composed.
I flick my gaze to the other two. They shake their heads and raise their hands up, palms out. My gaze returns to Aldo. He brings his gaze to mine. My eyes narrow. He’s unflinching.
I replay the scene in my head and recall nothing thatwould contradict his self-defense answer. If he were lying, I’d kill him on the spot. But the code stays my hand.
“Clean this shit up,” I snarl and pivot, stalking to the sink as I peel off the shirt. My muscles ripple with the movement. I toss the ruined shirt to the floor and twist the spigots angrily. The water splashes up from the basin to soak my shirt. A growl simmers in my chest.
As I wash blood from my hands and forearms, I watch them through the mirror’s reflection. My gaze tracks Aldo’s every move. He doesn’t waver. But I can’t stop the niggling in my gut. Then again, it could be because I can’t stand the dick.
I dry off and ball up the shirt, careful not to get blood on me. Before I leave, I watch them clean up. They hose blood and gunk towards the drain at the center of the room while the fucker’s body melts in a drum of hydrofluoric acid. Satisfied with their progress, I stride for the door, only pausing to wipe the soles of my shoes on the mat they’ll dispose of.
“Buona notte, D.”
“See you, D.”
I jerk my chin at the soldiers standing guard throughout the empty warehouse. It’s one of many owned by the family. A burly soldier opens the door for me. His sharp gaze assesses the potential for threats in the night’s shadowy surroundings of the warehouse. Only after he steps back with a nod, do I exit.
With a fresh shirt on, I slip into my suit jacket and slide behind the wheel of the supercar.
“Dammit!”
This is the second theft in four months, and I will find the backstabber.
The engine purrs to life. I shift gears and peel away from the warehouse, leaving Catania’s port behind. Time to meet up with Marcello and Faustino at Club Petali.
I drive through the ancient streets of Sicily’s second largest municipality until I pull up to elaborate black wrought-iron gates. A guard in a black suit steps from the security house at the entrance to the high-end men’s club.
“Buonasera, Signore Romano,” he says as he glances through my open window. I nod. Stepping back, he raises his left hand to signal for the guard in the security house to release the gates.
They swing outward, and I drive through. Cypress trees line the long driveway leading to a sprawling villa built millennia ago by a Roman prince for his mistress. The secluded estate and its provenance prove perfect for the luxury members-only club where the women willingly work to fulfill every fantasy. This location is one of many around the world owned by the Luccheses for the pleasure of the wealthy elite.
A valet—alerted of my arrival by the guard—waits to open my door as I stop at the foot of the villa’s entry stairs. I jog up the stone steps to the front doors. A butler greets me as the glass and wrought-iron door opens.
The ceiling soars between twin staircases in the grand marble entrance. Prisms from the crystal chandeliers dazzle on the walls, drawing the eye to the themed salons. They flank the stairs with the gaming rooms beyond. The three upper floors serve as entertainment areas and as private suites, while the lower level and the cellar host darker fantasies. The seductive scent of vanilla and ylang-ylang wafts through the air. Sensual rhythmic music plays from a hidden surround-sound system, capturing the erotic ambiance of the villa. The club embodies the Lucchese’s sense of old-world grandeur and luxury. Even a Mafia family prefers the best in life.
Waitstaff carry trays of prosecco and whiskey or of hors d’oeuvres in case the members prefer not to eat in the dining room or not to order drinks at the bars. I need a stronger drink. Food is the last thing on my mind. I shake my head as they approach.
Dozens of gorgeous, scantily clad women mill about on the arms or in the laps of men dressed in bespoke tuxedos. Not wanting their partners for the evening to notice but not wanting to miss their chance, the beauties wink surreptitiously at me as I pass. Mary I’ve bedded. Others want their chance. My reputation as a skilled lover runs rampant among them. But tonight, I’m here for business, not pleasure. I ignore their clandestine offers.
As I weave through the clusters, the members offer me their salutations. However, I don’t linger. Marcelloand Faustino await my arrival. Two soldiers stand outside the office. They nod as I stride past them to the door.
My older brother—by a year to my twenty-six—glances up from his mobile where he sits on the leather sofa. Eyes like mine scan my face for answers to the questions Marcello will have for me.
The youngest of the four Lucchese sons, he rose from an assassin to a family capo. Best friends since we were little, he brought Faustino and me on as his second and his third. He too studies my face.
“Nothing,” I answer their silent query as I stride to the wet bar and pour two fingers of whiskey into a tumbler. I throw it back. The amber liquid burns down my throat but does little to dull my anger. It’s not enough to displace the shitshow interrogation. I refill the glass, then face them. “I was about to relieve him of his hand when Aldo shot him dead. In self-defense.”
“How the hell did that happen?”
I shrug an eyebrow, still pissed.
“Aldo says the fucker reached for his gun as he and two soldiers loosened him from the chains. It happened fast, and neither of the other two nor I can dispute it.”
Faustino sucks his teeth and sighs. Marcello leans back in his leather chair and rubs the nape of his neck.
“Luca wants answers,” he states flatly. His mink brown eyes bore into me with an unspoken warning. The stare cuts deeper than any scalpel I use during my interrogations. Message received loud and clear.