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“Where is this place?” I asked as I stared at the map.
Rosolini was Italian, so I was expecting somewhere in Italy –
“Just down the road,” my host said.
I wasn’t expecting that.
I looked at him in shock. “How ‘just down the road’?”
“About a 45-minute drive.”
I stared at him. “You live 45 minutes away from the man you think might KILL you?!”
He smiled. “You can understand my concern.”
“I guess so.” I looked back at the map and formed a mental checklist of basic information. “What are the surveillance systems like?”
“What do you mean?”
“How many cameras are there?”
“That I do not know,” my host said apologetically. “I know they’ve installed some recently, but that’s all I know..”
I stared at him. “You expect me to go in there without knowing how many cameras there are or where they’re pointed?”
“For 200,000 euros?” the son/nephew/associate sneered. “Yeah – we do.”
I was about to rip him a new asshole when my host intervened.
“If you can’t be helpful,” the older man snapped, “be quiet.”
The younger guy shut his mouth and stewed in silent resentment.
“Does Rosolini come out of the house much?” I asked.
“Why do you ask?”
“I want to know if I can get a clear shot at him while he’s outside. Otherwise, I’m going to have to aim through a window.”
“What about an outdoor wedding? He’d be outside for that.”
“Why, is there one coming up?” I asked.
“Yes. Very soon, in fact.”
Huh.
My client was full of surprises.
“Is it a mafia wedding?” I asked.
“Obviously,” he said drily.
“Then I’m guessing there will be triple the level of security. So, no – I don’t think the wedding’s a good idea.”
“What if I could get you into the wedding as a guest?”
I stared at him. “How would you do that?”
