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“The Sicilian,” I start, wanting to avoid talking about Tasha.
“Ah, Emilio Randazzo.” The Don sneers with pleasure, finally uttering the dickhead’s name. “The time has come.”
I exhale slowly, disliking the interruption. “Plans are in place. I’ve scheduled a meeting with him which his agent confirmed, although fuck knows why he’d want to see me.”
“He’ll want to see you, trust me,” the Don says.
Okay, whatever. “Dominic and I have a team on the ground that knows his location, so I plan to go in guns blazing.” What can I say? Standard Mafia plan of action since day one.
The Don grunts. “Maybe take a slower approach. He’s meeting you as an equal. As my representative. Do to him as he would do to me.”
Meaning torture the fucker. “Noted.”
“What’s your security like?” the Don asks, as if a request to torture a man to death is par for the course.
“Dominic is putting things in place,” I say. “The mole will let us in and out and provide me with weapons once I’m in the compound.”
“And my team’s already on the ground, scouting,” Dominic says. “And we’ve secured our premises and staff.”
“I’m going in under the guise of meeting a realtor to sell the farmhouse. That’s the word we’ll be spreading.”
“Good.” The Don nods. “Your exit plans?”
“Getting them off our scent by traveling to Croatia, then taking the jet to Cannes from there.”
The Don taps with his forefingers against his lips. “You might get stranded. Cornered. Don Trapani is an old friend of mine. From my school days. He’s always told me to come on vacation and use his yacht. It’s available to you and might be less conspicuous.”
I shift in my chair. As inconspicuous as I’d like to be, using a stranger’s yacht isn’t exactly top tier safety. “I’ll see.”
“Understand, Matteo, you can trust Don Trapani. He also wants Randazzo dead.”
Fuck. I just want it done.
“What about the girl?” the Don asks. “I hear she’s at your place.”
Whoever has spoken out of line is getting a bullet in the head. I glance around the room, to see who my dad’s informant was, but I’m met with blank but equally shocked faces. Who the fuck is the mole in my house?
“Ah, Matteo. Relax… relax. Peter Armstrong phoned me last night. That’s how I know.”
I unclench my fists. “Did he? Before or after dinner?”
“What do I care? What are your plans for her?”
A weighty silence hangs in the room before I finally say, “The doc was there this morning. She’s untouched, so Luca and Stephano will run her auction. You can go live on your auction site.” I glance at my brothers who nod, but don’t say anything.
“With our high-profile clientele, we should have bids coming in quickly,” Luca says. “One of us will meet with Matteo in Cannes for the exchange. We have regulars that fly in, and Cannes is central. We’ll make it easy.”
“Excellent,” the Don huffs. “To think Armstrong begged for me to have mercy. Mercy for his little girl. From me, who almost lost two sons thanks to him.” The Don leans back and laughs, but it breaks into an uncontrollable cough and blood-stained spittle on the napkin he reaches for.
There’s an anxious knock on the door which we all ignore. Probably the full-time nurse who is looking after him now. I hope for her sake she didn’t hear anything more than his coughing fit.
None of us move to help him. When he finally wheezes in a breath, he stands, and in that moment, I’m reminded of everything I’ve witnessed in the years I’ve been this man’s puppet. He still has it in him. That cruelty that knows no bounds, of which I’ve become a by-product, functioning like a robot. Do as I say and do as I do was the Don’s motto I was trained on.
“There will be no mercy,” the Don hisses once he’s fully recovered from his coughing fit. “Twelve years I’ve waited. Now bring me proof, Matteo. I have no more patience for Armstrong’s bullshit.” The Don drops back in his chair and waves us off, chest heaving with exertion. I stand and nod. My brothers follow suit. We’ve been dismissed. We don’t talk as we file out of the office and take the broad corridor to the impressive foyer with its double winding staircase and elaborate flower decoration on the center table.
We don’t need to talk. Too much blood has been spilled in his name, and not for the first time I acknowledge that I hate him. He killed our mother, the only being that ever cared for any of us. He cut the joy out of our lives intentionally to harden us for his service.
Two more things that I must do for him, and then I’m done.
