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In the few seconds of light, I spot Carla and another woman, also tied up. There are three of us now. I don’t know who this other woman is, but from the raw panic in her eyes, she’s in the same boat as me and Carla.
The man with the automatic rifle sits close on a small bench. I remember him from Lake Como. The executioner.How many men did Franco bring over to come and fetch me? One of his men must be driving the van, too. But it’s the dead eyes of the body I’ve been bashing into that makes my stomach turn.Tony.
Oh my God. This quiet man who watched me when Steph wasn’t at home, who was prepared to take a bullet for me, is dead. I can’t breathe. Not with Tony’s dead eyes on me.
All I know is Stephano will come for me. He’ll come forus. And if he doesn’t, I’ll rather die than be this man’s captive. I’ll doanything to make sure Franco Fiore will never touch either of us again.
I have no idea how long we jostle along. When the vehicle slows down to a crawl, I want to cry in relief. A rolling garage door opens, and the van cruises inside.
The door rattles closed again. This is it. We could be anywhere, but my best bet is a warehouse where they plan to get rid of extra bodies. The unknown woman has turned quiet, and I can’t see much, even though my eyes have adjusted to the dark.
The driver kills the engine, and Franco stands, kicks me in the butt for good measure, and opens the back doors. He jumps out, but with the executioner’s gun on me, I don’t move. Carla moans again, and my heart goes out to her as she sees who Franco really is. We spoke about that night in the library, what Franco did before I arrived. Nothing untoward happened, but being in the library with all those men freaked her out. She is so young. I blink at tears.Welcome to our real world, Carla. And to think it’s in our blood…
“Come on, future wife,” Franco says as he fists my hair and forces me up.
I comply, wincing and scooting until I’m sitting and can hang my legs over the edge of the van. He shoves me off, and I stumble and hop but manage to keep my balance. The executioner tosses him the rifle, and Franco swings it in my direction. The driver’s door slams shut, and I also recognize him too from that night in the library. He joins us with an automatic rifle in his hand.
I look around, taking in our surroundings. We’re in an old warehouse, like I thought. Light battles to shine through the dirty windows lining the top meter of the high wall; the roof is speckled with holes where rain must drip through. In several places, the tin roof has peeled away from the bolts securing it to the ceiling beams, leaving gaping holes. Barrels are stacked in one corner with random old machinery, and the floor is apatchwork of stains that could be anything from oil to blood. The space has a pungent smell. Half mechanic workshop with oil and lubricant, but there is an acidic twang I can’t place. It’s abandoned, and a new layer of fear spreads over all the other layers.
What if Stephano doesn’t come? Nobody is going to find us here.
The executioner roughly helps Carla down. She’s still blindfolded and struggles to find her footing, but they haven’t tied her legs. Franco has her by the hand and drag-walks her to stand three meters from me. The other woman comes next, and for the first time, I get a good look at her.
Her eyes are smeared with mascara, accentuating their crystal blue irises. Her thick blonde hair hangs in a messy disarray around her face. She’s had the duct tape treatment, too, and Franco has her by the arm as he leans into her ear and whispers something I can’t hear. I look on as tears stream down her cheeks. Our gazes meet, and then she nods at whatever Franco just said to her.
It’s like déjà-vu from the day in Cannes. Here’s a woman in trouble, just like Tasha was, but this time, our position is so dire, I can’t see any other ending but death.
The executioner pulls a guitar case out of the van and flings it over his shoulder. Then comes another carrying case of sorts. He pokes the other woman in the ribs with a handgun, and she hustles along to a corner where he puts the case down on a barrel.
“Let me go get cleaned up for you,amorina. I might have flown in looking like this, but I know you prefer me to be myself.”
Franco puts his gun down and starts to scratch at his cheeks, and I’m stunned as the fake beard peels off inch by inch. Then he starts to strip off his red plaid shirt, and I blink as I take inhis body. He’s toned and muscled, and his tattooed skin seems to ripple with every movement he makes. He is covered in tattoos of snakes which crowd around a wilting tree on which hangs one red apple, the only color on his skin.
If I could speak, I would remind him that I’m still married, with a husband I suspect has developed feelings for me as I have for him, but as if Franco reads my mind, he leers at me.
“Don’t worry,amorina. By the time we’re taking off for home, you’ll be a widow.”
46
STEPHANO
Il Consigliohas ruled Boston for over forty years. Don Scalera shook up the old Mafia order with merciless force, paving the way for his new regime. Then he made sure his wife gave him an army of sons—even if it killed her—to take over his reign. To say we know every back alley and dark corner in this city is an understatement.Il Consiglioowns them.
As we track the van towards the harbor, I can already see where it’s unwittingly heading: our discarded warehouses, barely adjacent to a wharf. Five hundred yards, and a shit ton of razor wire and cement blocks separate this strip from Boston’s commercial harbor. We stopped using this space years ago. Who knows who gave Franco Fiore access to our turf, but he’s walked right into a trap. Franco might not have bought into my idea of hiring our men as mercenaries, but someone tipped him off that this is a good place to burn a body.
Carla’s body, baby and all. Gigi is safe until the point where Franco doesn’t need her anymore. And then, there’s the other woman. The stranger who has been dragged into this mess.
Fuck.
We have several vehicles on the road tracking the van, but wary that our prey might realize he’s being followed, we’re doing this like a lion hunt. One vehicle backs off and takes a turn as another one slips in to keep eyes on our target and fool the driver. They aren’t all blacked-out new SUVs either. We have the odd battered rattle box or two to keep up pretenses. The driver hasn’t picked up that he’s being followed yet, as there’s no panicked speeding and turning. He just drives like a fucking crazy Italian who’s suddenly experiencing wide American roads for the first time.
The streets become more deserted as we head into the industrial zone, and our process becomes even more fine-tuned. We know the lay of the land. This road splits, and both are dead ends. Idiots. Two of our men on a motorbike speed past the van to park off and keep us posted where it chooses to pull in. When the van goes right, we go left and wait.
Benedict and Dominic are on their way, and we need them. Don Scalera was a sharpshooter of note, and those two inherited his skill.
A pin drops on my phone, and I show it to Matteo and Luca where they’re sitting in the back.
“Well, fuck,” Matteo says. “We’ll get Benny and Nicky to take him out from the windows, or through a hole in the roof.”
