“I want to take Ashlyn out of Boston for a while. How do you feel about going on vacation?” I asked Joseph between long gulps of coffee. I’d stayed up all night researching Ciro Amato and his family. If he’d found Ashlyn at the wine bar, that meant he could find her here. He could find our home. Maybe he already knew where we lived.
We couldn’t stay here. As long as Ciro was breathing, Ashlyn wasn’t safe.
Joseph peered at me around the open refrigerator, which he was currently raiding for an early breakfast. Ashlyn was still asleep upstairs.
“When and where are you thinking?” he asked.
“Ashlyn was talking about visiting Pompeii and the Amalfi Coast. I thought we could go there. As to when, how do you feel about leaving in eight hours?”
The refrigerator door closed, and Joseph turned his full attention on me. “You want to fly to Italy eight hours from now?” His voice was too calm and bland for me to discern his mood. It was eerily similar to the emotionless void he’d entered yesterday when he’d questioned Rafael. I resisted the urge to shift back in my chair.
“Yes,” I replied, my tone equally calm. “I want us to fly out this evening. Ashlyn can sleep on the plane, and when we arrive in Naples, it’ll be morning. She can see her museum before we catch the ferry to Sorrento.”
His brows rose to his sleep-mussed black curls. “It’s seven A.M. When did you plan this full itinerary?”
I shrugged. “I couldn’t sleep. Until we figure out what to do about Ciro, I won’t be able to sleep. I don’t like having Ashlyn in Boston right now.”
I’d started to work up a plan to deal with Ciro, but getting Ashlyn out of the line of fire was my top priority. Taking her to Italy would help meet both of those objectives.
“I’ll have to skip class.” Joseph scrubbed a hand through his hair and stretched, as though waking himself up. “But of course I’ll skip class. You’re right. I don’t like having Ashlyn in Boston, either. And I’m not ready to call my dad yet. Until we have a plan, leaving the city is a good idea. Ashlyn’s on spring break now, so that gives us a little time to vacation.”
“We won’t have to call Dominic,” I promised. “We’ll figure this out.”
“Okay, let’s do it. The Amalfi Coast sounds perfect.”
“Good, because I just bought the tickets. When Ashlyn starts worrying about you skipping class, make sure to tell her that they’re first class nonrefundable.”
Joseph grinned. “You’re evil.”
I chuckled. “She just needs something to push her past her initial anxiety over taking a last-minute trip. Sticker shock should do the trick. She’ll be thrilled once we land in Naples.”
While Joseph went back to preparing his breakfast, I returned my attention to my laptop. I’d spent my sleepless night doing far more than planning a vacation. I’d been tracking down Elio Amato, Ciro’s brother.
Because the most important thing that I’d learned from Rafael’s confession was that Elio hated Ciro. He’d exiled his brother to America for attacking his son, Max. If I could get Elio on my side, maybe the tide would turn in Boston. There had to be others here in the States who didn’t like that Ciro was aggressively making a name for himself. Too much unnecessary violence was bad for business, and money was more important than one man’s personal crusade to “toughen up” his associates.
I needed allies, and the best ally would be Ciro’s greatest enemy. I’d get a meeting with Elio Amato, no matter what it took.
I felt the pull to Ashlyn and Joseph like a tug on my heart, urging me to return to them. They were busy exploring the National Archaeological Museum of Naples. Ashlyn had practically been bouncing with excitement when I’d revealed the extent of our plans for the day.
Well, the plans I’d made for her and Joseph. As far as they knew, I was making arrangements for our travel to Sorrento later this afternoon. I’d already booked everything online, but I kept that fact to myself.
No matter what Joseph said about helping me with the darker aspects of our lives, I wouldn’t pull him into this. He’d been hollowed out while he questioned Rafael yesterday, an emotionless void wearing my best friend’s face. If Rafael hadn’t been fucked up on pills and alcohol, I wasn’t sure what Joseph would’ve done to extract information from our enemy.
I couldn’t lose him again. I would never leave my family, but I could keep them safe and happy by hiding the disturbing truth. Joseph had abandoned me once before, and it had shredded me. Even worse, I’d allowed him to think he was the one at fault. I’d kept my darkest sin buried deep inside, too much of a coward to admit that I was the murderer, not him.
I took a moment to collect myself, shoving my guilt away. Ashlyn’s face filled my mind, and I focused on her and Joseph. The love that welled in my chest was vast enough to make my heart ache from the pressure. I thought about her unnerving expression when I’d picked her up from the bar last night—her delicate features pale and twisted with fear after her encounter with Ciro. I thought about the disturbing calm that’d settled over Joseph as he questioned Rafael. He’d buried his humanity, the good heart that made him Joseph, in order to protect Ashlyn.
Cold fury pulsed through my veins, tempering the warmth of my love. The anger gave me purpose, and my love for them strengthened my resolve to do this on my own.
I approached Osteria da Mario, a small restaurant in the heart of Naples. Tracking criminal activity on the dark web had never been my strong suit, but I knew how to find the kind of contacts I was looking for. My sleepless night of research had led me here.
Elio Amato had a network of family throughout Italy and farther into Europe. The mob boss was based out of San Luca, a small city in Calabria, but his reach extended thousands of miles. His primary business was in trafficking cocaine. He had links to the Rodríguez and Duarte cartels, sourcing product from South America. He moved the drugs into Europe by concealing them in shipments to Italian restaurants he set up via intermediaries throughout the continent.
Osteria da Mario was one of those restaurants. I didn’t have any direct connections with Amato’s people, but I knew how to talk to them. I knew how to press for a meeting with Elio Amato himself. The challenge now would be surviving long enough to request the meeting.
At nine A.M., the restaurant was closed, the windows dark. But my research told me that the owner, Mario Brambilla, lived in the apartment upstairs.
An aged, yellowing button was set into the wood to the left of the front door. I pressed it, and a loud chime sounded inside the building. I took a breath to center myself, shifting my face to an emotionless mask as I waited patiently. Outright rudeness would get me killed, but the cold demeanor I’d cultivated over years of callous violence would command the respect I needed to be taken seriously.
Several minutes passed, and I resisted the restless urge to shift on my feet. It’d been too long since I’d ignored the buzz of adrenaline pumping through my system. I’d almost forgotten how difficult it was to remain still and calm when my body was preparing to fight.
Finally, a scowling man materialized from the shadows at the back of the restaurant. His tanned face was unlined, too young to be Mario Brambilla. He wore a white apron over a casual black cotton shirt and jeans. The apron was stained with red splotches, and it took a second for me to convince my brain that it wasn’t blood. This man was a chef, prepping food for the day before Osteria da Mario opened.
He stopped on the opposite side of the glass door and crossed his arms. He didn’t open it. “What do you want? Deliveries are around back.”
“I’m not here to make a delivery,” I replied coolly in Italian. “I’m here to talk to Mario.”
His brows drew together in harsh black slashes over his eyes. “Mario isn’t available. What do you want?” he repeated.
“I want to arrange a meeting with Elio Amato.” My voice was hard and blunt: a statement, not a request.
The man’s jaw went slack, and he took a step back. He started to shake his head, an automatic fear response at the mention of Elio’s name. His hand trembled slightly as he reached in his pocket and retrieved his phone. He tapped out a message, hopefully to Mario. A few seconds later, the phone chimed with a reply.
He swallowed hard and straightened his shoulders. “Come in.”
He unlocked the door and stepped aside. He waited at the threshold, forcing me to show my back to him in order to enter. I kept my muscles relaxed as I strolled by him, completely at ease and confident in my ability to defend myself. Any sign of fear would put me at a disadvantage. I couldn’t appear desperate or weak. I needed a meeting with Elio, not a knife in my heart.
I walked past half a dozen small, round tables that’d already been set for customers. For now, the restaurant was empty and silent. I ignored the warning itch at the back of my neck and made my way deeper into the dining room, pausing just inside the outer edge of the shadowy space where the sunlight didn’t quite reach through the windows. Mario would be able to get a good look at my face, but casual passersby wouldn’t notice our conversation. The position was carefully calculated to convey my honest intentions while also hinting at my awareness of the importance of discretion. I wasn’t hiding my identity, but I was experienced enough to play the game. Hopefully, Mario would take the bait, and the young chef wouldn’t try to stab me with a kitchen knife.
Heavy footsteps stomped down a set of stairs that I couldn’t see, hidden somewhere in the back, probably the kitchen. The restaurant was small, barely managing to feel intimate rather than cramped. Not a lot of room to maneuver if it came to a fight.
I didn’t dare roll my shoulders, but I mentally shrugged off my concerns. Mario would arrange a meeting with Elio, and that was final. I wouldn’t leave until I got what I wanted, and I wouldn’t die here today. Not when I had Ashlyn and Joseph waiting for me a few miles away.
Mario stepped into the dining room, momentarily silhouetted by the florescent light that flooded the kitchen. I blinked once, quickly adjusting my vision so I could get a good look at him. He was a balding, middle-aged man with a deeply lined, round face. The wrinkles around his eyes and mouth suggested frequent laughter, but at the moment, they were drawn in a craggy frown.
He stopped several feet away from me, lingering in the shadows as he crossed his arms over his chest and lifted his chin. “Who are you?”
“My name is Marco De Luca.” I continued to speak in Italian, knowing that America had smoothed the accent of my father’s native tongue. I had nothing to hide; I wasn’t a threat. “I’m here to request a meeting with Elio Amato.”
The young man hadn’t warranted this level of respect. I’d needed to intimidate him into opening the door. Mario required a different approach. He was the boss here. And even though his operation trafficking cocaine shipments through his restaurant for Amato was a tiny fraction of Elio’s wealth and influence, he was the key to reaching Elio in Naples.
Amato would be heavily guarded in his home base of San Luca, a remote town in Calabria. I didn’t have a hope of reaching him there. I wouldn’t get a single step into the town before I was killed by his associates.
Besides, it would be far more difficult to slip away from my family for long enough to get to Calabria. If I had a private jet, I could reach it in a couple hours. I didn’t have that resource, so I’d have to arrange a meet with Elio somewhere more central. I prayed that he’d be willing to come to some sort of compromise in location. If he agreed to meet with me at all.
“I have a proposal for Elio,” I continued when Mario simply glared at me, waiting for more information. “It involves his brother, Ciro.”
Mario’s bushy brows lifted, and he licked his lips, suddenly nervous. “I don’t have anything to do with Ciro.”
I nodded. “And I don’t want to have anything to do with him. Unfortunately, he’s causing problems for my family in Boston. I was hoping Elio might be willing to help us come to a more permanent solution.”
There, the death threat was on the table. That was sure to warrant Elio’s attention. All I could do was hope that there was enough ill will between the brothers that Elio would actually welcome Ciro’s demise. He’d chosen to exile him, not kill him. But if Ciro’s aggressive activities in Boston were disrupting their organization’s business, Elio might have a change of heart. Joseph’s father and Rafael had said that Ciro was shaking things up, throwing his weight around. That almost certainly meant he was fucking up their business. He probably saw it as a temporary wrinkle, but more powerful men like Elio would be losing money while he went on his little crusade to toughen up the mobsters in Boston.
Sweat beaded on Mario’s brow, and he swallowed hard. I allowed him a minute to consider my request. If Elio was taking a financial hit, Mario would be aware. He’d be feeling the pressure to increase his own profits to compensate and avoid Elio’s wrath. I was taking a gamble on that, but I understood enough about this criminal underworld to predict how the conflict would shake out.
My gamble paid off.
“I’ll have to talk to Mr. Amato,” Mario said, his voice hitching slightly on his boss’s name.
“Excellent,” I declared, but I didn’t allow any pleasure to enter my blank expression. I remained coldly professional. “I’ll be staying in Sorrento starting tonight. Contact me with a time and place.” I passed him a slip of paper with my number on it. “I can’t make travel arrangements to San Luca,” I added, my voice heavy with significance. “I hope Mr. Amato will be able to come to me. Maybe Sant’Agnello?” The tiny town was only a few minutes away from Sorrento, but significantly less crowded with tourists. I could separate this business from Ashlyn and Joseph without putting too much distance between us.
If Elio accepted my terms.
Mario mopped his brow. “I’ll ask Mr. Amato.”
I nodded my thanks. “You have my number.”
“Yes. Yes,” he repeated, stilted and scared. “I’ll contact you as soon as I get word from Mr. Amato.”
“Thank you.” I extended my hand, and Mario shook it. Another good sign. Ciro must be making enough waves to piss off Elio, if his Italian associates were stressed by the mere mention of Ciro’s name.
I turned my back to him and strode toward the door, demonstrating my complete confidence that he wouldn’t attack me from behind.
I have nothing to hide. I’m not a threat. But don’t fuck with me.
The young chef stepped aside, allowing me leave.
Once I was outside, I waited until I was several blocks away to heave a sigh of relief. Nothing was set in stone yet, but that had gone better than I could’ve hoped. With any luck, Mario would make contact within a day or so. Then, I could start making plans with Elio to eliminate his brother. Ciro would never threaten my family again.