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About 15 seconds later, I got a reply:
Yes. Not hurt. Widow OK. Pretty sure Fausto sent them.
Fausto.
The motherfucker behind all our problems.
Too bad he was Massimo’s uncle, or I would have just gone and shot the asshole.
Actually, that option was probably still on the table.
At least the Widow was safe. But I knew that if Massimo was texting and not calling, he probably had his hands full at the moment.
I texted back, Call when you can. I’ll run these guys down in the meantime and let you know.
First I had to inform Dario and Niccolo.
My best friend and his brother…
Mafia don and consigliere.
Maybe Massimo had texted them the pictures separately, but I doubted that.
After I looped them in, I would call Gunnar.
If there was anybody I could count on besides Dario and his brothers, it was Gunnar.
But I wasn’t looking forward to the conversation.
It wasn’t about speaking with Gunnar. That part I always enjoyed.
It was Dario and Niccolo’s reactions I was dreading.
3
Five minutes later, I was in the parlor with Dario and Niccolo. All of us hunched grimly over my cell, which lay on Dario’s desk.
As we listened to the dial tone, Niccolo asked me in Italian, “You’re sure you can trust this guy?”
“With my life.”
Niccolo wasn’t convinced. “I’m not – ”
“Lars vouches for him,” Dario interrupted. “That’s good enough for me.”
Niccolo didn’t look happy, but the finality in Dario’s voice settled the matter.
Suddenly a stoner’s voice erupted in Swedish over the speakerphone.
“Laaaaaars! Hur går det, brorsan?! Jag har inte hört från dig sedan – ”
Laaaars! How’s it goin’, Brother?! I haven’t heard from you since –
I interrupted him in English. “Hey, Gunnar, I’d love to chat, but some bad shit went down and I need your help. I’m here with some business associates who don’t speak Swedish. Can you – ”
“For sure, my dude, for sure!” Gunnar answered cheerfully in heavily accented English. “Hello, Lars’s friends!”
Then he gave a guffaw that suggested he’d smoked a bowl in the last few minutes.
