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Then I went through Customs and immediately got a taxi.
The drive into Tuscany was beautiful: rolling hills, vineyards, and olive groves. I stared out the window the entire time and watched the countryside go by.
About an hour outside Florence, the taxi driver turned off a small two-lane road onto a private drive. We drove through rows of thin cedar trees for a couple of minutes until we came to a ten-foot-tall stone wall with a massive iron gate.
“Is this the place?” the driver asked in Italian. “It’s the address you gave me.”
“I think so.”
“What should I do?”
“Hang on, let me – ”
Just then, my phone rang with a call from Niccolo.
“Hello?”
“Welcome! We can see you on the camera. I’m sending Adriano and Massimo down to get you. They’ll pay the driver, so don’t worry about that.”
“Okay…”
“See you at the house in just a moment! Ciao!”
And then he hung up.
“They’re sending someone to pick me up,” I told the driver. “They’ll pay you when they get here. How much do I owe you?”
“295 euros.”
I was glad the Rosolinis were paying. After buying the business-class ticket, I didn’t even have enough to cover the taxi fare.
Three minutes later, the iron gates parted, revealing a sleek black Mercedes sedan. Two men were already standing outside the car. I could see the resemblance to Dario in their faces, but the men couldn’t have been more different.
The one by the passenger door was 6’2”, trim and muscular under a flashy suit. He had stylishly cut hair and about three days’ worth of scruff. The most notable thing about him was the angry scowl on his face. He looked like somebody had just stolen a large amount of money from him, and he was going to murder whoever did it.
From what Dario had told me, I was guessing that was Adriano.
The guy by the driver’s door was a giant – at least 6’7”. He stood a little taller than Gunnar, but whereas Gunnar was all fat these days, this guy looked like he was 100% muscle. Not like a bodybuilder, but in an old-time circus strongman kind of way.
He wore an expensive but far more conservative suit than Adriano and had a short, neatly trimmed beard. Other than his height, his most conspicuous difference from Adriano was his placid expression. He wasn’t joyful like Gunnar, but definitely calm and unruffled.
Everything that Dario had told me suggested this was Massimo.
I got out of the car, making sure to keep my hands on the top of the door so the two brothers could see them at all times. It’s not that they looked particularly dangerous – but I was fully aware that I was walking into a mafia compound, which meant they were probably both armed. And I didn’t want to make anybody jumpy.
“You Lars?” Adriano called out. He sounded pissed off just saying my name.
“That’s me.”
As he walked over, I glimpsed a gun holster under his jacket. “Turn around.”
I did as ordered, and Adriano gave me a quick pat-down for weapons. Then he walked over to the taxi driver’s door.
The guy rolled down his window and looked out nervously. “Y-yes?”
“How much do we owe you?” Adriano barked.
“Uh, 295 euros,” the guy stammered.
