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I didn’t know whether his back truly hurt, or if he was saying it so I wouldn’t argue. Either way, I grabbed onto the opportunity. It was far less intimidating to confess my sins to my father if we weren’t face to face in his office.
I followed him through the patio doors and into the Calabrian sunshine. The scent of bergamot, olives and dirt filled my nostrils. The air had a salty tang from the ocean breeze. It always smelled like home.
He tilted his face toward the sun and let out a deep breath. “How is your hangover?”
“Nearly gone.”
“Good.”
We started off, but he headed toward the vineyards, not the farm. It was the quieter part of the estate at this time of year, which probably meant he didn’t want to be interrupted or overheard.
He clasped his hands behind his back as we walked. “Tell me what happened after you visited for Raffaele’s birthday. I want to hear everything.”
So I did. I told him of leaving Amsterdam, going to Màlaga. Meeting a man in a nightclub—sans blowjob, of course. Santorini, then Scotland. The fact that Alessio had chances to kill me and didn’t, the way we were drawn to one another. Then I told him of the Sicilians, the search for who had planted the car bomb. The yacht and going to Palermo to deal with Nino. He asked simple questions when he wanted more elaboration, but for the most part just let me speak.
“Buscetta,” he sneered. “Brutto figlio di puttana bastardo.”
“He said you reneged on your agreement.”
Fausto waved his hand dismissively. “They broke it first. Working with Mommo behind my back.” He placed his palm on my shoulder, stopping us both. “But I am sorry this led to the car bomb and Paolo’s death. I didn’t think they would go after you, not after we’d made it clear you were out.”
I nodded. There was no changing the past. “I brought your assassin here, so I think we are even.”
“Not even close, figlio mio. It’s my job to protect you, and I failed.”
“You don’t need to protect me. I can do it myself.”
He let me go and we set off toward the vineyards once more. “This yacht, who did it belong to?”
“Nikolai Kuznetsov.”
Fausto’s head whipped toward mine. “Che cazzo? Bratva?”
I held up my palms. “I didn’t know before we went on board. And my friend Theo didn’t know this about his boyfriend.” Deceit was going around, apparently.
“This man is dangerous. Did he know who you were?”
“Yes.”
“Madre di dio!”
“Don’t worry. He tried to use the information against us, but I made him a proposition instead.”
“Oh?” My father, the businessman. I knew I had his attention now.
“There is a lot of money to be made in Màlaga.” I explained about Martiñez, the product I sold him, as well as Golubev and his hold on the city.
“And how does this involve Kuznetsov?”
“I told him he should take out Golubev, then partner with me to take over the trafficking and run Martiñez out of business.”
“No.” Fausto said it with such finality, like someone had asked for his opinion. Like it was his decision to make.
“What do you mean, no?”
“You are not doing this. You are not helping the Bratva line their pockets with more money.”
“It’s a smart business decision, Papà.”
