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“Sì, certo.”
“Cazzo madre di dio!” He slapped the top of his desk. “This is the problem with sons. They always think they know better.”
“Papà, I can do this. Tell him, Zio.”
Marco’s face twisted into a grimace, like he didn’t want to come between Fausto and me. “I know the desire for a father to protect his children,” he said slowly. “And I also remember what Fausto was like at twenty-four years old.”
“You are not being helpful,” Fausto said to his cousin.
Marco shrugged. “Tale padre, tale figlio.” Like father, like son.
Fausto dragged a hand down his face. “I want updates. Do not go days without checking in with me again. Every day, capicse?”
I nodded, smothering the smile tugging at my lips. I could count the number of times my father had changed his mind on something. This felt like a major victory. “I will. Te lo prometto.”
Fausto closed his eyes and let out a heavy sigh. “Marco, tell them to ready the jet.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Giulio
Somewhere in the hills outside of Palermo, Sicily
Five days later
I fucking hated the outdoors.
I wasn’t meant to be tramping around in the brush, climbing mountains, and sleeping on the ground. I liked nightclubs and cars and a soft bed. Streaming services and hot food. Pillows and warm showers. This entire journey had been miserable.
I’d been right, though. Buscetta didn’t trust his youngest son and had taken control back once Nino died. This meant my supplier network knew the general location of where Buscetta was living. And according to my intel, Buscetta was holed up in a tiny farmhouse tucked away in these godforsaken hills.
Climbing a ridge, I took out my binoculars and scanned the surrounding area. No wonder Don Buscetta remained a ghost. There was nothing around here. I had a ten mile radius to explore, peaks and valleys filled with nearly invisible hiding places. But I would find him eventually.
I took an energy bar from my pack and ate it slowly. I had to make my food reserves last, at least until I could find the next town or village.
“I have the caramel and chocolate flavor, if you want it. Tastes much better.”
The voice behind me was familiar. And definitely unwelcome.
Flying to my feet, I spun around to find Alessio standing there. I already had my pistol in my hand, pointing it at him. “Do you have a fucking death wish?”
He was leaning against a tree, hands at his sides. His pack was on the ground at his feet. He looked thinner than the last time I saw him, with several days of whiskers covering his face. A cast covered his right hand and forearm.
How long had he been watching me?
“Three hours,” he answered, reading my mind. “You aren’t as good at this as you think you are.”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” I snarled.
“Tracking Buscetta, being quiet. You aren’t very good at it.”
“What did I tell you about following me, coglione? You must really want to die today.”
“You won’t kill me.”
Alessio had no right to sound so certain about that. It pissed me off. “You would be wrong.”
“If you shoot, they will hear and know trouble is nearby.”
