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“I need you to drop everything and go to Málaga,” Don D’Agostino ordered.
I swallowed a sigh. “This is for the son, I assume. Vito warned me.”
“He’s using the name Javier Martín. I have an image of him in the Málaga airport five days ago.”
He’d caused me to miss on that Siderno street. And now they wanted me to hunt him down and kill him? “No.”
Don D’Agostino snarled on the other end, “Do you honestly think to refuse me?”
“You can’t expect me to—”
“What I expect is for you to do anything I fucking ask. You failed in your last job for me, and with one call I can let Ravazzani know who shot him and almost killed his pregnant wife. Is this what you want?”
“If I kill his son, he will hunt me down like a dog.”
“That is not my problem.”
Fucking mafioso. I never should’ve accepted the job to kill Fausto Ravazzani in the first place.
Giulio Ravazzani turned the corner and I followed at a distance. It hadn’t taken long to track him down once I arrived yesterday. Now it was a matter of opportunity, of finding the right place and the right time.
I liked to observe my targets. Learn their routines. I didn’t like to rush it, if at all possible.
This was no hardship with Giulio. He was gorgeous, his movements fluid. I could see the outline of a gun beneath his jacket. Smart of him, considering the number of enemies his family has accumulated over the years. He hadn’t shaved for a few days, the whiskers on his jaw not quite a beard but a sexy scruff.
It’s a shame I have to kill him.
Pulling a baseball cap onto his head, he entered a large building. What was he doing?
I slunk toward the side, keeping out of sight. There was a fire escape leading up to a higher floor. If I could reach the windows, I should be able to sneak inside.
Jumping, I grabbed onto the iron bar and lifted myself up. Then I climbed the fire escape. The first window I tried was painted shut, but the next one opened. I slipped in.
The old wood floor was dusty, like no one had been up here in years. My steps were careful, silent. I bent down and edged toward the sound of voices.
I spotted a group of men on the ground floor. Giulio was standing beside a table, one white rectangular package in front of him.
They were speaking in English.
“Despite what our mutual contacts are telling me, this can’t be better than the product we already import,” a man wearing alligator boots said, nearly sneering at Giulio.
“If you don’t believe me,” Giulio said, “try it.”
Alligator Boots motioned to the brick. “If you insist.”
Taking out a pocket knife, Giulio cut open the package. A tiny amount of white powder fell onto the table. Giulio stepped back and gestured toward what I had to assume was coke.
One of Alligator Boots’ associates stepped forward. He dragged his finger through the powder, opened his mouth and placed it on his gums. I couldn’t see his face, but I heard him suck in a breath. In Spanish, he said to Alligator Boots, “That is some good shit.”
Cosa? How in the fuck would he know that from spreading on his gums? What about a testing kit?
“I told you,” Giulio confirmed. “Not only is it better quality, it’s cheaper than what you’re getting now.”
Was Giulio importing drugs into Málaga? Ma sei pazzo? The drug business was dangerous. Though I supposed he was used to it, being Fausto Ravazzani’s son.
And it was lucrative. This would explain how Giulio was surviving outside his father’s empire.
“Cheaper, how?” Alligator Boots demanded.
