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For now, I was curious. Why was I so fascinated with this man?
I cursed myself for ever taking the job to kill Fausto Ravazzani. I normally didn’t involve myself in the petty squabbling of the mafia. But I was a hired gun, nothing more. No allegiances, no loyalty except to myself.
If someone had enough money, I was available.
Still, I shouldn’t have attempted a job on the seventeenth of the month. It was terrible luck, but D’Agostino’s people had pushed, saying this was the only day Ravazzani would be outside the castello. An appointment at his wife’s obstetrician. And I had failed.
Giulio’s phone buzzed. He checked the caller then tossed the phone onto the table. Ah. His father, most likely. Don Ravazzani was keeping close tabs on his eldest son, now that word about the hit had circulated. No doubt he was pressuring Giulio to return to Siderno. Thankfully Giulio resisted, which was foolish on his part. Other than the Vatican, the castello was the one place in the world where I couldn’t get to him. Probably.
The phone buzzed again. With a heavy sigh, Giulio picked it up and read the screen. He grinned and accepted the call. “Ciao, matrigna.”
Francesca Ravazzani, then. The two of them were close, talking almost every day.
Whatever she said made him chuckle, softening the harsh bitterness normally lurking around his eyes. Or maybe it was the effects of the weed? Mesmerized, I couldn’t look away from him, while my dick thickened with the memory of Málaga.
Annoyed with myself, I heaved a small imperceptible sigh.
Giulio’s head snapped toward the windows and his gaze locked with mine. I held perfectly still. Had he spotted me?
No, no. It was impossible. I was concealed by the shadows, my clothing blending in with the surroundings.
And besides, no one ever spotted me.
In a blink, he rolled off the sofa and disappeared from sight.
Minchia! He’d spotted me.
* * *
Giulio
Two months later
Isle of Canna, Scotland, U.K.
My balls would soon freeze off.
Growing up in southern Italy, I was used to warm weather. Sunshine. Rolling green hills and wine. This was the exact opposite.
Scotland was fucking cold.
A tiny island in the Inner Hebrides, Canna was four miles long and one mile wide. The population was only sixteen, including me, and these people didn’t care for outsiders. Most looked at me like I was a wild animal. I couldn’t give a shit. This place was remote as fuck. Only three ferries went in and out during a given week, mostly for supplies.
Let Alessandro Ricci find me here.
How that coglione tracked me to Greece was a mystery. Changing countries, phones, and names wasn’t enough to elude him, obviously.
I discarded anything that might leave a digital footprint in Santorini. Then I went completely off the grid. I hadn’t touched my bank accounts. No calls or messages to anyone I knew. I bought a farm house when I first arrived here and I lived simply. It was lonely, but I was alive.
The lack of devices meant my investigation into Paolo’s killers had stalled. That was what bothered me most about being forced to retreat here. Not the lack of movies and television shows, or the absence of a decent bottle of wine. Paolo’s killers remained unpunished, while I was stuck here, hiding. I hated Ricci for that alone.
No doubt my father was working to eliminate the hit out on me. But I didn’t want to be his responsibility any longer. I was no longer his heir, no longer in the ’ndrina. He needed to focus on my half-siblings and his new wife. This was my problem.
I rolled my shoulders, sinking deeper into my coat, and kept walking. Three sheep lived at the farmhouse and I fed them every day. I grew up with lambs in Siderno, as well as pigs and horses, so I knew a little about taking care of animals. They also kept me company.
My life was a sad fucking state of affairs. But I was alive.
The sheep were eager to see me today, bleating as they rushed over. I knew they were only excited for the bucket in my hand, but I smiled when they nuzzled me. “Ciao, amici!”
