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I’m proven right when she says: "Rafaele, where are we going?"
"Getting cold feet, coniglietteo - little rabbit?" I flash her a devilish grin, my dark blue eyes dancing with mischief.
Her gaze lingers on me for a moment, her lips curving into a smile that aims to tell me nothing scares her. She raises an eyebrow and sighs playfully, leaning back against the cushioned leather seat.
As the limousine continues to navigate the labyrinthine streets, I can sense everyone’s on edge. It crackles like electricity, charging every nerve in my body. Turning my attention away from Romola, I glance towards the left of the limo, where my men stand quietly, their expressions stoic and focused.
"Preparatevi," – prepare – I instruct them tersely. Now let’s see how Romola and Agostino fare.
My men spring into action. Like a choreographed dance, their hands move with practiced precision as they reach for the briefcases below the seats. Pulling out heavy steel revolvers, their expert fingers load bullets into the chambers, the metal glinting in the dimly lit limousine. The faint scent of gunpowder fills the air. Once done, they pull out small grenades, hiding a few within their frames.
Romola watches with wide eyes, her excitement evident on her face. I see a shiver running through her as she leans closer to me. "Rafaele," she whispers, her voice husky and daring, "can I have a gun too?"
"This is not a Bond movie," I reply firmly, shaking my head. It’s not that I think she cannot aim. My research into their background was very thorough. They both know their way around a firearm, having used various makes and models as part of their shows over the years. The guns are always real, but the ammunition is not.
The truth is, I can’t trust her and Agostino not to turn on us quite as yet. They might be a part of the team for this mission, but they’re still on the edge, just outsiders. They still need to earn my trust. “I promise you won't need one. My men and I will protect you and your father."
"Not fair, but fine," she pouts, crossing her arms over her chest, but the excitement hasn't left her eyes. This dangerous allure around her makes me think I made the right choice in choosing her.
The truth is, her father might be the skilled one, but it is she who is daring enough to pull off the task I need to be done.
As our limousine approaches the corner before the one leading up to Fiero’s compound, the entourage of cars pulls up to a stop. The chauffeur opens the door, and we all pile out.
“Um, where are we?” Romola looks around at the barren plot and flickering streetlights with skepticism.
“It’s too dangerous for us to drive up to where we’re going,” I explain.
Romola glances at the men who step out of the security vehicles, observing their alert stances and the glint of weapons tucked discreetly in holsters.
“Dangerous,” she says slowly, her eyes darting from man to man. “Why?”
Now’s as good a time to explain as any, I suppose.
“You see, we’re going to walk up to a man called Fiero Cremaschi’s compound. Now, if you know anything about Fiero Cremaschi, you know that people can’t just go and watch his home. In fact, people don’t dare walk down his street, especially not people like me.”
“Why?” Agostino asks, his voice sounding decades older.
“Because he’s one of the most feared Mafia Don’s in all of Italy. His men watch every corner and every shadow with hawk’s precision, ready to strike at the slightest provocation.”
“How are we going to circumvent that?” Agostino asks, slightly shaking his head. “Usually, we do reconnaissance, after which we thoroughly plan, so we are prepared for most all possibilities.
“My men aren’t any less than Cremaschi’s,” I scoff. “He’s my greatest rival, and it is my business to know his as he does mine. We know the blind spots better than his own men, and so, we won't get caught.”
I watch Agostino and Romola’s faces turn pale as they process my words and then look about themselves, deducing what I mean.
“Y…you’re the mafia?” Agostino whispers, his voice barely audible.
“Si, Agostino,” I confirm, my voice steady. “Guarding such a precious treasure like the Heart of Italy takes a lot of money, and finding the other half might cost me just as much. She is the sole reason I keep my businesses and other enterprises running, legitimate and otherwise. And now you two are a part of this world, whether you like it or not. You have, after all, given me your word.”
Agostino swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he tries to find his words. Romola, on the other hand, remains silent, but her eyes speak volumes. They reflect a mixture of excitement and a hint of intrigue.
Something tells me she has no trouble making a deal with the devil.
“Walk,” I instruct both father and daughter, and they fall into step on either side of me. Our men surround us, but every few meters, a few disappear and take cover in the bushes. They’ll watch over us and come in case we need backup.
We, too, take the forest trail by the lane turning into Cremaschi’s estate. The crunch of gravel beneath our feet is the only sound that breaks the eerie silence of the night as we make our way closer to Fiero Cremaschi's compound. The darkness swallows us whole as we reach a small clearing that looks out at the gates.
The four-acre, two-storied estate looms large against the night sky, its ornate marble architecture casting spectacular shadows on the grounds below. Agostino, momentarily stunned into silence, his eyes widening in awe.
