Hypothetically, this incident resides in the ninety-percent column, but since he isn’t the only person I need to take down, his slump to the floor is quickly chased by me removing his gun from the waistband of his pants and pointing it and my gun at two of the three remaining security details. I subdue the third man by keeping my expression neutral and without panic. If he believes I have the skills to kill two of his associates before his bullet makes it halfway across the room, I’ll come out of this alive. Considering the fact he didn’t immediately fire at me, I have faith in my plan.
Our demented square standoff lasts for approximately thirty seconds before a deep voice at the side advises the men to stand down. Although his tone is enriched with the Italian heritage I’m seeking, it’s not gruff enough to belong to Col. It’s younger and more Americanized.
I discover why when I shift my eyes in the direction the voice came from. Dimitri Petretti, middle child of Col Petretti, is standing in the doorway of the kitchen. He has a tomato paste-stained napkin in his hand. Even with it only being an hour away from the lunch rush, the industrial-size kitchen is barren of any food bar a half-eaten serve of Malloreddus. Clearly, I’m not the only one who wakes early. Dimitri is eating lunch at a time most mobsters are waking for breakfast.
When the goons ignore Dimitri’s English demand to leave, the wrath for their ignorance is recited in Italian. I’m not overly skilled in other languages, but I’m reasonably sure Dimitri’s warning this time around came with a death sentence, because not only do the three men immediately lower their guns, they also assist the still-passed-out man off the floor before dragging him to the parking lot at the back of the restaurant.
Under Dimitri’s watchful eyes, I remove the magazine from my borrowed gun, dump the ammo onto the floor, clean the barrel and the chamber with my shirt to remove my fingerprints, then place the dismantled weapon onto the hostess’s podium.
Dimitri peers down at the gun, looks up at the frozen-in-fear blonde, then nudges his head to the parking lot his goons just raced through. “Go.”
He doesn’t need to tell her twice. She’s out the door faster than a vulture on a dead carcass, and I’m crossing the room even faster than that.
Once were alone, Dimitri shifts his bright blue eyes to me. “You’re an idiot showing up like this unannounced. You could have gotten yourself killed.”
“By whom?” I ask Dimitri, following him into the kitchen. “By you? Or the man you’re sheltering after sending every one of your siblings to their deaths?”
Growling, he shovels a generous serving of the Malloreddus on the stovetop into a bowl before gesturing for me to sit across from him. “I don’t protect my father. You’re well aware of that.”
It kills me to do, but I dip my chin. Dimitri was turned by Tobias years ago. Don’t misconstrue. He’s still a gangster in every meaning of the word, he just works against his father instead of the authorities. I don’t see that being the case once he takes over his father’s reign, but for now, it works in the Bureau’s favor.
“Have you been back long?” Dimitri was transferred to the international side of his father’s operation a little over seven months ago. Although confident it was a short-term exchange, no one really knew if he’d ever return stateside again.
He places a bowl of tomatoey goodness in front of me. “I flew in early last month. The Bureau is unaware of my return.” He slants his head to the side before viewing me through the eyes of a cold-blooded murderer. “I’d like to keep it that way.”
Do you recall me telling you how it’s okay to tiptoe on the wrong side of the law as long as you always find your way back? Today is one of those incidences. Mutual respect is a rare thing for an agent to have with a known mafia entity, but when the relationship is for the greater good, I’m not opposed to it.
“Your secret is safe with me, although I have a few questions I’d like to ask.” Dimitri jerks up his chin before making his way to a stack of drawers at the side of the kitchen. His hand freezes halfway into a cutlery drawer when I ask, “Were you aware CJ was participating in your father’s underground fighting circuit?”
He shoves the fork into my meal with aggression before replying, “I had a feeling a few months before I discovered it the hard way. CJ was a good fighter. He was also willing to do anything to get into our father’s good graces, so I shouldn’t have been surprised.”
I don’t point out the fact he always refers to CJ in past tense. He’s done it for longer than I’ve known him even with CJ’s disappearance years ago never being solved.
“Were you aware Isaac Holt fought under your father?”
I blow on a chunk of pasta to hide the crinkle in my top lip when he replies, “Who?” Dimitri is a dreadful liar. For a man set to become one of the most feared members of the Italian cartel, he needs to get less scrupulous eyes.
“Isaac Holt.” I spoon a forkful of food into my mouth before digging out the photograph I stole from Isaac’s file from my pocket. “This was obtained at an event your father organized.”
Dimitri doesn’t even glance at the evidence I’m presenting. “Isaac didn’t fight for my father.” He’s still telling the truth—unfortunately. “Col wanted him to, but Isaac wasn’t budging. We put steps in place to make it happen.”
“We?” I almost choke on my food since I was so eager to ask the question I asked before swallowing.
Dimitri pours me a glass of water. I doubt he’d care if I died, but he’d rather not have the corpse of an FBI agent in his kitchen.
Once I’ve swallowed down half a glass, Dimitri expands on his confession. “We, as in Ophelia and me.”
I put down my fork, too stunned to eat. “Your sister helped you, how exactly?” I need him to spell out the facts for me as I’m fucking lost.
Dimitri wipes at his lips with his stained napkin before placing his dirty bowl into the sink. “Our father wanted Ophelia to coerce Isaac into fighting for him—”
“So she dated him to deceive him?”
I almost feel sorry for Isaac, but Dimitri saves me from the farce. “No. Ophelia was never with him for that. She truly loved him.” When he goes quiet, I wave my hand through the air, encouraging him to continue. He gives me his best you-make-me-sick face before continuing, “Ophelia wanted a way out—”
“Of?”
He glares at me, silently warning if I interrupt him one more time, our talk will be over. When I grumble out a half-hearted apology, he says, “She wanted out of the family. If you think my father was cruel to his sons, you should have seen how he treated his daughters. Monster is too kind of a word.” The mood in the room drops dramatically fast. “We knew how desperate Col was to have Isaac fight under him. We were also aware of how good of a fighter Isaac was, so we plotted for them to meet, knowing Col would use Ophelia as a bargaining chip.” He shakes his head as the tick in his jaw becomes noticeable. “We had no clue CJ was fighting for our father that night until it was too late.”
