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She really should go home. Her shift had officially finished two hours ago.
The thought of returning to her little home filled her with nothing but dread, just as it had for the past three days since she’d returned from Sicily.
Her home felt so empty.
The silence...how had she never noticed the silence before, when the only noise had been the sound of her own breathing?
For the first time ever, she felt lonely. Not the usual loneliness that had been within her since Beth’s death, but a different kind of isolation. Colder, somehow.
Even the sunny yellow walls of her little cubbyhole felt bleak.
* * *
Francesco’s phone rang. ‘Ciao.’
‘That young drug dealer is back. We have him.’
‘Bring him to me.’
Francesco knew exactly who Mario was on about. A young lad, barely eighteen, had visited his Palermo nightclub a few weeks ago. The cameras had caught him slipping bags of powder and pills to many of the clubbers. As unlikely as it was, he had slipped their net, escaping before Francesco’s men could apprehend him, disappearing into the night.
He rubbed his eyes.
No matter how hard he tried to remove the dealers, there was always some other cocky upstart there to fill the breach. It was like trying to stop the tide.
The one good thing he could say about it was that at least he was making the effort to clean the place up, to counter some of the damage his father had done.
Salvatore had been responsible for channelling millions of euros’ worth of drugs into Sicily and mainland Europe. How he had kept it secret from his son, Francesco would never understand; he could only guess Salvatore had known it was the one thing his son would never stand idly by and allow to happen. If Francesco had known, he would have ripped his father apart, but by the time he’d learned of his involvement, it had been too late to confront him. Salvatore had already been buried when he found out the truth. It occurred to him, not for the first time, that his father had been afraid of him.
Slowly but surely, he was dismantling everything Salvatore Calvetti had built, closing it down brick by brick, taking care in his selection of which to dismantle first so as not to disturb the foundation and have it all crumble on top of him. Only a few days ago he had taken great delight in shutting down a restaurant that had been a hub for the distribution of arms, one of many in his father’s great network.
While he’d been paying off Paolo di Luca, the man who’d run the restaurant on his father’s behalf for thirty years, he had seen for the first time the old man Paolo had become. A man with liver spots and a rheumy wheeze. The more he thought about it, the more he realised all the old associates were exactly that—old.
When had they got so ancient?
These weren’t the terrifying men of his childhood memories. Apart from a handful who hadn’t taken kindly to being put out to pasture, most of them had been happy to be paid off, glad to spend their remaining years with their wives—or mistresses in many cases—and playing with their grandchildren and great-grandchildren.
There was a knock on the door, and the handle turned.
Mario and two of his other guards walked in, holding the young drug dealer up by the scruff of his neck.
With them came a burst of music from the club, a dreadful tune that hit him straight in his gut.
It was the same tune Hannah had been dancing to so badly in his London club, when he’d threatened the fool manhandling her.
The same Hannah who’d ignored her phone when he’d called and, in response to a message he’d sent saying he would be in London at the weekend, had sent him a simple message back saying she was busy. Since then...nothing. Not a peep from her.
It wasn’t as if she never used her blasted phone. It was attached to her like an appendage.
There was no getting around it. She was avoiding him.
He looked at the belligerent drug dealer, but all he could see was the look of serenity on Hannah’s face when he’d told her of calling the police on the casino cheat.
Hannah saved lives. She’d sworn an oath to never do harm.
What was it she’d said? Who makes the rules?
‘Empty your pockets,’ he ordered, not moving from his seat.
He could see how badly the drug dealer wanted to disobey him, but sanity prevailed and he emptied his pockets. He had two bags of what Francesco recognised as ecstasy tablets and a bag full of tiny cellophane wraps of white powder. Cocaine.
A cross between a smirk and a snarl played on the drug dealer’s lips.
Francesco’s hands clenched into fists. He rose.
