His eyes are hooded, dazed. His chest rises and falls like he’s just run a marathon. There’s a flash of something in his face—confusion, maybe. But just as quickly, it's gone.
I blink at him, and the reality of what I’ve just done crashes down on me.
What did I just do?
His face has transformed into the cool, somber mask I've come to accustom to him. He doesn't move, but his throat works and I hear his gruff “Liliana”.
I should do something. I should explain. I should smile, or joke, or apologize, or stay. But my pulse is thunder in my ears. My thoughts are scrambled. And my feet, traitorous things, are already moving before I can stop them.
One word echoes in my head: flee. And I heed it.
I turn and I run.
11
GIOVANNI
Elvio Moretti’s voice always sounds like it’s been dipped in aged bourbon and rolled across gravel. It’s not rough in a way that offends. It’s elegant, dangerous, and I know better than to not trust the power behind it. His silver hair is slicked back, his eyes sharp despite the lines creasing his face. He’s lean, almost wiry, but his presence fills the room, his tailored suit pristine against the fancy backdrop.
He'd been a partner of my father for years and now, by extension, mine. Even though he's Camilla's father, and he's more like a father figure to me, I know business is business.
He leans forward now, elbows on the wide marble table, his gold ring catching the dimmed overhead lights as he slides a foldedpaper across to me. Tomasso sits to my right, tapping the end of his pen against the folder we’ve just reviewed. Three men from Elvio’s side hover at a respectable distance near the far wall, stone-faced and armed, just like mine.
He speaks, and his voice barrels across the table, worn in from too many cigars. “I’m hearing the Moroccan shipments will touch Sicily by the twelfth.”
“They will,” I reply. “Customs at Palermo. Two nights at the dock, max. Then inland.”
He grunts. “I want the run through my man in Messina. I’ve worked with him. He’s clean.”
I lean back slightly. “Messina’s slower. He’s clean, but not fast. I need speed on this.”
Tomasso, sitting beside me, his face a perfect picture of calm, tosses in, “And your man in Messina is clean… until he’s not. No offense, Elvio.”
Elvio’s gaze flicks to Tomasso for a second, then back to me. “And Catania’s any better?”
“Catania,” I say, “is paid enough to look away.”
Elvio pauses, as if he'd not expected me to say that, then smiles, the kind that doesn’t touch his eyes. “So we do it your way.”
I nod once.
He shifts and adjusts the front of his jacket. “I still want my trucks running the goods inland. You’ve got Sicily. I’ve got Calabria. That hasn’t changed.”
“No one’s contesting Calabria,” I say. “But the handoff needs to happen on my side of the strait. That way, if anything goes wrong, it’s on me.”
“Good.” He smiles faintly. “Now, we've moved on from that,” he slides a folded paper to me, “You’ll find the updated shipment schedule agreeable for the Cyprus deal.”
It's funny how men in this world like to deal everything on paper, despite the inception of advanced technology.
I unfold the paper he slides to me, and Tomasso leans over. My eyes scan the columns. Best, clinical writing. Weapons through Trieste, moved by sea to Istanbul, then rerouted with the cargo we’ve arranged for Southern Cyprus. Tight channels. No loose ends.
I close the paper. “Efficient.”
Tomasso murmurs, “Better than last time.”
Elvio chuckles, obviously pleased. “That was Ezio’s doing. He’s better suited for real estate. This—” he gestures toward the air like it’s something sacred “—requires finesse.”
Ezio is his nephew, who's being indoctrinated into the family business.
