Addressing the table, I ask, “Would any of you hand over your women to this man? Wives, daughters, sisters?”
Riggante flicks a finger toward Bakka. “Forget about it. You don’t need him.”
“You do need me,” Bakka retorts. “The amount of manpower I have is too valuable to walk away from.”
I catch the threat in his tone. So does everyone else.
“Are you implying you might offer your assistance elsewhere?” Riggante asks, setting his cards down coolly and shifting his hard gaze to Bakka.
Bakka immediately shrinks back. “I didn’t say that.”
“Then kindly offer your assistance to the Bellantis without chasing Armani’s goddamn wife. Show some honor,” Riggante says harshly.
Everyone watches Bakka, the pressure of their scrutiny making him sweat even more. Finally, he throws down his cards and gestures wildly to them with his hands.
“Are we playing or not?” he says.
The game resumes for an agonizingly long time before someone finally speaks.
“Do we know where the Russian likes to hang out?”
“I have eyes on him. Orloff is being monitored 24/7,” I say.
Somehow, amazingly, Clayton got a bug inside Orloff’s SUV. It was a crapshoot considering the Russian has three vehicles he likes to rotate, but the black Cadillac seemed to be his favorite. We reviewed the audio this afternoon and hit paydirt when Orloff discussed his schedule with someone on the phone.
“We got tabs on his movements over the next few days?” Romo asks.
“I’ll do you one better,” I tell him. “The Brunos own a few bakeries, one of which is located in downtown Napa. He’ll be there with his fiancée at noon tomorrow.”
Colosimo nods. “I know the place. Tomorrow at noon, though? That’s a pretty narrow timeline to work with.”
“The sooner the better,” one of the Marzellos says. “I say we burn the place to the ground.”
“And make sure he’s incapacitated before the fire starts,” his brother adds.
We discuss the finer details. A sniper will take out Orloff as strategically placed incendiaries ignite and light the place up. Since the plan is to ignite and not explode, the bride-to-be—Candi’s friend—should have time to escape the burning building before it becomes an inferno. I’ve surveyed the place myself. It’s old—historical and charming, but not up to code. The wood is dry and untreated, essentially creating a tinderbox for a stray flame. It will go up quickly, but if Orloff’s woman is smart, she’ll bail at the first scent of smoke.
If not, well, consider her a casualty of war. A sacrifice for the greater good. She’s been working with the Brunos, so she knows what she’s in for should things go south. Just like my wife did when she decided to work for Sergio.
Rationally, I know I’m right, but it doesn’t stop the small pang in my gut when I think about how Candi will feel if her friend is killed.
The hand we’re playing ends. I lost—hard. Not surprising. My head’s not in the game.
Taking out another thousand, I toss it onto the pile. A new game begins.
Riggante takes out his cell phone, dials, and lights up a cigar. He talks around the fat Cuban, giving orders to one of his men to acquire, transport, and plant the incendiaries.
I’d like to be there and keep an eye on things myself, but that would be foolish. Of course, Bruno will know my family had a hand in the job regardless of how careful we are, but the bulk of this thing will bear someone else’s stamp. He’ll know that I didn’t act alone, that I’m united with other families.
Ending the call, Riggante tosses his cards onto the table. They scatter and flip, some falling onto the floor. “Armani, gentlemen. I have work to attend to. Please excuse me.”
One by one, the other men get up, too. They all have work to do. Soldiers to prepare, logistics to discuss, and other devious shit to plan to ensure that Maxim Orloff doesn’t make it out of that bakery alive.
Alone with Bakka, I finish my drink and glance at my hand. He lays down his cards. I’ve trumped him and the pile of cash on the table, including my own bills, are mine. Gathering up the money, I work the bills into a neat stack. Then I slide the winnings to my counterpart. His eyes flash with greed and interest.
“What’s this about? You won.”
“A peace offering,” I say. “Winnings between friends.”
