Salvatore came down one of the outdoor stairs that connected to another patio. “The don is waiting for you in the garden.”
“Just the don?” I asked in slight disappointment.
He gave a slight shake of his head. “Still have a death wish, huh?”
I smirked then patted him on the shoulder. “I have a very different kind of wish.”
He started to walk with me toward the gardens, the tall cypress trees visible along with all the greenery. “Frankie is a lot like her father. She’s not someone you want to cross either.”
So she was as sassy as she looked. “Ooh…you’re killing me.”
He rolled his eyes but said nothing more as he walked me into the garden. In the distance, among the terra-cotta pots and flowers, was a round table made of lavarock from Mount Etna with a beautifully tiled top containing splashes of blue and yellow. Those were the same tables I saw throughout Palermo and Taormina, made on our very island and weighing as much as a baby elephant.
Don Mancini sat there with a cigar between his fingertips. His right-hand man Elio stood near one of the palm trees with a gun on his hip. A few other men were around as well, but no sign of Frankie.
Damn.
Salvatore stopped several feet away, like he wasn’t allowed to get any closer to the meeting. “Good luck.”
“Thanks, but I don’t need it.” I approached the patio made of pavers and saw the hot coffee in front of the don, along with a plate of biscotti. I nodded to Elio before I approached the table and took a seat in the iron chair that faced Don Mancini.
He was in a dark brown blazer with a white t-shirt underneath, a man who was maybe ten years older than me. He seemed too young to have an adult daughter, so that was a tale I was interested to hear. He had a cigar between his fingertips, but he put it out. “I don’t like outsiders. We’re a tightly knit group. Everyone in my circle has earned their place over a great number of years.”
My eyes shifted to a man who seemed close to Frankie’s age and looked similar to the don, so I assumed it was his son. Frankie didn’t look like her brother or her father, her features far more feminine. I looked back at the don.
“If you want to work for me, you start at the bottom. Work your way up and earn the trust of your comrades before you make it to the big leagues. If that’s suitable to you, then I’m willing to give you a shot.”
He was trying to test my ego. “Wouldn’t it make more sense to put me on the most dangerous missions? That way, I die instead of one of the guys you actually like.” I cocked my head slightly.
“It sounds like you have a death wish.”
“Just like the adrenaline.”
“Then go jump out of a plane.”
“Done that too many times. Doesn’t work anymore.”
His eyebrow cocked slightly like he thought it was a joke.
Nope, not a joke.
The silent standoff continued for a while.
“What constitutes the bottom?”
“Moving crates and heavy cargo. Loading wine barrelsonto trucks. Making sure shipments get to their destinations in a timely manner.”
“So basically, be a vineyard worker.”
“My wine is as important to me as my drugs and arms,” he said seriously.
“When you said the bottom, you weren’t kidding.”
“Like I said, I don’t trust you.”
“If I have nefarious intentions, it doesn’t matter whether I’m loading crates onto a truck, I’ll still cause havoc. So you may as well utilize me?—”
“Those are my terms.” He raised his voice slightly, his eyes flashing with a hint of rage, like his patience had officially expired. “Take it or seek employment elsewhere.”
