“Yes, sir,” Diego replied.
Diego glanced around the quiet area outside charter flights. “Let’s get you inside, Mr. Santini.” He opened the back door of the black Mercedes-Maybach.
In Gabriel went, followed by Carmelo. Diego got behind the wheel and drove out.
“Where’s our crew?” Gabriel asked.
“At your club,” Carmelo replied.
Gabriel said nothing more as they sped through the streets of Milan. Fifteen minutes later, Diego pulled up to Gabriel’s nightclub, La Grande Fuga—The Great Escape—in an upscale section of the city. Diego opened the back door of the sedan. Out went Carmelo. Once he unlocked and opened the front door, Gabriel slipped silently into the building.
The club was first class, featuring top-shelf booze, gourmet food, and exceptional service. Years earlier, he hired an up-and-coming chef. A year after that, Gabriel hired the chef’s wife—a renowned pastry chef—and the duo served the finest food in a twenty-kilometer radius.
Once upon a time, Gabriel had strippers, but they turned their private lap dances into screwing, so he replaced them with lounge singers. The back room was reserved for gambling. The clientele shifted, the club got a reputation for being classy, and Gabriel moved his Cosa Nostra operation upstairs.
Though La Grande Fuga closed at two in the morning, they’d shut it down early tonight. With the Bratva moving in on his business, Gabriel wasn’t about to get ambushed at his own club. The familiar aroma of his Italian whisky had him breathing deep. But this wasn’t a social visit. He was there to take back what was his.
Up the stairs they went and down the hall to his personal lounge.
Diego first. Gabriel waited while Diego cleared the space. After he did, Gabriel stepped inside, followed by Carmelo.
He hated that Angelo wasn’t with him. His number one had been a good friend and hardworking underboss. While Gabriel loved change and pushed for aggressive growth, not all change was good. The loss of Angelo hung heavy in his soul.
The low-lit space was filled with a long table, several small round ones, all covered with bright white tablecloths over black ones. Dark walls brightened by sconces, a chandelier set on low dangled from the center of the ceiling. A few of his guys were playing cards, others sat and talked in small groups. Two were on their phones. Within seconds of his entrance, they stood to greet him.
He’d been the head of Cosa Nostra for the past decade. He ran a tight group, made sure they were paid well and that their loyalty remained steadfast. The power in this room thundered through him, but it paled in comparison to the respect he was being shown.
One by one they let him know they were glad to see him, that it was good to have him home. When finished, they waited for him to take his seat at the head of the large table. The seat at the far end sat empty. That had been Angelo’s spot from the moment they’d made the decision to take back what had been his grandfather’s all those decades ago.
His head bartender appeared to take their drink orders. Gabriel dismissed him with a wave of his hand. The bartender left, shutting the door behind him.
“Carmelo, update us,” Gabriel said.
“Ten Bratva took over the distillery,” Carmelo began. “They kicked out management, kept the workers. Since the takeover, four guys stay with the night shift, six during the day. Theyrotate every twelve hours. Five o’clock in the morning, five in the afternoon.”
Tension tightened Gabriel’s shoulders. His high-end distillery ran twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Since the luxury Italian whisky required round-the-clock attention, Gabriel had three eight-hour shifts.
“During the night shift, one of their thugs stays in the office,” Carmelo said. “Three patrol the floor. During the day, two work in the office, four patrol the plant. One of the workers snapped some pics.”
Carmelo handed Gabriel his phone.
The office workers had pistols. The patrolmen, long guns strapped across their chests.
Anger burned through Gabriel as he viewed the photos.
This wasn’t a damn prison. He’d hired skilled, competent workers to ensure the whisky was treated with the utmost care until it was time for bottling, then shipped out in small, controlled batches.
Gabriel leaned back in the wing chair, gripped the arms with his hands. “I’ve handled power plays with the different regions of Cosa Nostra several ways over the years. We talked it out like gentlemen, we negotiated. On one occasion, I gave them a significant cut of our earnings. The Bratva don’t talk. No one from their group contacted me. They just took advantage of my being gone, moved in on my business. That’s a takeover.” He paused. “It’s time to take back what’s ours, Cosa Nostra way.”
Affirmatives all around.
He laid it out in simple terms. “We enter through the emergency door in the back of the building that brings us into the basement. We follow the piping, I’ll kill the power. On the first floor, we split into two groups. Carmelo, your team covers the west wing. Diego, you and your team take east. I’ll eliminate the Bratva in my office and kill the surveillance cameras. Bodiesget wrapped and moved to the conference room near the front door. Same for the day shift. Six in that group. Diego, you got the truck?”
“All set, Boss,” Diego replied.
“Take them to the incinerator. Carmelo, arrange for the Bratva’s vehicles to be sold.”
“You got it, G,” Carmelo said.
