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I took a moment to collect myself, shoving my guilt away. Ashlyn’s face filled my mind, and I focused on her and Joseph. The love that welled in my chest was vast enough to make my heart ache from the pressure. I thought about her unnerving expression when I’d picked her up from the bar last night—her delicate features pale and twisted with fear after her encounter with Ciro. I thought about the disturbing calm that’d settled over Joseph as he questioned Rafael. He’d buried his humanity, the good heart that made him Joseph, in order to protect Ashlyn.
Cold fury pulsed through my veins, tempering the warmth of my love. The anger gave me purpose, and my love for them strengthened my resolve to do this on my own.
I approached Osteria da Mario, a small restaurant in the heart of Naples. Tracking criminal activity on the dark web had never been my strong suit, but I knew how to find the kind of contacts I was looking for. My sleepless night of research had led me here.
Elio Amato had a network of family throughout Italy and farther into Europe. The mob boss was based out of San Luca, a small city in Calabria, but his reach extended thousands of miles. His primary business was in trafficking cocaine. He had links to the Rodríguez and Duarte cartels, sourcing product from South America. He moved the drugs into Europe by concealing them in shipments to Italian restaurants he set up via intermediaries throughout the continent.
Osteria da Mario was one of those restaurants. I didn’t have any direct connections with Amato’s people, but I knew how to talk to them. I knew how to press for a meeting with Elio Amato himself. The challenge now would be surviving long enough to request the meeting.
At nine A.M., the restaurant was closed, the windows dark. But my research told me that the owner, Mario Brambilla, lived in the apartment upstairs.
An aged, yellowing button was set into the wood to the left of the front door. I pressed it, and a loud chime sounded inside the building. I took a breath to center myself, shifting my face to an emotionless mask as I waited patiently. Outright rudeness would get me killed, but the cold demeanor I’d cultivated over years of callous violence would command the respect I needed to be taken seriously.
Several minutes passed, and I resisted the restless urge to shift on my feet. It’d been too long since I’d ignored the buzz of adrenaline pumping through my system. I’d almost forgotten how difficult it was to remain still and calm when my body was preparing to fight.
Finally, a scowling man materialized from the shadows at the back of the restaurant. His tanned face was unlined, too young to be Mario Brambilla. He wore a white apron over a casual black cotton shirt and jeans. The apron was stained with red splotches, and it took a second for me to convince my brain that it wasn’t blood. This man was a chef, prepping food for the day before Osteria da Mario opened.
He stopped on the opposite side of the glass door and crossed his arms. He didn’t open it. “What do you want? Deliveries are around back.”
“I’m not here to make a delivery,” I replied coolly in Italian. “I’m here to talk to Mario.”
His brows drew together in harsh black slashes over his eyes. “Mario isn’t available. What do you want?” he repeated.
“I want to arrange a meeting with Elio Amato.” My voice was hard and blunt: a statement, not a request.
The man’s jaw went slack, and he took a step back. He started to shake his head, an automatic fear response at the mention of Elio’s name. His hand trembled slightly as he reached in his pocket and retrieved his phone. He tapped out a message, hopefully to Mario. A few seconds later, the phone chimed with a reply.
He swallowed hard and straightened his shoulders. “Come in.”
He unlocked the door and stepped aside. He waited at the threshold, forcing me to show my back to him in order to enter. I kept my muscles relaxed as I strolled by him, completely at ease and confident in my ability to defend myself. Any sign of fear would put me at a disadvantage. I couldn’t appear desperate or weak. I needed a meeting with Elio, not a knife in my heart.
I walked past half a dozen small, round tables that’d already been set for customers. For now, the restaurant was empty and silent. I ignored the warning itch at the back of my neck and made my way deeper into the dining room, pausing just inside the outer edge of the shadowy space where the sunlight didn’t quite reach through the windows. Mario would be able to get a good look at my face, but casual passersby wouldn’t notice our conversation. The position was carefully calculated to convey my honest intentions while also hinting at my awareness of the importance of discretion. I wasn’t hiding my identity, but I was experienced enough to play the game. Hopefully, Mario would take the bait, and the young chef wouldn’t try to stab me with a kitchen knife.
