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Amadeo
I wash my hands and take the offered towel to dry them.
“Thank you, Stefan.”
Stefan Sabbioni keeps his gaze out the window on the boat speeding away from the island. It carries the body of the man who went by The Reaper. His real name was Bob Miller. Generic. Unremarkable. A hired assassin.
“Humberto was a good man. And Angelo did not deserve to die so young,” he says, then turns back to me. “Come in. Have a drink with me.”
“Thank you.” I follow him into the beautiful house. Set in Palermo, the views are similar to my house, but he’s much closer to the sea than I am. I don’t know Stefan well, but he’s been an ally and supported Caballero’s decision to place me as the man in power of the family. “You and your wife live here alone?”
We go into the study, where he pours us each a whiskey, then sits in the armchair across from mine.
“Gabriela’s brother spends about half the year here. And of course, there’s Millie, who dotes on Gabriela these days. Our first child is due in a few months.”
“I didn’t realize your wife was pregnant.” Stefan is incredibly private about her. I’ve only been here a handful of times, but I’ve never met her. Never even seen her. Gabriela is the daughter of Gabriel Marchese. Stefan had taken her as payment for a debt Marchese owed, and he ended up falling in love with her. Strange world.
My mind wanders to Vittoria locked in her bedroom.
“Men in our world will always have enemies looking for a way in. A weakness,” Stefan says, interrupting my thoughts. “I realize I can’t keep the birth of my son a secret forever, but I’ll hold on to it as long as I can.”
“I understand. Your secret is safe with me, and I am in your debt.”
He shakes it off, then sips his drink. “How is Bastian?” Stefan has made no secret of his dislike for my brother. But I know he’s been betrayed by his, so perhaps that’s why.
“He’s well. We moved our mother to the house a few months ago, so he’s with her now.”
“That’s good.” He studies me as he drinks, and I know he has more to say, so I wait. Stefan is about my age, give or take a year or two. “Family is important, but brothers can be a tricky thing.”
My jaw tenses. I know what he’s saying. Watch my back. Trust no one. But I have to trust Bastian. What I’m doing, it’s for him too. We’ve come this far because we’ve trusted each other.
“Bastian carries guilt over what happened.” I hate Vittoria Russo, but I think guilt makes him hate her more.
“Guilt? How so? He was a child when what happened to you happened.”
I recall the day in our kitchen. Bastian speaking up and getting Geno Russo’s attention.
“Too long a story.” He nods, although he’s still assessing me. “And he is young. He’ll learn.”
“I’m sure he will,” he says after a beat, which makes me wonder if he’s sure at all. He finishes his drink and checks his watch.
I finish mine. It’s time I head back. We stand. “Thank you again.”
We shake hands, and he walks me out to where Jarno, my trusted right-hand man, and two soldiers wait beside him. One stubs out his cigarette as we approach. His driver will take us back to the airport, where I’ll take a private jet back to Naples, then the helicopter to the villa. It’s the fastest way to travel. Living remotely has its advantages, especially to keep my mother safe, but it presents a challenge if you need to be anywhere fast, so I bought the chopper along with the house.
I mull over my conversation with Stefan as I travel home. Bastian’s guilt over what happened that day in the kitchen. Not Hannah’s death but what they did to our father, to us. If he’d stayed quiet, would they have left? Would we have appeared less of a threat?
Bastian is young. He’s only twenty-five years old, but I know he’s loyal to me. In spite of disagreements we’ve had in the past, we’re always aligned on the bigger things. Although, I wonder if that’s how he sees it.
My phone pings with a message, and I unlock the screen. It’s a text from Bruno. Bruno Cocci worked for Humberto for twenty years and has sworn fealty to me. In fact, he thinks I need to do more with my uncle Sonny to quash any further dissent and finally unite the family. But Sonny is my blood, my mother’s brother, and she needs him now.
Bruno: Check the headlines.
Several links follow both in American and Italian papers. I open the English language one, and there, across the front page, is a picture of Vittoria Russo in a ball gown posing for the camera at a fundraiser for children, according to the banner behind her.
The headline reads “Luxury Hotel Heiress Kidnapped by Rogue Italian Mobsters.” The rogue reference stinks of Sonny.
Scrolling through, I find photos of the chaos, although nothing that would make either Bastian or me identifiable. Not that that would be hard to do given our matching scars, but this isn’t about getting the authorities involved. My brother and I are unnamed. Sonny wouldn’t go that far.
