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I’d tried to stay strong.
This is your life now. Learn your new place. And enjoy.
Tears gathered in my eyes. I tried not to let them penetrate.
But in the end, I lost.
Was losing. Falling apart. Breaking.
Those men broke me.
And they would do it again and again.
Until my death.
Which would be the only way to escape.
CHAPTERSEVEN
My arrival in Calabria after only a quick stop in Verona was a lot more civil than I thought it would be.
Civil and surreal at the same time.
After our private jet took the final parking position on the private airstrip in the very south of Italy, I watched a battalion of black Mercedes SUVs move in and surround our jet.
A horde of black-suited guys jumped out, armed with everything from fully automatic weapons to a real, live, shoulder-mounted rocket launcher.
Like in a very bad James Bond movie—Italian style.
“Why here and not stay in Verona?” I asked Cristo, who looked as tired and worn out as I was feeling.
Even though my family was originally from Calabria—and still kept the quite luxurious country home here—we had migrated to the northern parts of Italy decades ago—Villa Caliginis on the outskirts of Verona had been our home, for as long as I could remember. Except for when the school year ended. Then the whole family moved down to Calabria to spend the hot summer months down here to enjoy the crystal-clear waters and private beach of our country home.
“Mamma refused to leave after we buried Papa,” Cristo said.
“And are these our guys, or will we experience how good and fast this plane can burn?” I nodded toward the small window to the guys outside.
Not that I was really concerned. I already knew the fastest way outside, plus, I’d had enough time during the flight to make peace with my mortality.
This was the path I chose. Now I would see it through to the end.
“Our guys,” Cristo said before he handed me a bulletproof vest and we disembarked the plane.
As soon as the convoy took off at breakneck speed, Cristo barked into the phone, then listened.
I took the time to assess my surroundings.
We’d chosen a secure, privately owned—and by privately owned I meant owned by our family—airport.
But apparently, we were expecting trouble, even here.
Being the hunted one didn’t sit well with me. I was usually the hunter. I operated alone most of the time, and most of my targets never saw me coming.
But being in the Mafia was different. They didn’t care about clandestine operations.
They cared about making a statement. So, if they killed me, they would do it publicly. Send a message and eliminate me at the same time.
“We’re heading to Uncle Fausto’s estate,” Cristo said.
