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I’m more convinced than ever that Dante’s appearance at Sophie’s wasn’t just about relaying that message—I have a meeting with the Capos at the docks in approximately twenty minutes. He could have easily told me there. No, Dante showed up like this because he wants me to know that my movements are becoming too predictable.
“About fucking time,” I mutter in relief. If all goes well, after tomorrow night, I wouldn’t need to worry about being followed to Sophie’s neighborhood and her becoming a target.
I head toward my motorbike, my preferred ride to Sophie’s these days, as it’s much less conspicuous than my other cars, but I pause when Dante gestures toward his Escalade.
“Let me drive you, fratello.”
I’m on the verge of refusing, wanting the freedom my bike offers, yet in the last second, I relent, get into the front of his car and we drive off.
I’m glad to see traffic unusually light for a Monday morning. I hope it means Sophie will get to work on time.
Actually, it might be worth giving Sophie details of my traffic guy—the one I call when I want roads cleared of traffic. It’s going to come in handy for my woman, given her inability to travel above the speed limit or run a yellow light.
“So, Dante,” I begin, thinking this is as good a time as any to break the news to him. “Orlando De Luca—”
Dante jumps in, “—loves his daughter and will be pretty fucking pissed if you keep a mistress so early on. How do you plan to handle it?”
“I’ve been thinking you might step up and take one for the team.”
Dante pauses a heartbeat, considering this. “I suppose it could work with a haircut and contact lens. Although the size difference is going to be a problem, Nico. I’m significantly taller—”
“By an inch, you fucking beanstalk.”
We dissolve into laughter as Dante navigates the bustling city streets to head toward the less congested riverside.
“Anyway, the good news is that you won’t be needing a haircut or contacts after all…” I trail off as an uneasy sensation washes over me, raising the hairs at the back of my neck and wiping the smile off my face.
Subconsciously, I’d noticed them, but only now does it click—the motorcyclists zigzagging through traffic behind us.
“We’ve got company,” I announce, the weight of those words hinting at the trouble ahead.
Dante’s only acknowledgment is a quick glance in the rearview mirror, his calm belying the gravity of the situation. “How many?”
“Half a dozen, at least.”
“Romano’s men?”
“Who the fuck else would dare? Lose them.”
“Great. Just what we needed,” Dante’s voice drips with sarcasm, barely audible over the engine’s roar as he accelerates. “Can’t he just fucking die quietly tomorrow? Why make such a fuss today?”
As we approach a stop light, I notice Dante’s gaze lock onto an eighteen-wheeler across the intersection. His intent is clear—he's going to gun it.
“Dante,” I warn, my voice tinged with both dread and anticipation.
“Hold tight!” he calls out, a second before the force of acceleration pins me back. The world outside becomes a blur of screeching tires and the blaring protest of the truck’s horn. We swerve around the truck in a heart-stopping maneuver that, under anyone’s but Dante’s control, would likely have ended in the car wrapped around that eighteen-wheeler.
“You psycho,” I manage once my ears have stopped ringing. “This isn’t a Lambo, it’s a weighted armored vehicle! I said lose them, not kill us!”
Dante's expression is a smug smile, which, another time, should earn him my fist, “You’re welcome.”
“Rifle?” I ask instead.
“Floor panel, back seat. Glock’s in the glove compartment.”
Arming myself, I catch sight of our pursuers reemerging, all six of them. Yet, their formation is odd—spread out in a fan, almost like they’re escorting rather than giving chase. For the second time today I sense that something isn’t quite right.
“What, am I too fast for you, dimwits?” Dante taunts, eyeing them through the rearview mirror. “Must be the easiest sons of bitches to shake off.”
