Ian typed away at his laptop, and I watched the right side of the screen flip through headshots with milliseconds between each one.
“Does your great-uncle Ricky look like this?” Ian asked. I bent down and put my face closer to the screen. The match was uncanny.
“It’s kind of scary how much they look alike,” I said.
Ian typed something else and another picture popped up. “What about him? Does he resemble your cousin Mickey?”
“No,” I said immediately. “Mickey is a good-looking guy. This guy would make me cross the street.”
“Doesn’t matter. These are our two guys. Based on your physical description, we can safely say that Ricky is Antonio CancioBello. And thanks to your added comment about Mickey’s sweating issue, we can rule out Antonio’s other two sons and point the finger at Giorgio as our next match.”
“Really?” I smiled a little at having accomplished one small step in this process. We were just a few pages in, but I was feeling hopeful.
“Really,” Ian smiled back.
“So who are these guys? Are they lower level like you thought?” I asked.
“Not as low as I had initially thought. Gil clearly skipped them and went straight for the meat. The CancioBellos are your typical mob family. They staked their claim on a small area of Genoa and shake down the business owners there for ‘protection.’ They use their businesses for money laundering and as fronts for whatever they’re bringing in or sending out.”
“So they’re not dangerous?” I held my breath while I waited for Ian to answer.
“Not any more than your run-of-the-mill mobster,” he smiled.
I moved on to the next entry. More strange family members and gruesome endings. As we continued, it got more complicated. Not everyone had a physical doppelgänger, and I had to think harder about small traits like how people walked or talked. I finally remembered that my mom’s friend Mary Jane had a weird twitch in her left eye every time she drank too much wine—a trait shared by her Italian counterpart, the wife of Rinaldo Fidorro.
Gil even used Sam from the diner. Fortunately, his counterpart is a nice old man who owns a bakery. Unfortunately, the bakery is constantly being shaken down by a mob from Rome. But it was brilliant of Gil to focus on him so that Ian could identify his location and, subsequently, the family who had staked claim in a part of Rome.
We had been at it for a while and weren’t as far along as I had hoped. We hadn’t identified anyone as the Cappolas yet but did find seven of the ten major crime families. The bad news was of those seven, three of their leaders were recently found dead.
“This is better than you think,” Ian said reassuringly. I raised my eyebrows, asking him how. “Knowing who isn’t in play is just as important as knowing who is. And based on the information that I already have, none of the families left have strong enough ties with Paolo that Gil would go back.”
“If you say so.”
I pressed on.
“Oh, this is about Leo, my dad’s best friend.” I was reading a passage about a guy who played poker in a bar with unsavory characters. “My dad had a regular poker night and Leo was there for every game. Gil and I used to refer to him as ‘Uncle Creepy.’ He didn’t have any respect for anyone’s personal space, if you know what I mean. And, eww!” I winced and made a face as I recalled a specific physical trait of Leo’s. “He had this gross mole with hair growing out of it, right on the side of his face.”
“Did he look a little something like this?” Ian entered something into the laptop and turned it to show me a picture of a tall, beefy man with greased-back hair and an unsightly hairy mole on the side of his neck. I wrinkled my nose and nodded.
“Lenny Scarpone.” Ian’s face twisted in worry.
“What’s wrong with Lenny Scarpone? Is he a higher-level guy we should be concerned about?” I asked.
“His father, Leo, is not a high-level anything. The Scarpones have been running into some trouble getting certain products into the States. Someone like Gil, who knows about US customs laws, would be a good asset.”
When I asked Ian what the products were, he laughed. “Honestly? It could be anything from prosciutto to olive oil to more cash than one is allowed to carry into the country.”
“Cold cuts and olive oil? Really?”
“You’d be surprised about the regulations regarding importing cold cuts from a foreign country.”
“So why would the Scarpones let Gil go? I mean, if he’s such an asset . . .”
“They’re not a family looking to branch out. They like their illegal import/export business just the way it is. So, once Gil got them set up, they could have easily referred him to a brother family in need of Gil’s expertise, like the Cappolas,” Ian explained.
“The Scarpones aren’t so much the problem as is their youngest son, Lenny,” he continued. “He’s become known as a bit of a sleaze, willing to hire himself out for anything from shakedowns to kidnappings. If Gil went snooping around for a way into the mob, it’s likely that Lenny was his contact and the one who invited your brother to come to Italy. The fact that Lenny showed up this far into the journal is a little worrisome. I’m going to have Damon look into it.”
Ian stood and picked up his phone from the coffee table. Damon answered quickly, and Ian went directly into his instructions. Damon was to find Lenny Scarpone and ask what he knew about Gil.
“So he’s been bouncing from one mob family to another, advising them on US customs laws,” I said to Ian as he sat back down.
“Yes,” Ian said after a beat. “At least that’s how it started.”
“But now he’s following leads to try and find Paolo and his mysterious boss.” I sat down next to Ian and tried to wrap my brain around my brother having decided to become some sort of contract worker for the mob. I couldn’t make sense of what Gil had been doing, but mostly why he was doing it. “So he’s been climbing his way up the mobster corporate ladder?”
“Essentially. Word gets out on the street about the business needs of a family and people get referred out. The problem is that the higher up the pyramid he goes, the more dangerous it gets. We stop talking about cold cuts and olive oil and start talking about drugs, guns, and other things.”
“That means Gil is in danger,” I said, my voice shaking. I was trying not to be, but I was scared. I didn’t want to think about the things the mob did to those who crossed them. But the more Ian told me about these families, the more determined I became to find the crucial information Gil had hidden away in the journal.
“Why don’t we take a break?” Ian offered. “We’ve been at this for hours, and I think I just saw actual steam seep out of your ears.” He smiled the friendly smile that made me involuntarily reciprocate. “Why don’t you go downstairs and get a soda or something? I’ll follow up with Claudia and Damon.”
I changed my clothes, pulled my hair into a ponytail, and strolled to the elevator. There didn’t appear to be any alcove with soda machines, not that I knew what kind of money to insert anyway. I walked through the lobby and noticed it was strangely empty. Neither of the hotel clerks was at the front desk.
I entered the lounge, contemplating something stronger than a soda despite the fact that it wasn’t even noon. That wasn’t stopping the other patrons in the bar, either. I guess in Italy a glass of wine for breakfast is totally cool.
As I waited for the bartender to return, I scanned the lounge: An older couple sitting and chatting with each other. A few men drinking wine. A man reading an Italian magazine and another man playing with his phone.
All perfectly normal, and yet . . .
The guy in the corner wearing a T-shirt and jeans hadn’t been turning the pages. The man sitting opposite him was focused on his phone, but instead of holding it in his lap, he was holding it up, in front of his face, the camera aimed in my direction.
I�
��d played a game with Tiffany at the mall: Pretend you’re looking at something on your phone when really you’re taking pictures of a hot guy. Was that guy taking pictures of me?
In Miami, maybe I’d be flattered, I thought. No, I’d still be creeped out. And after all my training, I couldn’t help but get worried—especially when the magazine guy quickly glanced up at me.
I turned back to the bar, breathing fast. Was I imagining things, or were those guys surveilling me?
That’s when I saw the old woman from the day I’d arrived. She was wearing the same dress and a scarf over her head, still knitting her heart out—or was she? That was three days ago, and it didn’t look like she had made any progress.
My gut started doing flips. Were these people associated with the mob families that Ian and Gil had been trying to infiltrate? But Ian hadn’t said anything about their cover being blown.
On the other hand, Gil had disappeared. If he’d talked . . .
The thought of Gil being tortured made my stomach, already aflutter, drop to my toes.
I couldn’t think about that now. Whoever these people were and however they came to be here, they were watching me. Something was off. They might not be after me, but they would certainly be after Ian.
Breathe, Vic. Just breathe. Let Ian know what’s going on ASAP.
I waited another minute or two before I shoved my hands in my pockets and walked to the front desk. There was still no one there.
As nonchalantly as I could, I picked up the phone and tried to figure out how to dial up to my room. I put my hand down on the desk, rummaging for instructions, and my hand slid as if it were in a puddle of water. I turned it over to look, and my palm was red and wet. A dark puddle of what could only be blood had pooled amid the pencils and receipts. It wasn’t a paper cut amount of blood; it was like someone got her face smashed onto the stone countertop. I bit my lip to keep from screaming.
I wiped my palm on my pants and slowly walked toward the elevators, my eyes focused on my route. I saw movement in my periphery as I turned the corner into the elevator car. I punched my floor. As the doors slid closed, the magazine guy and cell phone guy came into view, walking quickly toward the elevator.
The car started up. I pressed the button for my floor over and over again, willing it to move faster. As soon as the doors opened, I squeezed myself through and ran to my room, all the way at the end of the hall.
Then I heard the ding of the elevator and did the most foolish thing: I looked back. It was the two men. We locked eyes, and I watched as they reached behind their backs. I turned and ran.
“Ian!” I screamed.
The door crashed open and Ian leaped out, a pistol in his hand. “Down!” he shouted.
I dropped to the floor and heard a THUNK THUNK as Ian fired twice. The gun’s exploding sound was muffled by a silencer. Then Ian grabbed my arm and pulled me up. I glanced back as I stumbled into the room. Both men were sprawled out on the hallway floor, facedown.
“What happened?” he asked with no emotion as he closed the door.
“I was . . . I was . . .” I stuttered.
“Breathe, Victoria.” Ian took me by the shoulders and looked me square in the eye. “What happened?” he asked again, punctuating each word.
“I was just standing there at the bar, waiting. I noticed those two men watching me. And there was a third. A woman, I tried to call the room from the front desk—”
I lifted my hand, the palm still stained red.
Ian drew a sharp breath and gripped my wrist. “You’re bleeding!”
I shook my head. “It’s not mine. The poor girl behind the counter.” I began to cry.
“Was that it?” Ian asked. “Just those three?”
“Um . . .”
“Victoria!” he demanded.
“I think so!” I said. Ian narrowed his eyes at me, demanding a definitive answer. “I’m sure. Just those three.”
Ian looked at me then nodded. “Okay.”
I started to cry harder as the shock began to wear off. “Hey, hey,” Ian said, wrapping his arms around me. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”
“I thought I was prepared, but I’m not,” I wailed into his shoulder.
He stroked my hair. “I didn’t exactly prepare you for this scenario. We had no reason to believe there was a threat here. Victoria, are you sure I can’t send you home?”
I pushed away from Ian, struggling to control my tears. “No. You can’t send me home. I can’t go home without Gil.”
“Okay,” Ian said. He brushed the hair from my tear-stained face and steadied me. His eyes were strong, and as they locked onto mine, I knew in that moment that Ian Hale was a man I could trust.
Ian sat me down on the couch and then pulled out his phone. It was a quick call to Damon before he was addressing me again.
“Outside of the journal, is there anything in this room you can’t live without?” he asked.
“My laptop.”
“Grab it, and let’s go.” Ian shoved his laptop in his backpack and slung it over his shoulder, while I stuffed mine along with the journal into my backpack. He had changed while I was gone and was wearing jeans and a T-shirt.
With his gun in one hand and my hand in his other, we left the room and walked to the stairs.
The two men were still sprawled on the floor just a few steps from the elevator. Except now pools of dark liquid stretched from wall to wall.
He opened the door to the stairwell slowly, looking above and below. When it appeared empty, we stepped through and closed the door quietly behind us, taking the stairs down quickly. We reached the bottom and hurried from one door through another until we reached the service area of the hotel. Ian weaved us in between crates of food and industrial-size laundry carts before we made it through the back door and to his car.
We screeched out of the parking lot in the direction of the factory headquarters. Once we were sure no one was following us, Ian pulled his phone out to make another call.
He looked worried. Now that we were in the clear, he was trying to get in touch with the team, but no one was answering. If whoever was in the hotel had come after us, Adam, Claudia, and Damon could be in danger as well. Despite our entire conversation about friendship being a luxury he could not afford, it was clear Ian was scared for them.
I took his hand and wrapped both of mine around it. “I’m sure they’re fine,” I said.
If I thought Ian could be comforted, that he’d accept it, I was wrong. The professional Ian who was able to shoot down my assailants was back, and he didn’t need to be comforted. Without a word, Ian pulled his hand from mine and gripped the steering wheel.
We arrived at the old factory, and Ian jumped out of the car. Since no one from the team had answered his calls, he couldn’t be certain that the building hadn’t been compromised. He popped the trunk and pulled out a gun, loaded it, and handed it to me. He drew his from the holster behind his back. My nervous gaze caught his before we could move.
“You’re going to be fine,” he said. I nodded and followed him. He pulled the door open slowly. We both winced as the metal door squeaked against the frame. When we reached the top of the stairs, Ian turned to me. He put his palm out like a stop sign and then put a finger to his lips. I was to stay put at the end of the hall and keep quiet. I watched him inch down the hall and through the door into the main office.
After what seemed like plenty of time to check the back office and all the nooks and crannies, Ian still hadn’t returned. My nerves began to tingle, and I knew something was wrong. I couldn’t leave him in a potentially dangerous situation, so I walked up the rest of the steps softly until I reached the door. I listened closely for commotion, but it was as silent as it had been since we arrived. Perhaps Ian had found something and gotten so involved in examining it that he forgot about me. I pushed the door open s
lowly and stepped inside. My gun was drawn, and I was hopeful that I was holding it in the way Adam had trained me.
When I walked into the room, I couldn’t help but gasp. Ian was unconscious, his body spread across the floor, with a man standing over him. The man looked up at me, then at something—or someone—behind me. Then everything went dark.
Chapter 11
The only sound I could hear when I regained consciousness was the pounding in my head.
I tried to remember what had just happened. Ian on the floor, unconscious. Someone standing over him, looking past me . . .
Someone must have been behind me. Someone who then hit me over the head.
I tried to reach up to check the damage, but my hands were bound together. Eyes burning from the light, I glanced down.
Duct tape. My wrists were bound with silver duct tape. My ankles were also bound, and I was slumped in a corner at the back of Ian’s team’s headquarters. Next to me, hanging by his wrists with his feet just grazing the floor, was a bruised, battered, and shirtless Ian. His shirt was torn and crumpled on the floor.
He looked at me, his eyes intense. “Victoria,” he whispered.
The men who’d attacked us didn’t appear to be in the room, but Ian was doing his best not to be heard.
“Victoria, are you okay?” he asked.
“I think so,” I said. “My head really hurts though. How long were we out?”
“A few hours from what I can tell.”
Ian’s wrists were bound with rope, and the rope had been lassoed on a hook hanging from the ceiling. His wrists were rubbed raw. His sides were red and bruised, and there was a cut above his eye.
Whoever had ambushed us had worked Ian over.
The room was relatively empty. Were it not for the big-screen televisions hanging on the wall and the equipment on Claudia’s desk, you would never know the place had been inhabited so recently.
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