Silvestri was taken aback by her tone. He had treated her without compassion and realized that he had committed a costly mistake. Shit! Do I really have to deal with this now too? His suspects were waiting for him downstairs. He had a strong sense that one of them had ordered Linuzzi’s death and was planning a takeover. “I asked you where you’re going.”
“Wherever I damn well please.”
“I don’t like your attitude, Malaina.”
She met his gaze head on. Apparently she did have some of his blood in her veins after all. “Well, you’d better get used to it.”
Silvestri raised an opened hand. “You’d better watch how you speak to me.”
“Or what, you’ll slap me?”
“Or what? Why I’ll—”
“What, Daddy, you’ll threaten me? You’ll have me whacked?”
He grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her into his bedroom. In his haste he had pulled her too hard. When he turned around, Malaina was on the floor, disheveled and crying. He offered his hand, but Malaina slapped it aside.
She glared at him with hatred. “Don’t touch me,” she warned.
He pressed his fingertips to his throbbing temples. A large vein pulsed dead center on his forehead. “Malaina, I don’t have time for this right now.”
“Of course not. When do you ever?”
“Malaina, I don’t know what you want from me.”
“Freedom, Daddy. I’m a grown woman. I’m not a child anymore. Look what you’re doing to my life. Do you think it’s normal for me to stay home every night? No one will get close to me, and it’s because of you.”
“Malaina you don’t understand. I’m just trying to protect you. It’s a rough world out there,” he said, his voice becoming fatherly.
“Protect me? You want to possess me, and it’s not going to happen. I’m not going to turn into one of those old Italian spinsters with their long black dresses and nets over their hair. I’m not going to spend the rest of my life being daddy’s little girl either.” She stood and brushed herself off. Silvestri was standing in front of the bedroom door, blocking her exit. Malaina walked right up to him, glaring with resentment. “Well, are you going to get out of my way or not?”
Silvestri stared at her blankly. He was ill equipped to deal with an adversary he could not silence with deadly force. “Malaina, I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
“You didn’t what, think I’d answer back?”
Whoa. I didn’t see that coming. His daughter’s loyalty, the one thing that he thought he could always rely on, was ebbing away before his eyes.
Orzani’s voice came through the door, startling him. “Anthony, what’s the deal? You’ve got everyone waiting.”
“Well, tell them to fucking wait!” he hollered. He checked his watch and looked up at his daughter. “Sweetheart, can we do this in the morning?”
Malaina walked around him and opened the door. “Don’t hold your breath.” She flew out the door and raced down the stairs, leaving her father dumbfounded.
Silvestri heard murmuring downstairs. Even his influence was not without its limits. He took one last look in the mirror to make sure that he didn’t appear rattled and then hurried down the stairs.
Every eye was focused on the late arriving host standing in the threshold as he studied his guests. They were all predators, and all were looking for a chink in his armor. Silvestri steadied himself and entered the lion’s den.
~~~
Whipping winds and the creaking of tree limbs masked the sound of the commando scaling the fifty-year-old oak tree at the rear of Silvestri’s estate. The unseasonably cold temperature worked to his benefit. No one was outdoors; there was no one to hide from as he ascended the towering oak.
The grounds were well lit. He was dressed in black and was expert at confining himself to the shadows. He moved swiftly up the tree and onto a thick branch roughly ten yards behind the house. From his perch, roughly level with the rooftop, he swung a rope-loaded grappling hook onto the slate roof and tugged on it several times to test that it was secure before fastening the other end around the tree limb. He traveled hand over hand across the expanse until he was safely on the roof. Moving with the agility of a cat, he scrambled across the roof until he was directly over the guest bedroom window.
~~~
Silvestri sat at the poker table, suspiciously eyeing the group he had assembled. Which one is looking for a soft spot to stab me? he wondered. “So look, before we deal the cards, there’s something we have to talk about. I’m sure you’ve all heard that my lieutenant Tommy Linuzzi was murdered. Anyone know something they care to share? Neither Mike or me has heard word number one about his hit, and that’s fucking strange.” The accomplished poker player looked from face to face, trying to discern the smallest tell. “Any man capable of taking down Linuzzi is certainly capable of doing much worse.”
A murmur went around the room as Silvestri’s guests reacted to the obvious implication.
Victor Sassa wasted little time in testing Silvestri. “Tone, there’s been so much talk in the news about this mutilated woman’s body the cops found in the bay.” He looked around the table for support before challenging Silvestri. “Rumor has it, that was Linuzzi’s work. True or not, Tone? Did he bungle the disposal of that body? And if it was Linuzzi, why involve us?”
Silvestri eyed Sassa angrily. His rival was a bottom feeder who cut coke into crack and made his living off the junkies and whores in the South Bronx. He took a moment to choose his words carefully before responding. “Was Tommy involved? Yes!” he answered point blankly. “Was I involved? Maybe. But that’s not the question.” He snipped the end of a fresh Havana and clenched it in his teeth. “The question you should be asking is who killed Tommy, and if it wasn’t one of us …” He eyed everyone at the table, defying them to confront him as he lit the cigar and sucked in the flame. “Maybe you’ll be next, Victor. Who the fuck knows?” He got comfortable in his chair, looking as if he didn’t have a care in the world. “I’m giving it to you straight up, Victor. Take it for what it’s worth.”
The other men at the table either accepted what they heard or were afraid to challenge Silvestri, everyone except Sassa. “Anthony, why wasn’t this brought to our attention before the shit hit the fan?”
“What do you want me to say, Victor? Tommy got a little sloppy, and I didn’t want him to lose face. This woman was someone who performed a service for me, someone I trusted and who took advantage of my good nature. It’s not worth talking about.”
Old Ralph Righetti jumped to his feet. “What the hell happened, Tony?” he said with a grin as he slapped the crease in his arm. “The bitch wouldn’t put out?”
Silvestri smiled and then winked at Righetti while the others enjoyed a good laugh. He stared at Sassa with his steely cold eyes conveying a message Sassa would not soon forget.
Sassa averted his eyes and fidgeted uncomfortably in his chair. He had failed in his attempt to intimidate Silvestri and understood that his disloyalty would cost him dearly.
~~~
Nikki knew better than to listen at the door and hear things she didn’t want to hear, but Silvestri’s behavior had been so strange over the last couple of days, forbidding the injured biker from being taken to the hospital, and treating their daughter so callously. She had the sense that something was terribly wrong and couldn’t help but eavesdrop.
She heard them talk about the horribly murdered woman and Righetti’s vulgar joke, which she knew defined who her husband truly was, a macho man-whore, a letch, and a cheater. It was just one more disgrace that she was forced to endure. Her head dropped, and she slipped away when she heard them begin to deal the cards, silently cursing the day her husband had been born.
~~~
It was past midnight when Silvestri locked the front door and switched off the lights in the foyer. The thermostat had automatically lowered the heat for the evening, and the cold had begun to seep into his bones. A shiver ran down his back. “What
a colossal waste of time,” he grumbled. He’d spent the night playing chess while his guests played poker, laughed, and drank his scotch—three hours of studying body language and facial expression, all for nothing.
It was the aroma of freshly baked bread that drew him into the kitchen, but it was the leftover Italian wedding soup that sealed the deal. He tore off a huge chunk of Nikki’s freshly baked semolina bread while the soup warmed in the microwave.
“Shitty fucking day,” he bellyached as he plunged his spoon into the bowl of steaming soup. It was salty and addicting. He swallowed spoonful after spoonful as if it were medicine that would cure all of his problems. It was so good that he decided to warm a second bowl.
He thought about how he’d left things with Malaina. He wasn’t big on eating crow, but she was his only child after all, his little girl. He sighed while he waited for the second bowl of soup to heat. I’d better make it right in the morning.
He had hoped to learn something about Linuzzi’s death but hadn’t and was worried that bigger problems were yet to come. He was convinced that someone wanted to take over his territory. He could feel it in his bones as he removed the hot soup from the microwave and sat down.
“Do you believe in King Solomon’s law?”
Silvestri gasped. Someone was behind him. He felt the edge of a knife against his throat. A powerful hand covered his mouth and yanked his head backwards until it felt as if his neck would snap.
“An eye for an eye? Nod if it sounds familiar.”
Silvestri had lived every day as if someone was ready to take his life from him. He had carved out an existence for himself with his fists and strength. In the span of a moment he knew exactly how it was going to end. The only choice left to him was to choose the moment he was going to die. Nod? Fuck you! You nod. He tensed his arms and sprang from the chair, clawing at the intruder standing behind him, desperate to snare him in his lethal hands. He had just gotten to his feet when a serrated dagger tore through his throat.
His assailant was powerful and held Silvestri in a viselike grip until he could no longer hear the wind whistling through his severed trachea and was sure that every ounce of life had drained from his body.
Anthony Silvestri, a man whose every word had boomed like an exploding grenade, died without so much as a whimper.
The assailant lowered Silvestri slowly into his chair and stood over his victim, panting from the rush of adrenaline and ensuing exhaustion. His hands were trembling as he grabbed Silvestri by the back of the head, drew it back, and prepared to add one last finishing touch.
Chapter 45
His visit complete, the commando departed through the same window he had entered. It took him but a few seconds to attain the roof. Once there, he dislodged the grappling hook from where it was anchored. The other end of the rope was still attached to the tree. He used it to swing down onto the estate grounds and took off running.
The brand-new cherry red racing bike was exactly where he had left it. He hoisted it onto his shoulder and raced toward the hedges that bordered the property.
The tires hit the paved road at a good clip as the rider boosted himself up and onto the seat. Silent and swift, he attained twenty miles per hour within seconds. Passing acre upon acre of wooded estate, he took note of the night, of the silent and serene splendor, which belonged to him and him alone.
Visibility was minimal, but he immediately noticed that he was enveloped in the artificial light from car headlamps. With the wind whipping in his ears, he strained but couldn’t hear the engine of the automobile approaching from behind him.
A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed the presence of an SUV that was gaining on him rapidly. With black ice on the road, stability was difficult. It was only through his mastery of the racer that he had managed to stay vertical and maintain his remarkably swift pace. He scanned the road ahead and saw that it dropped off in front of him. How? he wondered. How did they get onto me so fast? Could it be a coincidence? In his gut he knew the answer.
There was no time to react. The roadway dropped, and the bike began to skid. He tried to counterbalance as the bike pitched, to bring it back to a vertical position, but the skinny racing tires had lost their grip. He hit the ground with his shoulder, sliding at thirty miles per hour over the ice-covered road.
He was toppling shoulder over hip as the SUV skidded and screeched to a stop next to him. It took a moment for him to collect himself before attempting to spring up onto his feet, but the icy surface betrayed him once again and he slammed back-first onto the roadway just in time to see the figure of the driver getting out of the SUV. The stranger was backlit against the corona of the car headlamps, making it difficult for him to distinguish the stranger’s features clearly. He recognized him nonetheless. He was exhausted as he reached out to accept the hand of his countryman. “Ben,” he said with intense relief in his voice. “Thank God.”
Ben Elias offered his hand to help the fallen biker to his feet. “Ari.” He asked immediately, “Is it done?”
Ari Rabin nodded with assurance, got to his feet, and hobbled over to Ben’s SUV.
Chapter 46
Officer Ty Bembrey of the Georgia State Highway Patrol rolled his motorcycle behind the Six Flags billboard on the side of Interstate 95 and dropped the kickstand. Bembrey removed his helmet and glasses. The humidity was unbearable. He had a golfer’s towel in his saddlebag, which he used to wipe the sweat off his brow before consuming most of a bottle of water.
It had been a long and physically demanding tour of duty. It was late evening and Bembrey couldn’t wait to call it quits for the evening. He looked up the road to where it veered west toward Atlanta and then checked his watch. He had half an hour left to go on his shift.
Years of chasing speeders had made Bembrey an expert at identifying automobiles. He was familiar with almost every make and model and was often able to determine the model simply by noting the headlight pattern in his rearview mirror. The headlight pattern he now saw was unfamiliar. The circular headlights were widespread and very low to the ground. The car was coming up quickly, and Bembrey’s curiosity was aroused. He hit the electric start, lifted the bike off its stand, and was ready to roll.
The circular headlights drew closer and closer, and he could already hear the muscular sound of the car’s throaty exhaust note. The outline of the car was starting to take shape. He was now facing the road and waiting for it to come by. He felt the engine’s heat on his face as it flew past. “An XKE? Damn.” He’d only seen a few of the rare exotic sports cars in the flesh. The creamy-white convertible was just a couple of miles over the speed limit. He was already over his quota for the day and would normally have let it go, but the car was in mint condition, a perfect example of the breed. Bembrey dropped the motorcycle into gear. I’ve got to see this.
The convertible Jaguar was moving quickly, and the tiny taillights were already starting to fade into the distance. Bembrey accelerated quickly and was soon behind the Jag, just beyond its elongated shadow. He pulled up on the Jag’s rear flank, just far enough away to take in the magnificent vintage car.
He could now see the driver: a mature man slumped down low in the seat. He wore a cap and had a plaid scarf wrapped around his neck.
The driver noticed the police escort. He glanced at the patrolman in an effort to ascertain his intentions and slowed down to make sure he wasn’t over the speed limit.
Bembrey waved the car off the road. The Jag moved smoothly from the middle lane to the right before coming to a stop on the shoulder.
Bembrey stopped to read the Jag’s license plate. He called in the plate number before approaching the car. Bembrey wore Jodhpur pants that were tucked into black storm trooper boots. He looked intimidating as he approached the car.
The driver watched the motorcycle cop in his side-view mirror. He saw the patrolman get off his bike and saunter slowly toward his car.
Bembrey had seen all kinds, but this one took the cake. The driver was wear
ing a parchment-colored leather driving cap and a matching jacket. His plaid scarf was slung over his shoulder and flowed onto the seat back. He was wearing tortoiseshell glasses, and the lenses were as thick as coke bottles.
It was the oldest line in the book, but Bembrey used it routinely, “Okay, mister, where’s the fire?”
The driver turned to face Bembrey. Upon seeing the strapping policeman, his eyes opened wide and he spoke sweetly. “In your eyes, you big, handsome bastard.”
Bembrey’s jaw dropped, and he staggered backward a few steps as if he had just taken a solid blow to the chest.
The driver continued to stare into his eyes beseechingly.
Bembrey stared back, not knowing how to reply. He was a good old southern boy and completely out of his element. The whole thing is just so damn embarrassing. “Damn fine automobile,” Bembrey said in his deepest, most masculine voice. “Don’t let it get away from you again.” He turned and hotfooted it back to his bike, barely able to keep a straight face.
As the Jaguar drove off, a voice came over his radio. “Hey, Ty, that car anywhere in sight?”
Bembrey could just make out the Jag’s taillights in the distance. “Yes. Just pulling away now. Why?”
“There’s an FBI warrant on the driver, Faiza Soto. You’re instructed to follow but not approach. That doable?”
Bembrey was already on the road, hanging back just far enough to tail the Jag inconspicuously. He checked his watch, knowing that he was going into overtime. “I’ll stay with him.” With the overtime, I’ll be able to save a little extra money this week. He wondered if he’d ever be able to afford a car as magnificent as the Jag.
Chapter 47
Mention Chapter 11 in any home across America and the normal reaction is hysterics and blind panic. Thoughts of bankruptcy and foreclosure take over, overshadowing all considerations of joy: cancel the vacation, sell the second car, and stock up on ramen noodles; it’s time to tighten the belt.
The Mather Triad: Series Boxed Set (Chloe Mather Thrillers) Page 16
