Sipping an espresso in a room across the street, Carlo watched his men melt back into the dark. It wouldn’t be long now until they attacked their true prey. He savored the hot bitter brew he swallowed. Rinaldo Lucchesi, the capo of the Lucchesi family, had interfered in Carlo’s business for the last time. He thought he could come up north, into Carlo’s territory, and impose his principles and his will.
Rinaldo and his ridiculous, short-sighted philosophy would be the ruin of the ’Ndrangheta. Carlo was not going to let Lucchesi expose their bellies to the sharp teeth of Cosa Nostra or the Russians. Lucchesi might be suicidal, but Carlo most assuredly was not. He had a family to look out for, a child he adored. He couldn’t let Lucchesi destroy her future, and he couldn’t let him destroy the future of all the ’Ndrangheta.
Taking Carlo’s son hostage to force him to capitulate was where Lucchesi had miscalculated. He’d taken the wrong child. In a contest between Dario and Antonella, Toni won every time. Had Lucchesi taken Toni…. Carlo’s gut quivered. Everyone would know his weakness then. He’d make any sacrifice for his tigress, his cunning little she-wolf. The child of his heart. The child who was his heart.
If Toni knew he was risking her twin brother’s life this way, she’d be appalled. But if his plan worked, he’d have the boy, his vengeance, and the way clear in the north. Milan and the lake would be his alone. And once their riches were his, nothing could stop him from pushing his father and his brother off their perch, high at the top of the ’Ndrangheta. They’d censured him once, they’d exiled him up north, thinking that would keep him weak, that their lapdog Lucchesi would be able to muzzle him. They were about to learn otherwise.
The front door to the restaurant swung open, its glass catching the light of a streetlamp, and the Lucchesi woman and two of her children strolled out, the boys flanking her on either side. Rinaldo and their middle boy, Enrico, were not with them. Unease wormed through Carlo’s belly. Where are they? He glanced around and saw nothing out of the ordinary, but the nighttime shadows could be both friend and foe.
The woman and her boys had almost reached the Mercedes when they stopped short, the woman placing a restraining hand on the shoulder of her youngest child. The eldest son, Primo, nearly a man now, the one who was supposed to be capo someday, pulled his gun and looked in the passenger side front window. No doubt he saw the bodies, because he shouted, “Go back!”
It was too late.
Bruno and his four men charged toward the family, opening fire. Primo whirled around to meet them, but bullets slammed into his chest before he could get off a shot.
Carlo felt an odd sort of admiration as the boy fell, blood blanketing his once-white shirt. Primo had tried to defend his family like a good man of honor. But the boy was ruined, his mind tainted by his father’s notions.
None of Rinaldo’s line would survive the night. It was fitting that Lucchesi’s heir died first.
The woman and the youngest boy, Mario, sought cover by the car. Apparently they crawled inside, since Bruno whipped his arm overhead, signaling the men to surround the Mercedes. The hit men didn’t hesitate, spraying the car with bullets. The percussive blasts of gunfire beat a joyful staccato in Carlo’s chest. How well he remembered the wild buck of a gun in his hands, the acrid smell of gunpowder, the coppery tang of blood in the air, the ringing in his ears in the wake of a kill. But he was capo now, and he had to be protected for the good of the family. Still, he missed the old days when he had administered justice firsthand.
Mario attempted to flee through the far door onto the street. One of the shooters fired into him, not stopping until the boy’s body grew still, his head and shoulders hanging out the back door. It was a shame about this boy as well; he was a fighter.
After slapping in a fresh clip, Bruno leaned in the car and fired a final bullet, presumably finishing off the woman. Then he walked over to Primo and shot him in the head.
Three down. Just two more to go, and his vengeance would be complete.
Except no one charged out of the restaurant. No more guards. And no more Lucchesis.
Where the hell are they? This was supposed to be a rout, a decisive victory. A definitive end to the feud. And Carlo was supposed to be the victor.
Setting his cup on the sill, he rose, peering out the window, looking up and down the street as he pushed the curtains wide. With a deafening roar in his ears, the horrible truth sprang upon him, sending his stomach plunging to the floor, the espresso threatening to come back up. Rinaldo and Enrico weren’t there and never had been. No self-respecting man of honor could stand by while his family was slaughtered.
Carlo watched, fists curled, as Bruno and his men left the scene. They’d reconvene at the house, where it was safe to talk. Already, sirens keened in the distance, though no one had interfered during the shooting. That didn’t mean there weren’t witnesses, but he wasn’t concerned. Only someone exceedingly foolhardy would testify against the ’Ndrangheta.
Waiting for Bruno in his study, Carlo clipped the end off a cigar and lit it, inhaling in sharp, short puffs. Who had fucked up?
Bruno knocked on the door, then entered. Bruno’s suit strained across his shoulders, but somehow there was a new smallness to him, a hunched quality that made Carlo’s face go hot. Along with gunpowder and fine cologne, Bruno smelled of guilt.
“Why should I let you live?”
The man looked at the floor, his hands jammed in his jacket pockets, his dark hair, usually carefully slicked back, now half falling in his face, hiding his eyes. “Our informant told us the entire family would be there. It was the youngest boy’s birthday.”
“Where are Rinaldo and Enrico?”
“At home, I assume.” Bruno glanced up. “Trying to eliminate them there would be suicide.”
Carlo wanted to rage at the man, but a fuckup, even a monumental one, shouldn’t rattle him. He was capo; he was in charge. The men looked to him in a crisis, and if he faltered, he would be lost. They would be lost. “Hands on the desk.”
Fear flashed through Bruno’s eyes. “Both hands?”
“When did you become deaf?” Bruno probably thought he was going to take a few fingers, maybe one of the hands. Maybe he even feared that Carlo would take both. Smiling, Carlo picked up the cigar cutter.
Bruno swallowed, but he didn’t beg. Good for Bruno.
On the other hand, he’d fucked up. Bad for Bruno.
Carlo couldn’t suffer such incompetence unchecked; it was bad for business, it was bad for discipline, and it was bad for morale. A little fear liberally applied kept the men content.
But worst of all, Bruno had cost him probably the only opportunity he’d ever have to get rid of the Lucchesis with minimal bloodshed. Now the long bloody war between the families would continue. Carlo would lose many more men. Someone had to pay for that mistake.
The man’s eyes followed the cigar cutter as Carlo returned it to his jacket pocket. Bruno let out a short quivering breath when the tiny guillotine disappeared. Carlo gave him a smile, a distraction. Before the man could react, Carlo pulled a gun from the same pocket and shot him in the face. Blood and brain matter and bits of bone sprayed out the back of the man’s head, then he slumped to the floor. Seeing the pool of blood spreading from the body, Carlo let out a sigh. He should have taken Bruno outside. He’d liked that carpet.
Hell, he’d liked Bruno too, but there was no place for sentiment in this business. A capo had to hold his love close; the fewer vulnerabilities he had, the better. Loving Toni the way he did was all the risk he could afford.
Placing the gun on the desk, he sat down and picked up the cigar, taking a long drag. He let the aromatic smoke fill his lungs, let it bring him calm. After a while, he smiled.
It is so much sweeter this way. He picked up the phone, punching in a number he knew well. Rinaldo answered after a few rings. “There’s something I must tell you,” Carlo said.
“Carlo? Are you ready to be reasonable now and end this trouble between us?”
Laughter bubbled up from his gut. “Oh, I’m ending this, but not how you think.”
“What do you mean?”
“Tell me, Rinaldo, did you hear the sirens earlier?”
Lucchesi’s voice shook with urgency. “What did you do?”
“I’ve taken what you love most in this world. Your wife and sons. Shot down in the street outside Marinucci’s. Only one boy left. It’d be a pity to lose him too.”
The howl of rage, of anguish, that came down the line stirred something greedy in the pit of his belly. When the howling stopped and the cursing started, Carlo broke in. “I will not be trifled with, Lucchesi. And I will never be reasonable.” He hung up, and when the phone rang, he pulled the cord from the back to silence it.
Picking up the cigar, he took another drag. Sometimes life was very, very good.
There was no need to send other men after Lucchesi. He’d made his point, and every other boss who thought about crossing him would think twice and repent such scheming.
He’d sent a clear, unambiguous message: Carlo Andretti would bow to no one.
Even if he had to leave his own boy to Rinaldo Lucchesi’s doubtful mercy.
CHAPTER 1
Present day
Rome, Italy
This time, the end of Enrico Lucchesi’s world arrived in a beautifully wrapped box. The package, covered in a fine, silvery foil paper with a crisp white satin bow, arrived early that morning at Enrico’s hotel suite in Rome. There was no card, no return address. Enrico’s pulse rate kicked upward. In his line of work, nothing good ever came from an anonymous delivery.
Ruggero, his senior bodyguard, eyed the package on the wooden writing desk as if it were ticking. When Enrico touched the box, Ruggero nudged his hand away. “Let me, Don Lucchesi.” Enrico bowed his head and stepped back, watching his guard slice into the wrapping. Ruggero’s hand was steady, his cuts deliberate.
Inside was an ornately carved wooden box that looked oddly familiar. Enrico had seen it somewhere, but he couldn’t place it. Ruggero put his hand on the latch, then looked up at him. “Perhaps you should stand farther away.” Never an order from his guard, always a suggestion. But one he’d be a fool to ignore.
Enrico stepped over to the far wall by the sofa and crossed his arms. How incongruous. He and his men were dealing with a possible bomb while the vacationers and business people in the suites surrounding them enjoyed a full five stars of luxury. What was it like to almost never know fear, to live every day with the comforting certainty that another one was coming? The only certainty he’d ever had was that any day could be his last.
His heart jumped in his chest. How was it that this situation never became routine? The sick expectation, the sense he’d finally meet his death today, his skin going clammy, his stomach twisting, his mouth dry, his skin practically twitching from anticipation of a fatal stab from a knife or the punch of a bullet. Or in this case, the tearing of shrapnel from an explosion.
He frowned when Antonio, his newest bodyguard, stepped in front to shield him from a potential blast. He never should have endangered the boy this way. A familiar litany filled Enrico’s head: Will he be just one more dead body you walk away from? Just one more unfortunate mistake? Just one more eventually forgotten casualty in your quest to outlive Carlo Andretti?
Ruggero eased open the latch, then edged the lid up, its metal hinges creaking. The stern lines of his face deepened as he stared at the contents. He ran a hand through his dark curly hair.
Enrico uncrossed his arms and took a step forward. “What is it?”
The guard let the lid fall completely open, then stepped away from the box, shaking his head. “You’d best see for yourself, signore.”
Enrico crossed the room and looked into the box. As he registered the contents, his stomach flipped like a dying fish. Nestled within white tissue paper, a falcon stared up at him, its gray and white feathers limp, its round dark eye filmed over. A black cord cut into its neck, strangling the bird. The raptor’s open beak suggested it was giving a last angry cry at the injustice of its death.
He looked up at Ruggero, their eyes locking. A falcon was featured on the Lucchesi coat of arms. The message was obvious.
As he lowered the lid, Enrico’s fingers lingered over the etched surface. A pattern of vines and flowers danced around the edge, and a boar-hunting scene occupied the center. Where had he seen this box before?
And then it came to him. It was the box Carlo Andretti stored his cigars in, the one he’d offered to Enrico on several occasions when he’d been in Carlo’s study. And if he had any doubt about who was sending this message, the timing of it couldn’t be ignored.
“It’s from Andretti,” he said to Ruggero. He drew in then let out a deep breath, seeking calm. Andretti wanted him dead. That was nothing new.
“You aren’t surprised.”
“Do you remember what day it is? What happened exactly a year ago?” Enrico fought to keep his voice steady, yet still he detected a catch.
Ruggero thought for a moment, then understanding dawned on his face. “Your wife. I’m sorry, I forgot.”
“Carlo didn’t forget. He still blames me.”
“He thinks you can cure cancer?”
“I don’t know what he thinks. Only that I didn’t do enough.” And maybe I didn’t.
Ruggero motioned to the box. “What do we do about this?”
“For now, nothing.”
The guard’s brow creased. “You are virtually undefended with only me and Antonio. We should call in more men before leaving the city.”
“We leave today, as planned. Just us three.” He’d be damned if he’d let Carlo pick the tune he danced to. He’d seen what fear had done to his father, what mistakes it had caused him to make. What a bleak future it led to.
“Don Lucchesi, that’s suicide,” Antonio said.
A muscle in Ruggero’s jaw jumped and he pinned the boy with his eyes, not looking back to Enrico until Antonio lowered his eyes and mumbled, “Forgive me, signore.”
Ruggero took a breath then said, “With respect, capo, Andretti knows where you are. He could have men waiting for us outside.”
Enrico shook his head. “Carlo likes to play with his food before he eats it.”
“So, you are the mouse?” Ruggero asked.
Enrico scrubbed a hand through his hair. “He thinks he’ll see me cower and run. But I am no mouse.”
“At least let me call in reinforcements for when we arrive in Milan.”
Enrico nodded. “There’s no sense being completely foolish.” As he watched his guard make the call, he rubbed his stomach, a queasy feeling growing, like he’d just eaten a pound of pancetta. He hoped he wasn’t leading them into a trap. A giant, man-sized mousetrap.
“Carlo is a dead man,” Enrico muttered to himself as he strode through the crowd in the hotel lobby hours later, his empty stomach knotted, drawn up tight under his chest. His eyes swept the area, noting the details of his surroundings, the placement of people and weapons—at least those he knew about. His guards were good; in fact, Ruggero was one of the best. But no one was perfect.
“What did you say, Don Lucchesi?” Antonio asked as he matched Enrico’s pace.
“Andretti is dead.”
“So you’ve decided then?” asked Ruggero, on his right.
Enrico heard the anticipation in Ruggero’s voice and wondered again if there wasn’t a touch of the sociopath to him. Enrico hated killing, though it was sometimes necessary. But Ruggero seemed perfectly suited to his line of work.
“Don’t get excited yet. I decided the moment I saw what was in the box. Now all that remains is the when.”
“Soon, I hope,” Ruggero said.
Enrico gave him a tight smile. “Soon enough.” If only Antonella hadn’t made him promise not to harm her father, he’d have given the order long ago. He owed his mother and Primo and Mario justice. But he’d promised his wife that he’d keep the peace between their families
, that he’d honor the truce that had been sealed by their marriage. Those twenty-six years of peace were over now—undone by her death. At least Andretti seemed to think so.
Perhaps Enrico had been naïve to think that Carlo would honor his daughter’s memory by keeping the peace she’d helped broker. He should have known better. A vulture would never be anything but a vulture. Andretti had never had a scrap of honor and never would. The man was a bottom feeder, a scum, a leech on society—
Enrico’s attention was caught by a large, heavyset man in a sharply tailored suit standing to the left of the lobby doors. Massimo Veltroni, Carlo’s man. Veltroni’s black eyes snapped to his, the intent in them clear. A chill ran through Enrico, that sick anticipation rising again, his skin prickling with awareness. Damn it—he’d been stupid, stupid, stupid. And now it was going to cost them dearly. Per favore, Dio, spare Antonio. He’s too young.
He tapped both guards on the shoulders and they followed his gaze, closing ranks in front of Enrico, automatically shielding their capo from danger.
Enrico’s hand fell down to grip the Glock 9mm in his jacket pocket. As capo, he rarely carried a weapon, but Ruggero had insisted after seeing the dead falcon. Now he appreciated his guard’s caution.
He couldn’t tear his eyes off Veltroni. The image of a cobra looking to strike came to Enrico’s mind. The man reached into his suit jacket, a tight smile on his face.
Enrico tensed, and Antonio and Ruggero pulled their weapons, Ruggero’s movements so fluid and practiced they made Antonio look like a clumsy amateur. Which he almost was. Antonio had his gun out and ready mere seconds after Ruggero did. But seconds counted. Seconds meant the difference between alive and dead. Enrico heard women shriek at the sight of the guns, and then the scuffle of feet as people scrambled to get away from them. But he didn’t look behind him; eyes on the threat, always. That was the rule. Distractions meant death.
Killer Romances Page 2
