Fearless: Mob Boss Book Two (Volume 2)

by Michelle St. James

  Marco shrugged. “It’s just…”

  “What?” Nico prompted.

  “Dead calm,” Marco said. “You know?”

  Nico did know. Dead calm was a sailing term for a weather condition in which everything at sea stopped—no wind, no current, nothing. He’d experienced it only once when he’d been out with his father after college. The sails had hung slack, the boat bobbing like a cork in a bathtub. They’d had to use the engine to get back to the harbor, something his father typically refused to do on principle.

  “So no one’s talking,” Nico said.

  “It’s more than that, boss,” Elia said. “It’s like they’re fucking gone.”

  “What does that mean?” It just wasn’t possible for every mob contact Elia and Marco had on the west coast to disappear. “What about their families? Their businesses?”

  “Everyone has a story,” Marco said. “They’re out of town for a wedding. They have a business meeting in San Francisco… But the gist of it is; they’re all gone.”

  This was not good. This was an old-fashioned turf war, and soldiers were taking sides. Nico had been wrong; Dante didn’t need to be smart to stage a coup. He just needed to be crazy enough to try and dynamic enough to get boots on the ground behind him—or convince the ones who wouldn’t to stay out of the way until it was over. Something that obviously hadn’t been very difficult. Nico remembered Raneiro’s words at the aquarium that afternoon.

  It’s begun to look like a revolution.

  Was it true? Did a majority of the soldiers want things to stay the same? Did they prefer brutality to civility?

  The thought depressed him. He knew a majority of the men and women in New York supported his vision, but they weren’t in New York anymore, and the one smart thing Dante had done was to stage his takeover from California where Nico’s influence was significantly smaller.

  “So someone put the word out,” he said. “We’ll find another way. How are we doing on the security footage?”

  “Vincent is the only one we saw,” Marco said.

  “So back to square one there, too,” Nico said as his phone rang. He looked at the display and glanced at Marco and Elia. “I have to take this in the other room. Keep working.”

  He headed for the bedroom he shared with Angel and shut the door, then went onto the balcony where the surf would cover his conversation.

  “Kane.”

  “I’ve got something,” Agent Kane said on the other end of the phone.

  “Hit me.”

  “Santoro’s got a big family, but they’ve all been steering clear of him publicly,” Kane said.

  “That’s not new information,” Nico said. “Santoro’s father used to work for my father. I sent some men to try and shake him down after Santoro escaped in London, and again when it became clear my operations were being targeted. Said he hadn’t talked to Dante since last October, right before the shit hit the fan.”

  “Right, but here’s the thing,” Kane said. “Santoro has a great-aunt that’s really old—I’m talking infirm and in a home—and that great-aunt recently wired a large sum of money to a bank in…” Nico heard the tap of computer keys in the background as Kane hunted for the information, “Redondo Beach, California.”

  That got his attention. “Redondo Beach?”

  “Yep,” Kane said. “Mean anything to you?”

  Nico weighed his words. “I don’t know yet. What’s the name of the bank?”

  “First National on PCH and 190th.” Kane hesitated. “You know I can’t cover for you if you do something stupid, right?”

  “I know. Was there anything else on Santoro?”

  “He’s completely dark,” the FBI agent said. “No credit cards, no rental cars, no hotel rooms. He’s obviously getting help from someone, and I’m betting it’s not old Aunt Mary.”

  Nico was betting the same thing. “Did you get Molton?”

  “Brought him in this morning,” Kane said. “You were right. His computer was loaded with some really nasty shit.”

  “Enough to put him away?”

  “For a long time,” Kane confirmed.

  “Good.”

  “Thanks for that, Vitale. And if you change your mind about cooperating, you know where to find me.”

  “I won’t,” Nico said. “But I appreciate the help with this one.”

  He disconnected the call and leaned against the balcony’s railing, fighting the guilt that crept into his veins. He was officially a traitor to the Syndicate. He may have given up an ex-member, and a despicable one at that, but that’s not how they did things. Violators of the family’s code were dealt with privately, albeit sometimes brutally. Giving a member up to the Feds was the equivalent of high treason.

  A year ago, Nico would have held firm in his belief that anyone betraying the family’s code of silence be executed as a message to others. But a lot of things had been different a year ago. Most importantly, he hadn’t known Angel. Hadn’t known what it meant to love the way he loved her.

  It shouldn’t matter. Conviction was only conviction if you were willing to stand by it in the most trying of times, and Nico had always prided himself on being the kind of man who was.

  Now he found that it did matter, and he couldn’t help wondering if the end really did justify the means. Violating the Syndicate’s honor code seemed like a small price to pay to save the life of David Rossi.

  Would he have felt that way if David wasn’t Angel’s brother? Nico wanted to believe he would bend the rules to save any innocent, but the truth was that Angel short-circuited his previously reliable pragmatism. He thought of her soft body, the green eyes that could see into his soul, the heart that was both gentle and fierce, and knew he would do anything—anything—to protect her.

  A soft knock on the door interrupted his thoughts, and he turned away from the balcony and headed back into the bedroom.

  “Come in.”

  Luca opened the door. “You busy?”

  “It’s fine,” Nico said.

  Luca entered the room. “Just got off the phone with New York.”

  “Anything new?”

  Luca shook his head. “It’s business as usual. No more theft, no more beatings. Now that Dante is negotiating directly with you—or with you through Angel—it seems like they’ve laid off the operation. Probably wants to keep it intact for himself,” Luca growled.

  “That’s fine,” Nico said, fortifying his resolve. “Let him think he has a chance. I don’t want the men harassed while they’re going about their business.”

  “Anything new on your end?” Luca asked.

  Nico told him about the wire transfer from Dante’s great-aunt.

  Luca raised an eyebrow. “Redondo Beach?”

  Nico nodded.

  “The South Bay….”

  “That’s right,” Nico said.

  “And you know this how?” Luca asked.

  Nico crossed his arms over his chest. He wasn’t going to implicate Luca in his communication with the FBI. “Not important.”

  Luca nodded his understanding. “So he has to be in the South Bay.”

  “The few clues we have all seem to point in that direction.”

  Luca rubbed the stubble on his cheek. He looked tired and worn out. Nico wondered how long it had been since his Underboss had taken a break.

  “What do we do now?”

  “I don’t know,” Nico said, clapping him on the back. “But I think it’s time for a change of scenery.”

  38

  They went to a little bar near the beach. Angel didn’t want to go, didn’t want to leave the search results and reports that had started to feel like an extension of her brain. But Nico insisted, saying that everyone was exhausted and worried, and no one worked well under that kind of pressure. When Angel told him they could go without her, he’d told her no one else would feel right going if she didn’t come along. It was a little underhanded, but now that they were sitting in the beach-themed bar, the Pacific rushing th
e sand beyond a patio surrounded by tiki torches, she knew he’d had been right. She needed this. Needed to clear her head to make sense of all the names, dates, and locations swirling around inside of it.

  “Feeling better?” he asked, setting another mysterious umbrella drink in front of her.

  “I do, actually.” She pushed the drink toward him. “But not good enough to drink another one of those.”

  “I thought you could hold your liquor,” he said.

  “And I thought you said one drink.”

  He grinned. “Touche.”

  Her heart skipped a beat. His animalistic grace made him as sexy in the faded jeans and black button-down as he looked in any of his five-thousand dollar suits. His hair was a little longer than usual—probably because he’d been too preoccupied finding David to maintain his customary tailored appearance—and his skin had darkened slightly from the time spent on Locke’s patio and at the beach below the house.

  Angel’s eyes strayed to Sara and Luca, playing pool with Marco and Elia inside the bar.

  “Think something’s up with those two?” Angel asked.

  “Marco and Elia?”

  Angel laughed a little, shaking her head. “Very funny. Sara and Luca.”

  Nico’s expression darkened. “Probably.”

  “Would that be a bad thing?” Angel asked.

  He took a swig of his beer. “Probably.”

  “Why?”

  “Because mixing business and pleasure is a dangerous proposition,” he said, his eyes on the foursome. “Especially in our business.”

  Angel followed his gaze, watched Sara sink the ten ball into a side pocket on a bank shot. “But Sara’s not in the field, right?”

  “Sara has enough information to sink our whole operation,” Nico said. “That makes her more valuable as an asset than most of the men who work for me.”

  “An asset? Is that how you think of her?”

  “Of course not,” Nico said. “But that’s how someone else might think of her. There’s no reason to give anyone added incentive to have an eye on her. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “You mean someone might target her because of Luca?” The idea sent a clang of alarm through Angel’s body. She knew Sara was ridiculously smart, talented enough that she’d once been in training for the FBI. But she was also nice and genuine. Angel didn’t want to think about her in the hands of someone who might see her as a way to get to the Vitale family.

  Nico leveled his amber eyes at her. “They targeted you, didn’t they?”

  She took a sip of the drink in front of her, forgetting her earlier resolve to quit while she was ahead. She wouldn’t think about Sara and Luca right now. They were fine. It was David who needed her help, and they had less than forty-eight hours to do it. She needed to focus, compartmentalize. She was on overload, the alcohol barely keeping her panic at bay.

  “Please tell me we’re getting closer,” she said, unable to keep the fear out of her voice.

  Nico took her hand. “We’re getting closer.”

  “Are you just saying that to make me feel better?” she asked.

  “No. I got some information today. I’m just not sure how it fits with everything else we know.”

  Hope sprang to life inside her. “Tell me.”

  “Someone wired money to Dante here in California. In Redondo Beach, to be exact.”

  She sat up straighter, her mind clearing. “Redondo Beach… That’s in the South Bay.”

  “It is,” Nico said. “We’re still trying to figure out who sent it, but it looks like it came from his family.”

  “Where?” she asked softly, her mind beginning to turn.

  Nico looked confused. “Where is his family?”

  “Where did they wire the money?”

  “A bank,” he said. “On PCH and 190th.”

  She turned her face toward the water, let the salty breeze kiss her face. Something was there… something from the data on John’s computer…

  “What is it?” Nico asked.

  PCH and 190th… an intersection at the crossroads of three towns in the South Bay.

  She stood so fast her chair fell to the floor behind her. “We need to get back to the house. Now.”

  He looked at her for a long moment before going inside to round up the others. She loved him for that. For the fact that he hadn’t asked any more questions. That he trusted her and believed in her.

  Her mind worked all the way home, Nico driving her in the Porsche while Luca and the others followed in one of Locke’s SUVs. She watched their headlights in the side mirror, but she wasn’t really seeing them. She was seeing the map she’d left open on Locke’s computer, the intersection of PCH and 190th, the neighboring beach towns stacked with houses and apartment buildings and condos.

  She was out of the car before Nico had turned off the engine. The house was dark, but she didn’t bother with the lights. They came on behind her as Nico entered the house, following her to the laptop on the dining room table where she’d left it.

  “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” he asked as Luca, Sara, Marco, and Elia came into the room.

  She zoomed in on the map, then tabbed to a spreadsheet filled with company names and addresses.

  “There’s a property listed here…” she murmured, searching the list that had been extracted from Lando’s computer. “There!” She pointed to an address owned by a company called Big Bear Holdings—a company owned by John Lando.

  Nico leaned in to get a closer look. “2041 Strand, Hermosa Beach.”

  Angel opened a new tab and typed in an address. An almost real-time aerial image opened up, a strip of concrete running in front of a big yellow house surrounded by other houses.

  She tabbed back to the map, zooming in even closer until they were looking at the Strand. It wasn’t a street exactly, but a concrete walkway used by runners and skaters near the water. And one of the most expensive addresses in Southern California.

  “2041 is here,” she said, pointing to Hermosa Beach on the map.

  “And?” Nico prodded.

  She zoomed out just a little, then ran her finger a short distance from the house to a street corner. “And PCH and 190th is here. Less than half a mile away.”

  39

  Nico spent most of the next day deep in conversation with the men while Angel paced the house.

  “This is ridiculous,” she said to Sara when her frustration got the best of her. “They act like it’s the 1950s. Like we’re too fragile to be involved or something!”

  “I know it seems that way,” Sara said, “but it’s not about that.”

  “Then what is it?” Angel seethed. “My brother’s life is at stake. I think I have a right to know what’s going on.”

  “You do,” Sara said. “And you will. But Nico doesn’t want to run you around with a bunch of possibilities. He’s going to figure out the pieces, get a plan in place to save your brother. Then he’ll tell you about it.”

  “I don’t see what difference it makes,” Angel said.

  “These guys know how to stage the kind of operation that will get your brother out alive. It will be better for David if you let them figure it out. They’ll fill you in as soon as they have a plan.”

  Angel had grudgingly kept quiet after that, her stomach doing somersaults while the hours ticked by. She and Sara were starting dinner, the sun hanging low over the water, when Luca finally stepped into the room. Sara’s eyes slid to his for a split second before she returned her gaze to the Bolognese simmering on the stove. A moment later the intercom buzzed.

  Luca walked to the security display, then spoke briefly in Italian before pressing the button to open the gate. Angel hadn’t realized he spoke the language when they’d been in Rome last year, although it made sense. Nico spoke it, too.

  “Mattia and Aldo,” he explained as he headed for the front door.

  Were the names supposed to make some kind of sense to her?

  She heard voices com
ing from the entry, and a couple minutes later, Luca returned with two dark-eyed men. Introductions were made—Mattia had the soft features of someone half his size, while Aldo was lean and quiet, his face as unreadable as stone—and a few minutes later, Nico and the other men emerged from Locke’s office.

  Angel wanted to know what was going on—they had less than twenty-four hours to get her brother out before Dante’s deadline—but Nico insisted on sitting everyone down, pouring wine, having dinner. She was beginning to recognize it as a hallmark of Vitale family hospitality—food and wine before business, no matter how important that business may be, with at least a little time for conversation.

  Mattia and Aldo were every bit as big as Elia and Marco, although not nearly as talkative.When they did speak, it was with a thick accent. Were they members of the New York family? Or had they been brought in from Italy specifically to help free David? And how could everyone eat and talk like something horrible wasn’t about to happen when Angel had such a terrible feeling about the next twenty-four hours?

  She sat next to Nico, watching the men shovel pasta with Sara’s Bolognese sauce into their mouths between healthy drinks of the merlot Luca brought up from Locke’s wine cellar. Her stomach was in knots, and she could only pick at her food as the new arrivals regaled the other with tales from the New York family.

  It’s not that she begrudged them their enjoyment. Not everyone should live in self-imposed misery because of what was happening with her brother. But it was still hard to realize that for everyone else, this was a mission, a business related operation—not the life or death scenario it was for Angel and her brother.

  And it was life or death for them both, because she wasn’t sure she could go on without him. He was all the family she had left.

  She glanced at Nico and felt a pang of regret. She wasn’t giving him enough credit. It was more than business for him, too. She could see it in the shadows under his eyes, the tired set of his jaw. Luca and Sara looked worried, too. In fact, a closer glance around the table revealed signs of stress in everyone—Marco’s forced laughter, Elia’s quiet rage, even Mattia and Aldo’s somberness cold have been a sign of their concern.