Marco shrugged. “Money changes people, Bruno. Even your friends. Once you got money, people want a piece of what you got. Perhaps he was jealous? The two of you used to work the streets together, and now? Now you’re up here every day, enjoying the fruits of his labor.” He stretched back in his seat. “Seems like motive enough to me.”
Bruno turned from the fireplace. In his hand was the poker, its end glowing orange. He advanced on Marco. “Prove it to me. Prove it was Antonio, you filthy lying son of a bitch,” he growled in outrage.
Marco stopped talking, shot to his feet, his eyes widening in terror.
Bruno pinned the man up against his office window, poker at his side.
Marco panted. “I’ll prove it to you. I’ll fucking prove it!”
Bruno raised the poker to Marco’s face and watched a bead of perspiration drip from the man’s forehead to his nose. Slowly, he lowered it. “Sit the fuck down.” Backing away from his cousin, he went over to the fireplace and tossed the burning poker down on the metal plating in front of the logs.
Marco waited for Bruno to sit down before he spoke, “Alright. So only ourselves, Charlie, and Antonio knew the paintings existed, right?”
Bruno nodded. “That’s right.”
Marco pulled out his phone. “Watch this….”
Onto the screen came a grey and white CCTV image. Marco skipped to the end when nearly all the paintings were in the van. The man pulled off his balaclava in front of the camera, to reveal a mean scar that ran right down his face….Antonio.
Unease sank down into Bruno’s spine.
“There’s more,” Marco added. “The building the van drove to is owned by Antonio’s uncle. Antonio has them, Bruno.”
Bruno growled. “This makes no sense. Acts like this don’t come out of thin air. There’s always a build-up to the act.”
Marco drew in a breath. “And you don’t think Antonio’s been more than a little off with you lately? Come on Bruno, the contempt is in his eyes.”
Bruno stood there, glaring at him—hating what he was hearing. In truth, he’d hardly seen the man in the past month. Once a week for a few hours, that was all. Feeling his pulse rise, and his trust in his brother popped like a soap bubble, he said, “You need to go home, Marco!” Bruno yelled. “Right away.”
Marco’s eyebrows jumped up. “What?”
“Get out Marco. Get the fuck out!” Bruno bellowed. Now, Bruno was pissed off as well as afraid, but he knew he’d do well not to show that.
Marco sighed, and tucked the papers into his briefcase disappointed. “I’ll let him know he’s to come and see you here ASAP. Let’s see what he has to say for himself.” He stood up and moved towards the door.
“No!” Bruno growled in Marco’s direction. The instinct for revenge mixed with the instinct to protect the man whom he trusted was at war in his mind. And he wasn’t sure which emotion was going to win out. “Nobody’s doing anything until I say so, capiche?” First, he needed to figure out what he needed to do. In his own fucking time. “We’re on lockdown. Tell the boys. That’s all anyone needs to know. I want those paintings recovered.”
“And what are you going to do?”
Bruno looked him up and down. He let out a frustrated growl, almost angry enough to punch a wall. “You know damn well how betrayal is dealt with.” He glared at Marco. “A man who could do that doesn’t deserve to live.”
Marco left his office, and Bruno stared after him.
Enraged, he picked up his things and stormed out of the room, slamming the door on his way out.
As he drove out of the mountains, towards San Diego, the burning beneath Bruno’s skin increased, clawing, and tearing at his insides. When he stopped at a red light, he placed both hands on the wheel. “Fucking Antonio,” Bruno spoke his name like a curse. His hands squeezed into a deathly grip around the wheel. The ride home from Barona was long. He hoped to God it hadn’t been Antonio who stole the paintings. As much as it would hurt, that’d be a betrayal Bruno could never forgive him for.
Still, he would have a little more investigating before pulling the trigger. Cash could be replaced. A friend like Antonio, all two hundred and fifty pounds of him, could not. A friendship that had seemed so genuine. He had killed a fair amount of wrong doers in his time, but this was different. He suspended judgment until he had proof until then he would wait.
When he reached San Diego, he sat down at his local bar with the only man left in this world he knew he could fully trust, Charlie. His brother gave his word that he hadn’t told anyone about the paintings. Bruno had no doubt about it, he had the right man. He returned home that night at God-knows-when, shit-faced on beer and whiskey. He parked the car in one of the spaces in the garage and stumbled inside.
Despite his best efforts, Bruno tossed and turned in bed. He felt betrayed, hurt.That asshole really thinks he can steal from ME? For years, this man had been his pal, his best friend and for what? The money he would have gladly given him if he’d asked.His friends’ betrayal would end his life. Pissed off, he tore out of the house in the middle of the night. Outside, he sat thinking at the wheel of his car.
He wanted the sonofabitch dealt with quick so that his mob was safe again. Perhaps he’d been asking for it….He’d befriended one of the most dangerous men in America, always went the extra mile, only to shit on him. Bruno made a firm vow never again to have trust in a man as he once had.
Finally, he put the car in gear and drove away.
As he sped away, something deep in his unconscious mind surfaced. A lesson his father had drilled into him when he was alive. Wisdom from the great Michael De Luca he himself ignored, and paid the price…. “You can’t trust anybody in this world, Bruno. You were a fool to trust him, you’re a fool to trust anybody.”And instantly, Bruno knew what he had to do.
