When that doesn’t work, next I text them. By then I’m already on my Ducati. It’s parked next to Rosa’s Vespa. I don’t bother with a helmet as I start the motorcycle and roar out of the driveway.
As I’m racing down the main highway that circles Ustica, I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket and I grab it. Finally, a text from Stefano.
We decided to go through with the trade without you. You’ve gotten too close to the hostage. Too attached. We were worried you were going to make a choice you’d regret. So we scheduled the trade for seven thirty this morning rather than noon. Really sorry about this. It’s for the best.
I glance at the time. Seven twenty.
I increase the throttle on my Ducati and with my free hand I type a response with my thumb:
Bring her back. NOW. We can’t trade her. Rizzo traitors.
I wait, staring at my phone. I threw in that bit about the “Rizzo traitors” because I want to make him think I know something he doesn’t.
But he doesn’t fall for my bluff: I receive no reply.
Come on. Fucking answer. Answer me, Stefano!
When nothing arrives for a full minute, I try calling him again. My call goes straight to voicemail. In a fit of rage I almost throw my phone into a passing field. I somehow manage to restrain myself and shove it into my pocket.
I stare at the road whizzing past me. My speed is close to two hundred.
I slam a fist down against my bike and nearly topple it when the steering wobbles. I regain control, barely.
“FUCK!” I yell at the top of my lungs.
I increase the throttle even more.
I’ll make it in time. I know I will.
I turn off when I reach the private dock and I pull up next to Stefano’s familiar Alfa Romeo. I see two figures at the far end of the docks: Enrico and Roberto. Roberto is standing, peering into a pair of binoculars. Meanwhile Enrico lies on the dock, one eye glued to a sniper rifle aimed out to sea.
I race over to them. They glance over their shoulders and exchange a worried glance as I approach.
“He looks extremely pissed,” Enrico comments.
“I don’t blame him,” Roberto replies. “I’d be pissed at me, too.” He turns toward me and raises his palms defensively. “I’m really sorry, Massimo. But Stefano—”
“Where are they?” I hiss. My arm twitches unconsciously toward the pistol I have stowed in the back of my jeans. If they weren’t my brothers they’d be dead now.
I already know the answer to the question. I follow the aim of Enrico’s sniper rifle and see a speedboat receding into the distance.
I turn my attention to the vessels tied up at the docks and pick out one of our spare speedboats. We have three of them.
I hold out a hand to Roberto and, keeping my gaze on the spare boat, I order: “Keys.”
He slips the keys into my fingers and I hurry down the dock.
“You’re too late,” Enrico calls after me.
I leap into the speedboat and undo the moorings. Then I slip the key into the ignition and start the engine.
“At least let me go with you!” Roberto says. He’s standing on the docks right behind my boat now.
But he’s too late, I’m already off. I slide the throttle to the max and the boat bounces across the waves. I’m too pissed to accept his help anyway.
Luciano and Stefano are traveling a lot slower than me. No doubt so they can give their passenger a more comfortable ride. It’s not very pleasant jarring across these waves like this. But I can take it.
I stare at the boat ahead, but it’s hard to make out the passengers.
