* * *
I standbeneath the gazebo in the abandoned park outside Palermo. Luciano remains in the stolen car, while in the backseat resides a bundle that makes a good stand in for a prisoner. We’ve rested a bucket hat on that bundle, so that a sniper viewing the situation through his scope from afar would have no idea if he was looking at a real person or not.
It’s about five minutes past the designated rendezvous time.
“They’re late,” Luciano says impatiently.
I glance over my shoulder at him. “They’ll show.” Like me, he’s wearing a balaclava to hide his face.
After another three tense minutes pass, minutes that seem like an eternity, an Alfa Romeo finally drives into view. It parks seventy feet from us. Close enough for someone hiding in the backseat to come to Giovanni’s aid, and far enough away for us not to see them.
Giovanni emerges, as does another individual who carries a metal suitcase, and the pair approach.
It’s hard to suppress the feelings of hatred and repulsion that fill me when I see him. His grizzled beard has maybe a little more salt than pepper, and his face a few more wrinkles, but otherwise he hasn’t changed. He has those same steely gray eyes. Those same horn-rimmed glasses.
My finger twitches toward the gun holstered at my waist. I squeeze my fist tightly, slamming down on the urge to draw the pistol.
Not yet.
As they get closer I recognize his companion as Michelangelo, one of his sons. Both men have pistols strapped to their hips, like I do.
Michelangelo usually has a somewhat feminine face, but today it’s marred by fading bruises and scabs, giving him a more rugged, masculine look. He’s wearing a fiberglass cast over one arm. Those injuries would be from his little tussle with The Cleaver a few weeks back, which culminated in the marriage deal the two families signed to avert all-out war. A deal now canceled.
The cast, and the bruises, are meant to make us believe he’s harmless, I think. But there’s a cold ferocity to his gaze, matched only by the glinting eyes of his father. A killer’s ferocity. I’ve heard Michelangelo is quite the artist with a pistol: the bullets are his paint, the human body his canvas.
“I’ve spotted a sniper at four o’clock,” Roberto announces over my earpiece. “Top of the building.”
I flick my eyes that way and look for the telltale protrusion of a muzzle from the rooftop. There.
I return my gaze to Giovanni and his son, and I raise a halting hand when they’re still several paces away. “That’s close enough.”
“I want to see my daughter.” Giovanni’s eyes are on the backseat of the stolen car.
“Call off your sniper,” I order.
Giovanni looks at me and lies to my face. “I don’t have a sniper.”
“Call him off!” I hiss. I draw my pistol and point it at the backseat of the stolen car, aiming at the bucket hat. I cock the hammer and give Giovanni an expectant look.
Giovanni hesitates, then tilts his head toward his collar and says: “Stand down.”
Roberto speaks into my earpiece: “Their sniper has backed off.”
I swing around, bringing my pistol toward Giovanni’s head now. I step forward until the muzzle presses against his temple. There’s no fear in his gaze, only defiance. It’s almost like he’s daring me to shoot him.
Maybe I’ll oblige.
“Luciano,” I say.
I hear the car door open and close behind me. My brother moves in, quickly disarming both men.
Time to find out if my hunch is right.
“Tell your men to come out of the car and put their hands on the vehicle,” I tell Giovanni.
He hesitates.
“Do it!” I order.
