Using the marina in a different way than the Clarkes was a huge liability. They were known for reselling American ammunition, shipping it overseas for profit. The problem was with the cargo: military-grade products. It inevitably drew unwanted attention. Ricky had learned this the hard way a year ago, when his indiscretions had cost him dearly.
My focus was on a different kind of high-stakes trade: opium. The profits were astronomical, and I had firsthand experience of just how much money could be made. Desperation had a price, and it was three hundred a kilo. The demand was constant, driven by an ever-growing number of people seeking an escape from their reality.
I’d made a conscious decision to stay away from using opium now Rosalie was here. I had a renewed sense of responsibility since it wasn’t just me anymore. I had someone else to think about.
Addiction had been easy to beat—not because of some bullshit inner strength, but because it was never opium I was addicted to. It was her.
Now she wasreallyhere, every decision I made was with her in mind.
Once we’d arrived, Giovanni pulled the car up to the large dock, and I stepped out. I didn’t need the marina to make money. If anything, it was pocket change for Rosalie’s spending habits, and something to keep me occupied.
The lights hanging from the cranes flickered as a strong wind blew past. We were surrounded by large red and blue steel shipping containers. These containers were often used by the military to transport family goods. Soldiers who were being transferred overseas to continue their service needed their furniture just as much as the Outfit needed their opium.
The men who worked on this ship had their lives made, in my opinion. Each transaction earned them a generous thirty percent. Compared to the huge sums we pulled in, their cut seemed like child’s play, but it was enough to ensure their loyalty.
We demanded silence and discretion from them in return for protection and substantial earnings. Any betrayal was met with severe consequences. The first warning was a missing tongue—a brutal but effective reminder they should keep their mouths shut.
A second offense resulted in concrete being poured into their ears and left to dry, rendering them deaf. A third strike would be their last. If they did as they were told, everything remained smooth and profitable.
“Romano!” a voice shouted over the crashing metal.
The wind cut through the small opening, creating an eerie sound. A man stood atop the shipping containers, coordinating the cranes as they lifted the heavy loads onto the ship.
“Matteo. Good to see you, man,” I shouted back in Italian.
“You as well,” he said, his accent strong. “Everything is going aboard, no problems. Who are these men with you?”
He was nervous. He’d never spoken to Giovanni or Mikhail, only me.
“Matteo, these are business associates,” I replied, gesturing toward them.
Matteo nodded slowly, his gaze flickering between me and them. “All right, Boss. Just let me know if there’s anything specific you need.”
With a nod, Matteo returned to the ship, shouting instructions to the crew in Italian. Giovanni and Mikhail followed me as I led them along the edge of the dock, where workers were busy loading crates of opium onto a waiting ship.
The air was filled with the metallicclankof machinery and the distant roar of the sea against the docks.
Giovanni leaned in closer to me, his voice low and cautious. “Are you sure about this? It seems ... exposed. Risky.”
I glanced at him sidelong, knowing his concerns were valid. The marina, despite its usefulness, was risky. “It’s a temporary risk. It’ll only be stored here overnight.”
Mikhail grunted. “Temporary places have a way of becoming permanent headaches.”
I ignored his comment, my mind already preoccupied with the logistics. Each crate loaded onto the ship was worth more money than a nepo baby would ever see.
As we walked, I kept a close eye on the men. Two of them were arguing loudly near a stack of crates, their voices carrying over the shriek of the machinery. I motioned for Giovanni and Mikhail to stay back as I approached, my hand instinctively resting on the handle of the gun concealed beneath my jacket.
“What’s the problem?” I demanded sharply.
They fell silent at my approach, their eyes darting nervously between me and each other. One of them, a middle-aged man with a scarred face, spoke hesitantly.
“Just a disagreement over the loading sequence.”
I narrowed my eyes, assessing the situation. “Sort it out quickly,” I ordered. “We can’t afford delays.”
The last thing I wanted was to mediate an argument between two idiots I’d never see again. I had more important matters to attend to. Like breakfast.
CHAPTER 31
