His face pales, and anger gathers like a storm in his eyes. He hits the table with a fist. The girls jump. “You said it yourself, Sandro. I’m the one who’s going to be in charge. It will be my decision soon enough to do business with the Bratva or not.”
I swirl my still-full glass of scotch. “You know New York doesn’t want them trafficking in Tampa.”
“They’ll change their mind when they see the profits. Money talks. Just ten percent has added a quarter million a month to our bottom line.”
“You meanyourbottom line.” Milo was getting ten percent just to turn a blind eye? Interesting. Now I know we can hold out for at least twenty percent. Time to lay out my cards. I set the empty vial on the table. “Money talks, yes. But dead men don’t.”
Milo looks from my face to the vial and then back again. Then his eyes move to his empty glass, and his whole body stiffens. His eyes fly up to mine. “Motherfucker, did you poison me?”
I make a show of checking my Patek Philippe watch. “Tetrachloroethane. You have about an hour before you slip into a coma. Any last words?”
Panic fills his eyes as a cough wracks his body. He pulls out his gun and points it at my face. “I’m taking you with me, you conniving piece of shit.”
My gaze flicks to the door where Big Tony and Fausy have quietly incapacitated the two guards. They give me a nod as they drag them out of sight.
I meet Milo’s gaze again, ignoring the gun. “I would rethink that. Rocco has the antidote. He’s waiting in the parking lot. All we want is your cut of the profits so far. You come with me to the car, transfer the funds into one of my offshore accounts, and we never speak of this again. Shoot me and it’s over.”
Milo’s hand is now shaking. His breathing is labored. I don’t know if it’s the poison or the panic.
Without taking my eyes off Milo, I say, “Ladies, can you please leave us.”
They’ve been sitting there completely frozen but now scramble out of the booth.
I slide out behind them, buttoning my jacket. “Shall we?”
Milo is cursing under his breath as he struggles to get out of the booth. After another coughing fit, he growls, “Didn’t know you were such a greedy motherfucker.”
If he could think clearly right now, he’d know this was a trap. There’s nothing in our history that would suggest this is the move I’d make. I’m a hundred percent loyal to the family. I don’t bother disarming him. He wants the antidote.
The one that doesn’t exist.
I’m whistling as I lead Milo to my Range Rover. It’s a beautiful balmy evening for revenge. As we reach the SUV, Big Tony and four soldiers step out from behind it and point semi-automatic rifles at Milo.
His head whips in my direction. “What the fuck, Sandro?”
I shrug. “Yeah, sorry. I lied. There’s no antidote.”
He hunches over, holding his stomach. After another brutal coughing fit, he leans against my SUV, breathing hard, his shoulders curled inward in defeat.
I reach over and pluck the SIG Sauer from his hand.
His eyes meet mine in the darkness, and I see the anger fading into resolve. He knows it’s over.
Big Tony drives. I’m in the passenger seat and two of our soldiers are in the back with a subdued Milo, making sure he doesn’t pull any last-minute stunts. He’s slumped in the seat, moaning as he holds his stomach.
“Your father is quite disappointed in you.” I turn to catch his eye. “He knew, just as New York does, that you’re not a leader.” I watch his labored breathing. “He would’ve rather let me absorb his businesses when I married Giada than leave anything to you. But now that doesn’t have to happen. We’ve come up with a solution that suits us all. He’s given his blessing for Giada to marry Toly Romanov. His empire will stay intact and be passed down to their children.”
Milo tries to respond but is gripped by a wheezing coughing fit. His watery eyes are blazing again with rage. “The Russians?” he croaks.
“Mm.” I nod. “Besides extra labor, bringing them into the fold gives us more control over them. And the best part is Giada marrying Toly leaves me free to marry Lennon.” I turn back and stare out the window. “If she’ll have me.”
I have some work to do to clear the way for that to happen.
As we pull around the gravel back road at Riverside Gator Farm, our headlights sweep over the back gate, where our contact Johnny B. is waiting there to let us in.
He’s wearing a backward ball cap and dirty jeans, grinning like he won the lottery as he swings open the gate and waves us through. I’m surrounded by fucking sociopaths.
I turn and tap Milo on the knee with my Beretta. He slowly lifts his head. Snot and tears are running down his ghostly pale face. “Lennon told me what you did to her on the roof of Club Paradiso. For that, you’re going to suffer before you become gator food.”
