“You sure no one knows?”
“They have no reason to look into it. The business front for this safe house was originally just a deli. Last year, I had Tore buy the two businesses around it: a restaurant that went out of business and a yoga studio. We redesigned the yoga studio, with one third going into an apothecary and the other two-thirds into a soundproofed vault room. In time, I might invest in buying out the apartment complex above too.”
“Why so much space?”
“All about cover. With three separate business fronts and entrances, we not only have space for a large group but also a way to avoid detection. The deli, with its regular customer base, supplies a viable explanation for heavy traffic. The apothecary allows the delivery of bandages and medicine under the guise of herbal remedies, without too much oversight, and the restaurant has a square footage similar to a large apartment with several bedrooms. Unfortunately, other than the construction of a panic room in the kitchen, we haven’t started the apartment remodel. It’s still no different than your standard pizzeria.”
On the ground floor, I directed her to the access door to the restaurant. As she reached it, she smacked her palm against the doorknob and twisted around to face me. “So all the safe houses the kids and I stayed in with Tore years ago were ones you guys purchased?”
“Yes.”
“Even from behind bars, you kept us safe.” She leaned forward and kissed me softly. “Thank you.”
She twisted the door handle, and it was like a switch was flipped. The peaceful limbo we’d been lurking in vanished and in surged the chaos.
The smell of blood and burnt skin tinged the air. Pained groans came from every corner. Everyone was gathered in the restaurant space. Tables had been pushed together to accommodate the injured. Tablecloths served as fitted sheets and covers, and when bundled, as pillows. The place was filled to capacity.
Some helped treat minor injuries and clean wounds. Others rushed through the kitchens and bustled back with bowls of clean water. Bandages and water were brought to Doc, who directed where each was needed with a turn of his head or a pointed gesture of his nose. His gloved hands were already busy prying out a bullet with forceps from Jac, whose feet dangled off a makeshift operating table. When Jac woke up, he was going to be pissed that the bullet tore through the reaper tattoo over his right clavicle.
Cesare, better known as Doc, observed the bullet over the rim of his glasses before dropping it into a cup. It clanked against the glass, loud and clear, but Doc never lost his focus. He’d been the family doctor since before my grandfather moved our family to the States after he’d lost territory in Sicily to another famiglia. Before that, Doc served as an Italian military field surgeon during the Gulf War.
“Renzo,” Tore called, waving me down halfway through the restaurant as he finished setting up another makeshift bed. He scurried over. “You brought Ainsley?”
A true healer at heart, she hadn’t wasted any time. She was already two aisles away in the midst of patients, the lingering warmth of her presence against me fading fast.
“She’d been with me when you called.”
“Why? She told me she had plans.”
“She cancelled.”
Ainsley tugged off her jean jacket and tossed it into an empty booth as she trudged through the pathways between tables and patients. Each one got a quick look at their wounds before she passed to the next, only to circle back to Doc once finished, asking where he needed her. She didn’t look back at me, already fully absorbed in what needed to be done.
“Why the hell are you smiling?”
The grin dropped right off my face. This wasn’t the time or place. I cleared my throat, ignoring the look of disbelief on Tore’s face. “What do we know?”
“After we deal with this shitstorm, we’re talking,” he declared, waggling a finger in my direction. “Come on.”
He led me through the dining area and into what remained of a kitchen. Half of it had been converted into a panic room. The other half was bare-bones. Wall dust clung to the air. All the appliances were torn out. Plastic sheeting covered the floor, crinkling under our footsteps. Against the new wall, three bodies lay, covered in sheets splattered with blood stains.
I crouched down, examining each as Tore listed their names. Two joined the outfit in my absence, young, in their twenties, and not yet made men. The third was one of the men who’d led the assault against my father with me almost eight years ago. I sighed, hanging my head.
“Compensate their families and plan their burial rites. Add in a house for his wife”—I pointed to the made man—“and college tuition for his kids.”
I rose to my feet, and Tore ushered me into what had once been the manager’s office. I waved off the stale scent.
“Tell me exactly what happened?”
“It was supposed to be an easy grab. I had Natale’s team go in, and Massimo’s stay out for backup. Right from the start, everything went wrong. The radio signal went haywire. I had to stay on the line with Natale for information. Somehow, the Greeks knew. I don’t know how, but they did. Natale’s team entered the bar without issue. He said the place smelled of some kind of fuel. The ground was wet in some areas and not others, but it was quiet. I instructed him to keep going. I thought, based on what he said, the bar was empty, and Dimakos was upstairs. But they were lying in wait. Once our guys were all inside and almost to the stairs, they fired from all sides, even from holes drilled through the ceiling to the apartment above. The Greeks have never had that kind of firepower before.”
“Why didn’t Massimo go in?”
“He said he was waiting for my signal. All I could hear across the line was the gunfire on both sides. Natale and his team were taking on heavy fire, and by the time I called Massimo to go in, they’d lit the place up. We couldn’t follow the Greeks out the back door. They even left their dead, while Massimo and his crew dragged our guys out the way they came.”
I frowned. “They flambéed their own? That doesn’t sound like Dimakos.”
The old man wouldn’t survive his family if he left behind his own flesh and blood. They’d lynch him for it.
