“I don’t want anybody else,” I said huskily.
As she peered deep into my eyes, her legs slowly parted.
“Neither do I,” she whispered, as she used her hand to gently pull me towards her –
And then guide me inside her.
PART V
The Night of October 23
This Year
Naples, Italy
43
Cesare
While Luciano told us how to get into his family’s compound, my guys brought the dead bodyguard up from the ground floor and dumped him in the kitchen.
Then they took a bunch of towels from the dead mistress’s bathroom, mopped up as much blood as they could in the lobby, and stuffed everything in garbage bags they threw in a dumpster.
Their cleaning job wouldn’t pass inspection in the bright light of morning, but the lobby was so dim that you couldn’t really see much. It wouldn’t raise anybody’s suspicions till daybreak, by which point we’d be long gone.
Hell, the dead bodies might not even get found until they started to stink in a couple of days.
Once Luciano was dressed, we took him down to his BMW in the street. I kept my gun at his back the entire time.
Luciano took the wheel. I sat directly behind him in the backseat, but I didn’t need a gun to keep him in line; the video feed of his wife and kids did the job just fine.
Romeo sat next to me and kept the tablet volume turned up just loud enough so Luciano could hear his children whimpering.
While Lucian was listening, I gave Cicciobello an order over the tablet: if anything happened to us – if Luciano decided to get cute and drive the car into a wall at 60 mph – Cicciobello should shoot the entire family, starting with the wife.
Luciano didn’t so much as talk back the entire drive to his father’s mansion.
It was me behind the driver’s seat, Romeo in the middle, and Ciro on the right. We also had a guy nicknamed Tiratore hiding in the trunk.
‘Tiratore’ meant shooter, because that was his entire job for the last four years: he’d practiced with a sniper rifle three hours a day, everyday.
Motherfucker wasdeadly.
Luciano drove most of the way in silence. But as we got close to the compound, he said, “You swear you’ll let my wife and kids go if I get you in?”
“If you don’t try to fuck us,” I said.
“What about my parents and sister?” he asked nervously.
“As long as your father tells me about Dario Rosolini, they’ll live.”
It was a lie, and Luciano knew it. If he didn’t, then he was the dumbest motherfucker I’d ever met.
I guess he really wanted to believe he wasn’t selling out his family.
That must’ve been why he swallowed all my bullshit – hook, line, and sinker.
Don Amato’s compound sat on a hillside overlooking Naples – a gigantic building in the middle of 20 acres of gardens.
