“Well, I planned out as much as I could. Althoughnowa much better opportunity has presented itself.”
I pulled out my phone and hit ‘Play’ on the recording app.
Amato’s voice spoke at the moment I’d cued up.
“…you don’t know what you’re getting into. The Rosolinis took on the Wagner Group – Russian mercenaries – on San Michele Island outside Venice. Aurelio hired them, and the Rosolinis killed almost all of them. And then they killed Aurelio.”
I hit pause on the recording. “As Amato made clear, the Rosolinis are deadlier than we’d thought.”
Cesare laughed contemptuously. “I don’t give a fucking shit. We’reCamorra,not a bunch of stupid Russian fuckwads.”
“But what if we could hire the Wagner Group to help us?”
Cesare stared at me. “…we can do that?”
“Aurelio, their cousin, did. It’s just a question of how much you’re willing to spend. I’ve done some digging; it seems the minimum would be five million euros.”
“I don’t give a fuck about the money – but the Russianslost.Why would we hire idiots wholost?”
“The Russians lost because the Rosolinis knew exactly where they were. But what if the Russians had the element of surprise?” I pulled a pack of cigarettes out of my purse. “What if the Wagner Group went in to soften them up… took all the casualties from the initial fighting… and thenwecame in and mopped up after them?”
As I lit a cigarette and took a drag, a smile slowly crept across Cesare’s face.
Then it quickly disappeared.
“I have to kill Dario myself,” he insisted.
“Of course. But you know his foot soldiers and family will protect him. After all the others are dead, he’ll be hiding in some safe room in the middle of the house. Once we pull him out, you can spend as much time with him as you want.”
Cesare’s smile slowly reappeared as he imagined whatever it was he fantasized about when he thought of Dario Rosolini.
Then the smile faded again. “But how do we hire the Russians?”
“I called Vollaro two hours ago and pulled him out of bed,” I said. Giuseppe Vollaro was the main lawyer for our clan and had all sorts of nefarious connections. “He called someone who called someone… who got us a contact who’s expecting us to call.”
“But it’s – how fucking earlyisit, anyway?” he asked crossly.
“Seven-thirty.”
“It’s seven fucking thirty in the morning?!” he raged.
“Yes, but it’s 9:30 in Moscow. Which is where Wagner is headquartered.”
Cesare stared at me. Then he smiled again. “We’re really going to do this?”
I shrugged. “It’s up to you.”
I knew my brother extremely well.
Intimately, you might say.
I knew his appetite for violence.
I knew his bloodlust.
But I also knew something else about him:
He was a bully.
