Remo– 36 years old
Our destination, an hour out of Naples and another from our estate in Ravello, saw us take the chopper to the boundaries of Porto Nerosa. Once a large thriving city it was now reduced to a town filled with abandoned buildings, a small population that relied mainly on the income from a well-known canning factory and a mixture of small-time crime families. With a twenty-minute drive to the pier it provided an easy escape if things went sideways. When the chopper landed, Lorenzo, Dario and I disembarked to find the six men Dario had sent ahead of us, waiting with two blacked out SUVs and five curious boys ranging from around six to fifteen, their excited gazes glued to the chopper.
“Guess they don’t get much entertainment here, do they?” Dario asked Joey, one of the soldiers.
“Nope.” He tossed a couple of coins at the kids, and they all scrambled to pick it up while we all climbed into the SUVs.
As we drew closer to the coast, I studied what was left of the scenery. Riva del Garda hadn’t seen real work in years, not since the last freighters stopped docking and Porto Nerosa shifted itslegal trade to Naples and the illegal elsewhere. What remained were cracked planks, sagging cranes, rusted containers and the ghosts of deals once made in blood. Beautiful landscape was now buried in overgrown bush and abandoned buildings, ranging in sizes.
The distraction lasted a few minutes as the thought of Arturo’s words, the port, the trade, the threat, persisted. Yet my mind kept drifting back to Ishika. If Arturo wanted a war, we’d give him one but if he touched her, then there would be no meeting, no negotiation. Only ruin.
Since leaving Ravello, I’d texted Gian a few times and his replies returned in detail I would’ve otherwise found irritating.
“She’ll be fine,Fratello,” Lorenzo’s reassurance drew my gaze. I smirked, attempting indifference. He laughed. “Try fooling someone else.” He tipped his chin at my phone, the screen displaying another message from Gian.
I grinned, offering no explanation.
We reached the pier and climbed out. The wind came off the sea, biting and icy, carrying the cries of gulls and the echo of the rough water hitting iron, a subtle warning perhaps. Arturo had chosen his stage well. Somewhere open, exposed, the kind of place that hinted he harbored some anxiety.
Good.
“Dario, you’re with us, the rest of you stay with the vehicles, stay sharp,” Lorenzo instructed.
A halo against the setting sun, the large yacht gleamed in the water, white against the dull gray sea, the pier a lonely platform, stretching out to meet us. Two men searched us before we boarded while another led us up the narrow stairs to the middle deck above. Thick cigar smoke, the scent of sickeningly sweet cologne and the unmistakable odor of too much sex gagged the air.
Arturo, dressed in all white, lounged on a leather seat with a cigar in one hand, a champagne glass in the other and three men to his left, their expressions wary. A half-naked woman refilled his glass while another knelt at his side, whispering something in his ear that made him laugh. My fingers inched to put a bullet through that skull and shut him the fuck up. Two women stood behind him, their eyes scanning my brother and I with unconcealed interest.
“Lorenzo, Remo,” he said, rising. “Join me. Drink?”
“No,” Lorenzo replied.
I glanced over the whiskey bottles and condom packets, to the lines of white powder laid neatly on the table beside him. “Old habits?”
Arturo grinned. “You should try it sometime. Life’s shorter than your temper.” He looked at my brother. “My peace offering.” He played with the woman’s hair next to him. “Fresh, beautiful, untouched by politics and easy pickings.”
I scanned the women, taking in their painted smiles and empty eyes. “Easy pickings?” I snorted. “That’s a line you’d understand well.”
He sighed as if I’d ruined his fun. “It’s–”
“Save your hospitality,” Lorenzo cut in, his tone non-argumentative. “Let’s talk business.”
That got his attention. He waved the women away and they drifted to the far end of the deck. “Straight to the point.” He laughed. “I respect that.”
A second later and the engine below us hummed to life. The boat began moving. Lorenzo shared a look with Dario then turned to Arturo. “Going somewhere?”
“Relax, Lorenzo, we’re just drifting. Enhances the mood.” He chuckled again and I gritted my teeth to keep from ploughing my fist into his face. “So, the port–”
“Off the table,” Lorenzo said.
Arturo’s fake smile weakened. “Everything is on the table when I want it badly enough.”
“I have something else.” Lorenzo lowered himself to a seat opposite Arturo and gestured for me to do the same while Dario stood at our rear, making sure nothing but a wall stood between him and any unexpected arrivals.
“Do tell,” Arturo urged, his tone nauseatingly excited.
“I’ll give you access to the west docks, the new ones we’re developing. Until its up and running, you’ll get a four percent cut from the main port shipments, open routes and the Marseille’s contact. Whether they do business with you is up to them, they don’t allow outside negotiation. In return, you stay away from the main port, and we call it peace.”
He sat back, expression calculating as one of men leaned in to whisper in his ear. “You’d give me that much?” he asked after nodding to the man.
