Page 110 of Sinner's Vows

DOMINIC

The roads are quiet at this time of the morning. Once we’re off the highway and drive by the small town of Vena di Maida, we take to country roads that pass through dry summer woodlands and olive groves.

“Can we stop a minute?” Ariana asks. “We aren’t far now.”

“Sure.” I call the front vehicle, and we pull off on the side, cars fairly far apart to not cause suspicion at a first glance. “What are you thinking?”

“I don’t know if he has guards or if he is by himself. He never kept much company except for the purposes of a halfway house.”

“Okay, it’s also the crack of dawn.”

“Which means you can approach the house without him noticing until you are there. There’s a path through the olive groves and another one hidden through the woods.”

“Okay, where’s the road to his house?”

“It’s about two kilometers on.”

I study her face. I’m putting all my trust in this woman, but for some reason, I don’t think she’d be lying to me. Not anymore.

“Anything else I need to know?”

She blinks, seeming to rake her brain. “He sleeps with a gun and has a machete hanging by the door. He is very good at knife-throwing.”

“Good to know.”

I take ten minutes to consult with my bodyguard and the men in the other cars, and we come up with a plan which isn’t foolproof. It seems one of the older guys I’ve hired for this trip knows about Antonio Mancuso as he grew up close by. Everything Ariana said rings true.

I instruct the driver to continue on a crawl until the side path through the olive grove comes into view.

“Be a good girl—” I whisper to Ariana as I lean closer to her, “—and wait in the car.”

“What if you don’t come back?” she asks, real fear in her voice.

“I’m coming back, sweetheart, because I promised to protect you. Help me by staying put.”

“Okay.”

I tilt her chin towards me and kiss her full on the mouth. It’s soft, and I linger there for a moment, deepening the kiss. “Remember, we have plans for that sweet pussy of yours.”

With that, I tap on the conversation screen for the driver to open it again so he can keep an eye on her. I exit the car, leaving her with a soft blush on her cheeks and something to think about.

I’m not worried she’d run. What she doesn’t know, as she wouldn’t have been able to see them through the tinted windows of our two other cars, is that I have eight men with us, over and above the two we brought on the jet. Three of them are to have eyes on her at all times. Maybe Ariana Morelli has caught on and knows better than to test me.

I don’t have a weapon on me, but the men from the other cars are weaponed to the chin with concealed guns, knives, andpossibly a grenade or two. I indicate to one of them that we should take the path through the olive grove. Another team will hit the farmhouse from the woodlands’ side, and a third team will continue on and block anybody from driving to the old man’s house. As soon as the road and cars are out of sight, the man hands me a semi-automatic I push into the back of my jeans.

It’s a beautiful morning. Dried grass stands thick and tall between the olive trees, and I inhale the fresh, sweet air, perfumed with hay and sunshine. As we come through the grove, a stone homestead comes into view. It’s surrounded by old farming equipment, rusting away between sheets of plastic and old tires. What a fucking decrepit nest. The foul stench of pigs comes from a side structure, and already they are squealing for breakfast. Good thing, too, because when an old dog spots us coming through the trees, he gives a few unsure barks nobody would hear above the pigs’ racket.

I stop, hold out my hand for him as I block the other man. “Here, puppy,” I croon, and as if the dog can sense I mean him no harm, he stops barking, his eyes only blinking as he makes no attempt to jerk against his chain. Poor dog. In this moment, with his age, he reminds me so much of Bruno, I swallow as I inch closer. He leans in and sniffs at my hand, makes a turn, and slumps down in the dirt to scratch himself behind the ear. Fleas. Flies aplenty buzz around him. Poor fucker.

A few chickens are scratching away in a coop, and once the dog has lost all interest in us, clearly way past his prime and with several itches to scratch, I nod to my bodyguard to move on.

There are no lights on in the house, and I soft-foot to the side where I peer into a window. Dust and grime make for a blurred view into a sitting room, with torn couches and wine bottles on the side table and floor. Fuck. I hope the old man is still alive.

A rush of water comes down a pipe just to the side, and I freeze. Seems someone just took a dump and flushed the toilet. Excellent. I don’t need anybody shitting themselves. The rest of my team has arrived, the old dog beyond caring. Slack, so fucking slack.

We take corners, and when I approach the front door, I feel the handle. Locked.

Might as well be polite about it. I knock. No response. I knock again.

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