Page 45 of The Red Queen

“Si, she is one of Antonio’s girlfriends.” Though he tried to keep his voice neutral, Giovanni could hear the disgust.

A woman.

Giovanni stepped up to her side and looked down. Her features were clearly visible in the streetlight filtering through the window. He recognized her long reddish-brown hair, winged eyebrows, and lovely bowed lips. A rifle lay on the floor several feet from her. Her eyes were wide and pained as she stared up at the father of the man who either hired her or coaxed her into the job with promises of wealth and position.

There was blood everywhere, though he couldn’t tell where she’d been shot. The rise and fall of her chest was laboured and her breathing was harsh and erratic. Though she looked back at him, he didn’t think she saw him.

Dumb bitch, getting herself killed over the likes of Antonio.

“Good thing she’s a bad shot,” Tiny said, standing and stepping away from her with a shake of his head.

He was right. The distance from the room they were in now to the limo wasn’t huge. It would take some amount of skill to hit a target on the street, but Giovanni suspected she’d been taking potshots, hoping to hit the boss.

“Too bad.” Giovanni pulled his gun and aimed it at her head.

She could have been Desi. Her beauty, her fierceness. While circumstances had saved one, they would kill the other.

He put a bullet through her forehead and walked out of the room, Tiny trailing behind him. They left the hotel through the back exit while police rushed through the front doors.

Chapter Twenty

“You good?” Giovanni asked Dino as their limo pulled up to the venue where his meeting would take place.

“Si,” the other man replied shortly.

They’d stopped at a pharmacy to pick up supplies. Once the blood had stopped flowing, they’d disinfected the wound, stapled it closed and taped a bandage to it, front and back. Dino had downed three shots of whiskey and, though he looked more pissed off than Giovanni had seen before, he was determined to attend the meeting.

Together, Giovanni and his posse entered the club where the meeting was to be held. The building was nearly as old as the Colosseum but had been reinforced and restored to its original condition.

Music bombarded them as they entered through the main doors. Giovanni held himself with the arrogance expected of the Italian Godfather, bold and ready to face the other family heads of the Cosa Nostra. An old family rival, Angelo Lombardi, immediately spotted him. As he approached, Giovanni’s men stiffened. Giovanni gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head.

“We do not attack unless we’re forced,” he murmured, staring coldly at Angelo as he stopped in front of them.

“You’re looking worse for wear,” Angelo pointed out, his amused gaze on the bloody front of Giovanni’s suit.

“We work before we play,” Giovanni said coldly. “What do you want, Lombardi? I have a meeting to attend.”

Angelo laughed as though sharing a joke with an old friend, but his gaze was careful. “You are a man who does not enjoy the simple pleasures in life,mi amico.”

“I am not your friend, and I doubt your idea of life’s pleasures match mine.” Giovanni looked past Angelo to the two women behind him. They looked drugged, completely spaced out, as though they’d been on a bender and had yet to come out of it.

Angelo turned to look at his companions. “Ah, yes, gifts for our host.”

Giovanni held his expression of stony disinterest, but it took effort not to strike the other man. He’d guessed when he saw the women, but his suspicions were confirmed. Sex slaves.

Giovanni wasn’t into the skin trade, never had been. Sure, he employed sex workers, but the system was fair. They chose their clients and kept half their earnings. In exchange for the other half, Giovanni offered them housing and easily accessible healthcare.

Trafficking was different. He didn’t traffic in sex; never had, never would. Another argument he’d had with Antonio, who despised Giovanni’s humanity when it came to business.

“You are making waves in Malta, si?” Angelo changed the topic. “I have business there you might be interested in.”

“I have no interest in either you or your business,” Giovanni snapped, his irritation showing. “I work in the north, you know this.”

Angelo laughed again, the sound brittle and almost as annoying as the playlist the DJ was working through. It was all noise to Giovanni who preferred opera and classical music.

“If you insist, but I think you should check what your left hand is doing while the right is busy. The Savino name is on the lips of everyone who matters in Malta. If you want an intro, I’m happy to oblige.”

Giovanni was done with the grinning drunken idiot in front of him. Without another word, he stepped around Angelo and strode through the throng of dancers. Some knew enough to get out of his way as he walked, others didn’t know him but recognized the natural arrogance of a mafia boss and were quick to move.

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