Page 50 of Broken Honor

“We are,” I mutter, adjusting my glove again. “Let’s play.”

I glance over my shoulder, catching Enzo’s eye as he takes his turn.

“Where are the other two?” I ask, keeping my voice steady. “Alfio and Omero?”

Enzo shrugs, lazily swinging his club. “Alfio’s got his hands full at the docks, running interference with the new shipment. Omero’s busy with the wiretap operation. He’s tracking the Rivani connections for me.”

I nod, making a mental note to check in on Omero later.

“Drinks on me today, brothers,” Enzo announces, clapping.

****

I tap my fingers lazily on the wheel and the engine hums beneath me as I watch Bugatti approach my car from a distance. I am parked in front of his club.

Bugatti slides into the passenger seat beside me, a bit stiff as he buckles his seatbelt. I glance at him briefly—he’s unsettled.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to bring my men?” Bugatti asks, the unease in his voice barely masked.

"Two of us can handle a girl and an old woman."

“My men say the flight Carmela Fiore booked leaves at 2:00 PM,” he says.

I slide on my seatbelt casually and shift, turning the key in the ignition. "Good," I say, “We have about an hour to get there. We can even stop for a drink. I’m parched."

His jaw tightens and I catch the way he glances at me.

I shift the car into drive and pull out of the parking lot, the sun beating in through the windshield, the hum of the tires on the asphalt filling the quiet between us.

When we get to the airport, the heat of the day is still pressing in as we walk toward the entrance. I slide on my sunglasses and Bugatti falls into line beside me, his jaw tight, eyes flicking around.

He pulls out his phone as soon as we’re inside, speaking in a low voice. He’s giving updates, checking in with his men in the terminal, eyes scanning the crowd.

“They’ve entered,” he says, snapping the phone shut as he lowers it. “The girl and her grandmother.”

I nod but don’t break my stride, hands tucked into my pockets. We keep walking.

Bugatti’s frustration is clear. His eyes dart around the crowd, scanning faces, looking for a sign of the woman or the child. He mutters under his breath, still uneasy.

“Let’s go to the bathroom,” I say.

He turns to look at me like I’ve lost my mind. “What?”

“Women have a thing for airport bathrooms,” I explain.

He gives me a skeptical glance but follows behind me as I head toward the ladies’ room.

We walk through the corridor toward the bathroom. A few women notice us, their eyes scanning us before they glance away, moving to the side, stepping out of our path.

They know who we are. They know what we represent.

We reach the bathroom door, and I push it open. The women inside freeze for a moment, eyes wide, before they step back and make way, murmuring to each other in hushed tones before leaving.

I lean against the sink, casually humming as I check my watch. Bugatti stands beside me, clearly uncomfortable with the situation.

He shifts from foot to foot, hands folded behind his back. “Are we just going to wait here?”

I look at my watch again, the time ticking away. “Yes.”

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