Page 83 of Deal with the Devil
“Portala nella stanza degli ospiti. Assicurati che si sistemi. Subito.”
She gives a quick nod and gestures to Portia, who follows her without a word.
I enter the open-space living room to find Adagio and Maurizio already waiting, both of them standing instead of sitting, a detail that irritates me more than it should. There’s something about how rigid and formal they come across that tells me what they’re thinking.
They’re aware I’m not him.
They’re aware I’mme—and it’s no secret where their true loyalty lies.
“I hope you’re ready. You better not have gone soft while I was gone,” I snap at them. “It’s no time for fun and games. The Tucos burned our shit to the fucking ground.”
Adagio opens his mouth to cut in, “Our crew that was on the premises took out some of their?—”
“I don’t want to fucking hear it,” I interrupt. “The place was torched to the ground underyourwatch. I go out of town for two weeks and this is what happens.”
Maurizio watches me like a disgruntled dog does an intruder. He’d never stare athimlike that.
Just another sign of who he’s loyal to.
When he dons the mask, he gets respect. When I come before them, they act like I’m the impostor. I’m not the rightful successor to the Bellucci throne.
I stop in front of the dark-haired enforcer of few words and return his ice-cold glare. “You got a problem?”
His wide jaw sets. “No.”
“Good,” I say, turning my back on them to walk away. “Then both of you better be ready. We strike tonight.”
The fog coils around the wheels of their car, cloaking the otherwise dimly lit road. The streetlights that normally shine so brightly flicker overhead as Titus Tuco marches to his sedan, flanked by his personal bodyguard and driver.
He slides into the backseat with hardly any situational awareness at all, a sixty-something mafia don well past his prime that takes his privileged life for granted.
Good. That makes the fall harder.
The car pulls out of the drive and starts toward the intersection at the end of the road. They’re headed out of the suburbs straight into downtown Newport.
No matter his age, Titus likes to hit up his strip club to watch his girls dance—andcollect his money.
As they reach the intersection, the driver brakes at the barricade he comes across—a stretch of unmarked black vehicles parked in the road, blocking off the way forward.
“Hey, boss,” he says from over his shoulder. “Road’s closed up front. What do you want me to do? You want me to head back home?”
From the back seat comes Titus’s grating bark. “What the fuck are you talking about, dumbfuck? What do you mean the road’s blocked? This is my private road leading to my house. How the hell could it be blocked?”
“I don’t know,” the driver mutters. “It’s just… it’s blocked. Somebody parked a bunch of cars up there.”
And right then, before Titus can really start berating him, a soccer ball-sized object slams into the windshield, leaving a slimy trail of what appears to be blood on the glass.
All three men in the car jump.
The object rolls grotesquely down the slope of the windshield like a sick offering from some horror show. Tuco’s bodyguard leans forward, squinting at the glass while Titus is much louder and crasser.
“What the fuck is that shit?!”
“Boss…” the driver answers slowly. “I think that’s… that’s Dario’s decapitated head…”
“What the fuck are you saying?” Titus snarls, then his eyes widen as it really hits him. “That’s Dario’s… that’s his… WHAT THE FUCK?!”
The words have barely left his mouth when we’re appearing at the sides of their sedan. Semi-automatics drawn, they’re surrounded.
