Page 72 of Hostile Love
My mama and I have a lot to discuss when André finally wakes up.
I want the truth.
After I’d pushed pink watermelon around a shallow bowl, I asked one of the serving staff to prepare a black coffee for the road and dumped my napkin.
Wandering through the historic residence, smoking a blunt, I’d stopped in the baroque style music room where a glossy white piano sat by the picture window, unused and underappreciated.
I’d sat for a few minutes to play a piece that had stuck in my head from years ago. It certainly wasn’t a musical masterpiece, and I laughed when I hit a few wrong keys, but I liked giving the old thing a purpose again.
I wondered if a home this enormous was necessary. All the grandeur andhollowness,ironically, made the silence too loud.
The 18th-century mansion continued to serve generations of Saporis’, now becoming a lavish prison for one of the most powerful families on the island.
A place where my brother and his wife could roam freely without interference from the outside world. I guess that was the plan until it had backfired.
Eventually, I’d burst out into the mid-morning sunshine and jumped into a waiting SUV, ready to meet with the Zanetti family––long-standing Italian mafioso’s with connections everywhere.
I’m used to wearing smart clothes. I guess you could say it was my signature style once upon a time.
Though these days, I find the extra pockets in utility pants useful and tactical vests less bulky than I’d once imagined. Today, however, I’ve dressed the part for the important role I have to play in my family’s business.
Strangely, I don’t give a fuck about the power it gives me or that Elias Souza is turning in his grave now that I’m stepping into André’s Italian mafia boss shoes.
Over an hour later, the convoy escorting me inland parks outside a sandstone building.
Sun bleached red canopies hang above the windows and the writing on the sign is faded.
I move from shade to sunlight and stroll straight inside the Michelin star restaurant. My security detail follows closely.
Once we’re inside, they give me space.
The modest exterior doesn’t do the decor inside justice. Polished concrete walls are the same muted tone as sand and low ceilings curve into an archway that frames a glass fronted wine cellar.
Greeted by a head waiter in a smart three-piece suit, I let him guide me up a set of sharp-angled block steps, passing unoccupied tables set with fresh ivory linen, crystal clear wine glasses, and shiny copper cutlery.
I expect to smell bread, roasted meat, or some sort of cooked food. Instead, I notice a light floral scent from the modest centerpieces.
“Buongiorno, signore Souza,”welcomes the guy sitting at the table I’m being shown to by the staff.
He sets the phone he was using on the table, sits back in his seat, and runs a hand through thick waves of espresso brown hair, fixing it off his brow.
When I reach him, he rises and holds out his tattooed hand. A fitted black shirt lays open to mid chest, the tails loosely stuffed into snug pinstripe pants and a few gold chains hang around his neck.
His unshorn facial hair is neatly trimmed, and he wears a gold thumb ring on his right hand. I’d say he’s a couple of years older than Tomás at most and every bit as powerful.
“Come stai?” he asks, when we shake hands and then he switches from Italian and asks me how I am in Spanish instead. “Cómo estás?”
“Sto bene,grazie,” I tell him I’m good in his native language and wink.
I have a few languages up my sleeve and being in Sicily for the past few months had given me the opportunity to polish my Italian.
“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, my friend. I’m Rocco Zanetti.” He waves to the seat in front of him. “I’ve heard a lot about your adventures in Sicily. They say that Matheus is the fire starter,” Rocco deadpans.
“Only when it’s necessary.”
“In this business, it is often necessary.” A smile tugs the corners of his mouth as we both make ourselves comfortable. “Unfortunately, my father is unavailable to meet with you today. However, he wanted me to pass on a message.” He scratches his jaw. “We currently have a lot of respect for your family. Sinéad Souza has shown herself to be worthy of the Sapori inheritance. What happened to your brother…was unacceptable.” His head shakes a little. “How is he?”
I know how to dance with motherfuckers like this guy. Mama taught me how to listen and learn. Always keep my cards close to my chest while offering just enough information to make them think I’m amicable.
