Page 177 of Anti-Heroes in Love Duet
“We still have a mole to worry about, too.” I’d thought about who could be betraying our outfit almost every day since Mason Matlock confessed to it. “Jaco was acting strangely before I left.”
“You mentioned, but Jacopo is your cousin. The first friend you made in America. My heart wants to discount him entirely, but I’m old enough to know the heart is a magnificent idiot,” he said with a wry, self-deprecating grin.
“My heart led me to you. To Cosima. It led me back to my brother and our kinship, to Addie, Chen, Frankie, Marco, and Jaco. Tolottatrice mia. I don’t doubt my heart, Tore. I only doubt my ability to keep those in it safe.”
We were stretched too thin. Most of my crew in New York City was at risk now that Tore and I were gone. With the head of the hydra chopped off, enemies were left thinking they could take down the whole beast before another head could grow back.
Rocco had proven yesterday with his less than warm welcome that we weren’t in friendly territory in Napoli anymore.
It was easy to become overwhelmed in a life like mine. There was rarely peace, rarely an end to the drama and intrigue that made life in the fast lane so dangerous.
I fucking loved it.
But it meant being vigilant at every moment, sacrificing your pawns for the safety of the queen and her king.
And I was only too ready to start my maneuvering on the Italian board.
“First things first,” I murmured as I ate the last of my sweet pastry. “We have enemies on this side of the Atlantic to take care of.”
When I got up, Tore frowned. “Where are you going?”
“To Rocco,” I admitted, doing up my suit jacket. “We have a wedding to plan.”
One of the most profitable industries in Italy was counterfeit fashion. Billions of euros in merchandise passed through the Bay of Naples from Europe and China every year, and the Camorra knew how to press that advantage. We had cheap labor houses that employed impoverished Italians, often those with disabilities or criminal records who couldn’t otherwise get jobs, to produce trendy counterfeit purses and scarves, replicas of outfits from red carpets and royal photo shoots. Leonardo Esposito was the capo in charge of the operation, but Rocco could be found in one of the largest warehouses by the water every Monday, walking the lines of workers, shouting over the clap of sewing machines to be heard by his underlings as he surveyed their wares. When Tore was capo dei capi, he had employed an old man by the singular name ofBelloto oversee production because he’d once been one of the top designers at Italy’s most prestigious fashion house, but when Rocco took over, he retired to Malta.
Now, rumor had it, the pieces weren’t going for as high a price tag. Some reputable fashion connections that bought the Camorra’s work for cheap under the table then claimed it for their own had stopped putting in orders.
So, Rocco was there every Monday, breathing down everyone’s necks.
There were guards at the chain-link fence cordoning off the property and more at the entrance to the nondescript building, but they didn’t try to stop me from entering.
It seemed Umberto Arno had misled me about my reputation.
It still preceded me into every place I went in Napoli.
I lingered on the floor near the edges of the room, saying hello to some of the workers I remembered from years ago, their gnarled hands still flying over the garments, their eyes permanently squinted from the harsh light. They were happy to speak about how much they liked Leonardo, the same capo who had seemed uncomfortable around Rocco at the table the other day. When I brought up Abruzzi, they were closed-mouth and shifty-eyed.
That said more than words ever could.
There were fractures in the outfit, and I was only too ready to exploit them.
When I was done with my surveillance, I climbed the metal stairs to the second level that wrapped around the walls and left the middle section open to the first floor. Rocco, Leonardo, and a few other men were in a glass room at the back of the building. Even from a distance, I could see Rocco was riled up, hands jerking wildly through the air like dive-bombing birds.
“…pathetic excuse for a capo if you can’t get your shit in order,” he was shouting as I approached the door and then quietly pushed it open to lean insolently against the frame.
It was a pose I enjoyed because it was inherently condescending.
And it had the desired effect when one of his soldiers cleared his throat, and Rocco trailed off before spinning around to face me, a gun pulled seamlessly from his waistband and aimed at my head.
“You have a bad habit of pointing a gun at me, Don Abruzzi,” I drawled.
His lips puckered like an irritated anus. “You have a bad habit of showing up where you don’t belong, Salvatore.”
I shrugged. “I came to offer something of a white flag, but if you’d rather I leave…”
He scowled then spoke rapid-fire Neapolitan to his crew, ordering them out of the room. Leonardo left with them, but he tipped his chin to me respectfully as he left, another sign he would be a willing ally.
I ignored him because Rocco’s beady black eyes were trained unerringly on my face. He rounded Leonardo’s desk and took a seat, kicking his feet up on the desk, leaning back to fold his hands on the hard swell of his belly. “Thought you were going to be a dumbass about this, kid. Glad to see you’ve seen reason. I’m assuming you’re here to tell me you’ll take Mirabella Ianni off my hands?”
