Page 12 of Beauty and the Mafia Boss

Turning my attention to the place it should never have left is a physical effort. Beads of sweat slide down my lower back, and my temple throbs in protest at my resistance.

The man stops near the sidewalk, waiting for his car, probably, while emanating waves of power and danger telling any and all souls with the slightest bit of common sense to keep their distance. A completely different message from the one being received by every fiber of my body.

That rope snaps in a jerk, and I take a step towards the man without having any control over it, worse, without him being aware of the effect he is having on me. It's absolutely irrational, and I close my eyes, blocking my view of him, trying to break the prison I've been placed in, and it's only when my sister's name echoes in the confusing void of my mind that I succeed.

I expel all the air from my lungs in a loud exhale and swallow hard, determined to put aside my freak out about the unknown and focus on what I should never have taken my attention away from. Weakly, I dare to steal one more look as soon as I lift my eyelids, the last one, I assure myself. As my eyes travel from north to south of his body, and I finally manage to blink through the spell his image has placed on me, I notice what is right next to him: the black leather suitcase with a brushed steel crest on the side.

CHAPTER 7

________

Vittorio Cataneo

The heat of over forty degrees Celsius in the middle of winter is the kind of absurdity that can only be experienced in foreign lands. At this point, Esteban Spanic would be a corpse if he weren't the only one with connections capable of orchestrating an event of the magnitude that forced my visit to Brazil. An auction. A negotiation for control of small African countries with mountains eager to have their minerals and precious stones exhausted. The type of transaction that reorganizes the world power structure. The kind of table where only men who have already been elevated to the status of gods are invited to sit.

I wouldn't put myself at the mercy of anyone's terms other than myself if the ends didn't justify the means, but those to whom I give this privilege often understand that it doesn't do them any good. Esteban apparently either didn't get the memo or decided to ignore it.

Spanic should have known what kind of reaction his last steps would cause. Losing control is not something I allow myself to do, and that's the only reason the air around me is still being consumed by anyone other than my men and me. If it weren't for my finely cultivated self-control over the years, the trail of bodies left by me would have started on the plane, with the pilotwho landed at the wrong airport. “A necessary change of plans,” Esteban reported via radio.

Weeks of planning and pre-trip discussions, dates, departure times and even tightly negotiated flights should have been able to structure an itinerary that was proof against necessary changes of plans. That I am on an airport sidewalk, waiting for transport over which I have no control, is unacceptable, to say the least.

My safety was not compromised despite Esteban's reckless maneuver, because I am always one step ahead. Every airport in this damn country was analyzed before I got on the plane hours ago. Teams were strategically positioned, contacts were made and the entire journey from Italy to Rio de Janeiro was monitored in real time by Tizziano, who had a contingency plan for any unplanned situation.

The new destination was thoroughly searched before I stepped out of the aircraft and, when I did, there was a small army of men already at my disposal, in addition to those I brought with me.

The fact that we did not land at the initially indicated private airport would not be enough to affect even a single piece of machinery put into motion every time I leave Italy. The same cannot be said about my mood, failures are not something I have the habit of forgiving. Spanic will find out very soon, and it won't be through a memo.

I rest my hand on my hips as I watch the endless stream of cars pull up, flashing warning lights, spitting out people and suitcases or swallowing them. The noisy and chaotic environment is just another offense on the list of the Colombian responsible for organizing the auction.

With each opening and closing of the doors behind me, a blast of cold air hits my back, and I hear flight announcements being given in the lobby guarded by them. To my left, a trio of police officers pay attention to the constant flow of people and cars. A chorus swelled by the men under my command walking in plainclothes around and inside the airport.

“Don,” Luigi, on my right, calls out in a warning tone, and I nod, knowing exactly what his tone warns about: thebambinawalking towards me with her eyes glued to some pamphlet.

Always hyper-aware of my surroundings, I noticed the ragged girl the moment she crossed the street. I also noticed the suitcase being dragged by her, completely different from the rest of her image and very similar to the one Salvatore left next to me.

The girl's feigned distraction is betrayed by her extremely straight shoulders and linear steps. Her walk, although she doesn't falter, is slow, as if she is having to concentrate much longer than expected to put one foot in front of the other. Her arms, one dragging the suitcase and the other, folded in front of her body holding the white paper with blue writing, also do not move by any millimeter beyond what her panting requires. She is struggling to control tremors.

I've seen enough scared men to know that the girl is nervous, not sick. The fact that she continues to keep her eyes hidden behind the pamphlet as she walks, unmistakably toward me, is the only clue I need that I'm the reason for her nervousness.

I keep my attention on the girl, despite my distant gaze, and when my men move to intercept her before she crosses the formation around me, I raise a hand, stopping them. How far will thisbambinago?

Ignoring all the signs of resistance that her body continues to give, the girl walks directly towards me, one step after another.She passes my men, and when there is no more than two arm's length between us, her walk speeds up, obliterating the space in jumbled seconds.

The girl bumps into me, gaining my full attention. And although the collision was rehearsed, what it costs her isn't, she loses her balance completely, and before she has the chance to avoid it, she's on the ground with her palms and knees on it.

Her gaze finally meets mine, no holds barred, her cheeks are red, and I could imagine a million different reasons why if I cared enough to do so. My mind stays alert, but my body doesn't recognize any danger in the skinny, ragged girl. In two seconds, thebambinastands up, clapping one hand with the other.

“I-I'm sorry,” she stutters the dishonest words, and my men remain in position, following my command, as I give the girl the same consideration, I would give an insect. Although I admit, I'm curious about her goals.

My instincts have never deceived me and I'm sure they won't start now. Confirmation comes when, noticing that I have no intention of answering her, the girl raises her hand towards one of the two suitcases, now standing next to her, except it is not the one theladruncola[33] brought with her. No, thebambinagrabs the handle of my suitcase as if her life depended on it, and I don't interfere. I let her pass me, I let her drag the black leather suitcase with calculatedly slow steps until both the girl and the suitcase disappear behind a concrete wall that leads to the lower level of the airport.

I do a mental inventory, making sure there is nothing really valuable or urgent inside the luggage, no information or equipment, and when I confirm this, I smile. It looks like the trip to Brazil won't be as unbearable as I thought it would be.

One man to punish and a possible conspiracy to uncover are far more than I would have asked to deal with in the next few days.

“Don't let her out of your sight,” I say to Dario without needing to look at him. “I want to know every step she takes, who she responds to, and what that person thought they would get from me.”

“It will be done, Don.”

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