Chapter Nine – Vieri
The sharp crack of the club striking the ball echoes across the fairway.
I follow its arc with my eyes, a perfect trajectory toward the third flag.
Behind me, I hear Bugatti shift his weight on the gravel path. He’s always stiff in places like this. His shoes crunch lightly as he adjusts his stance, his coat rustling in the morning breeze.
“Speak,” I say, lowering the club and tapping it once against the ground.
“Carmela Fiore is working fast.”
I raise a brow but keep my posture relaxed.
“My men at immigration flagged her. She got passports and visas. One for herself. One for the girl.”
I turn fully now, resting the club over my shoulder. The weight of it balances easily in my grip.
“It’s only been two days.”
Bugatti nods once. “She paid more than most men earn in a year to get it processed overnight.”
I tilt my head slightly. “Lena and Vasco must’ve left the girl a fortune.”
“Looks like it,” he mutters. “And the old woman’s using every cent of it to disappear.”
I exhale slowly, watching the fog curl from my breath.
“She’s planning to run now?”
“She’s already halfway out the door,” he says. “They’re staying in the house for now, but she’s wrapping things up. My men are watching her. Let’s take the girl tonight.”
I shake my head.
Bugatti frowns. “Why not?”
“She’s expecting it,” I say flatly. “She’s not stupid. She’s probably counting the shadows outside her window already.”
“Vieri, I don’t think you understand—” he leans forward slightly. “She’s got a flight. Tomorrow.”
That makes me pause.
He continues. “She’s booked it. Confirmed it. She’s flying out. She’s not waiting for us to act, she’s already gone.”
I nod slowly. “That means she’s scared.”
Bugatti narrows his eyes. “And you think that’s a good thing?”
“Fear makes people predictable.”
“What do you want to do?”
“Find out the flight time,” I say. “You and I will take her from the airport.”
He blinks at me. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“That’s a public space. Full of cameras. Witnesses.”
“Exactly,” I reply. “She’ll think it’s the one place we’d avoid.”
Bugatti’s eyes widen slightly. “You want to intercept her in a damn airport?”
“She’ll be off guard. We won’t need noise—just precision.”
He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind, but he knows better than to argue too long. He nods once, reluctantly, already pulling his phone from his coat pocket.
Footsteps approach behind us.
“Here come the hyenas,” I mutter.
Bugatti stiffens, stepping slightly to the side as Riccardo and Enzo walk up, golf bags slung over their shoulders.
“Who’s that?” Riccardo asks immediately, eyes locked on Bugatti.
“None of your business,” I say without looking at him.
“Since when do you take meetings on the green?” Riccardo presses.
I turn my gaze on him, slow and cold. “Since when do you not mind your own?”
Bugatti steps away, already moving toward the edge of the course. He knows his cue.
Enzo shrugs. “I thought we were here to play golf, not scare away strangers.”
“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.”
His frustration builds, his foot tapping against the tile. “They could be on the plane already. What if—”
I cut him off, shaking my head. “No.”
He stays quiet for a moment, the only sound the distant hum of the air conditioning. He looks at his phone again, then back at the door, clearly struggling with the idea of just waiting, doing nothing.
A few more women walk in, noticing us, then immediately walking out when they see us standing there. Bugatti shifts uncomfortably, clearly wishing he was anywhere else right now.
I glance at the screen again. It’s 1:47.
Bugatti’s shoulders are tight now. His movements restless. I can see him growing more tense, like he’s about to speak again, to argue or question the plan.
Just as he’s about to open his mouth, the bathroom door swings open.
She walks in. The girl.
I glance at Bugatti, who mutters, “No way. She really walked in.”
I can’t help but whistle under my breath.
There she is.
I straighten, a smile tugging at the corner of my lips, and walk toward her. She freezes when she sees me, stepping back instinctively, fear flashing in her eyes.
“Hey,” I say, my voice smooth, almost amused.
I switch to Italian, letting the words roll easily off my tongue.
“Come stai? How are you?”