Wolfe
I spotted Salvatore smoking a cigar outside the cellar. “I want to see Don Mancini.”
He just took a puff and let it escape his mouth as he looked at me. “Why?”
“I know who robbed him.”
His eyebrows furrowed. “What robbery—”
“I know their shipment from the US was confiscated. Let’s skip the bullshit.” I’d overheard Francesca’s conversation with her brother because I’d eavesdropped on purpose. I’d assumed some bad shit had happened for a phone call to take place that late. “Where is he?”
He continued to hold the cigar between his fingertips, and it seemed like he was going to take another puff but decided against it. Instead, he flicked it onto the ground and stepped on it. “How’d you know about it?”
“People talk.”
“Which people? Because it was clear you weren’t supposed to know about it.”
I stared him down and held my silence. “You want your shit back or not?”
He sized me up before he nodded toward the car. “They’re in Enna. I’ll take you.”
We walked to the parking lot and hopped in the car.
Salvatore took off and made it to the main road then headed inland.
Enna was the next city over, a sprawling village on the hilltop, the church one of the highest buildings in the city.
Because of the elevation, it had a breathtaking view of Mount Etna, which looked like a neighbor at that angle.
The wall of the village came into view with the beige buildings, the cathedrals visible. We drove inward and found somewhere to park the car before he walked down the winding streets until we reached the outside of a restaurant that appeared to be closed.
“I can’t promise you won’t get shot when we walk in there,” Salvatore said.
“No one can promise that.”
He nodded, and we headed inside.
The restaurant was empty of customers, and the men seemed to be gathered in the back of the dining room, paintings of the region all over the walls, with the flag of Sicily mounted. Cans of a hundred-year-old tomato sauce were on the shelves on the wall like antiques.
Don Mancini’s voice was audible. “You’re the only one who has access to Gallo—at least, in a way we don’t. I need to get to the bottom of this. I’m tired of shaking a man’s hand while he stabs me in the back—”
“Don.” Elio stood up and immediately reached for his gun on his hip.
Don Mancini went quiet when he looked at me.
Leo didn’t get up, but his eyes narrowed like he wanted to shoot me on the spot.
“What the fuck is he doing here?” Don Mancini looked at Salvatore.
“He said—”
“I know who stole your guns.” I grabbed a chair from a different table and pulled it up to join the gentlemen. “And I’ll get them back for you. Just need some backup.”
Elio kept his hand on his gun, but when he noticed that Don Mancini was actually intrigued by my statement, he removed his hand.
Salvatore moved to a chair across the room, got comfortable, and crossed his ankles.
“How do you know about the guns?” Leo immediately sat up, a toothpick hanging in his mouth like they’d just finished lunch.
Don Mancini stared me down like he wanted to know that answer as well.
I didn’t answer the question. “Lombardi’s men took it. The first time, as well as the second time.”
“And how the fuck do you know this?” Leo snapped.
“Because a lot of people still owe me a shit-ton of favors,” I said.
“They pretend to be your partners in distribution, but in reality, they intend to absorb your business into their own. Slow and steady, so you don’t suspect them.
Their drug empire has weakened because the Skull King has cut off their channels.
The Skull King isn’t interested in arms, so your product is the only safe commodity. ”
“Unless you stole the guns and now are turning us against our own ally,” Leo said.
I shook my head. “I don’t play games. If I wanted your shit, I would just take it and leave bullets in your brains. Now, come on. Let’s go.”
“We need proof,” Don Mancini said. “We aren’t going to walk up to Lombardi and shoot him in the head without reason.”
“I’ll give you all the goddamn proof you need. Now get off your asses, and let’s go.”
Leo was in the passenger seat next to me, probably instructed to shoot me in the head the second I tipped my hat.
We arrived in Port Gela shortly after midnight, where all the shipping berths were lined up along the dock.
Customs was fifteen miles north, so they moved the guns a short distance along the sea to wait for the scrutiny to pass and they could get the items into the hands of their customers.
Leo looked at the building. “This is a tuna factory.”
“Did you think Lombardi was going to put it in a warehouse with the word guns written over the top?” I looked across the street and saw the armed men through the large windows, keeping an eye on the perimeter from the windows on the top floor. “Come on.”
“This feels like a setup.”
“Then I’ll fucking do it. I’ll leave the heater on for you so you don’t get cold.” I slammed the door then moved to the back of the truck, taking one of the sniper rifles before I mounted it on the ground between the cars. I took a knee and lined up the shot.
Leo watched me in the rearview mirror.
I fired one shot and hit the guy in the window before I took out the other guy on the opposite end. The sound of the shattering windows was louder than the silenced gunshots. I tossed the gun back into the truck then grabbed the AK-47 to go with the handgun and the big knife on my hip.
I ran across the street, moving quickly before the guys inside had time to scramble a defense.
I ran up to the enormous double doors that connected to the street, grabbed a hand grenade, pulled out the pin with my teeth, and I threw it at the doors.
Before it exploded, I shot the large padlock in the center of the handles, destroying it just as the explosion shook the doors and knocked one off the hinge.
The men would rush to the front with all their firepower, so I ran around the side to another entrance. I used my knife to pick the lock then threw the door open before I stepped inside the building, seeing five men rush to where the doors had been blown.
I let the rifle hang over my back by the strap and went to the first guy who moved right past me without noticing me.
I grabbed him by the shoulder and stabbed him in the neck at the perfect angle, mercilessly ending his life with a slash of his spinal cord.
He dropped to the floor, and I grabbed my pistol and shot the next one in the back of the head.
The others turned around and directed their gunfire at me.
One of them was Carlo, the snitch who had fed me the intel because he owed me a favor.
I angled my gun from him to the next guy and shot him in the head.
The other fired off a shot, hitting me right in the shoulder.
But then he dropped to the floor—and I saw Leo behind him.
Leo raised his gun to shoot Carlo.
“Hold up. Not him,” I said as I touched my bloody shoulder.
Leo dropped his gun as he walked forward and kicked one of the guys onto his side to look at his face.
I pointed my pistol at Carlo.
“What the fuck are you doing, Wolfe?”
“If you don’t even have a scratch, they’re going to know you snitched.”
Carlo grimaced before he released a sigh. “Fine.”
I shot him in the arm. The gunshot was loud when it echoed in the warehouse.
“Ah, fuck!” He fell to his knees as he gripped his shoulder. “You fucking son of a bitch.”
“Now we’re even.” I slipped the pistol into the back of my jeans and headed to the sea of inventory blocked off by carts. “We’ve got to move fast. They’re bound to have an alarm and cameras and all that shit. You take the left, and I’ll take the right. Carlo, go in the middle.”
He continued to grip his arm. “You shot me.”
“You aren’t the only one,” I snapped. “Now, get moving.”
We broke apart and began to pull the tarps off in every section of the warehouse. There were crates and boxes under each one, and I had to rip off the lids to check inside. Most of it was drugs, and some of it was imported whiskey.
Then Leo called from the other side of the warehouse. “I found them!”
I ran across to the other side of the warehouse and found Leo standing there examining a rifle similar to the one I carried. “These are them. And look at this.” He grabbed a sheet he found somewhere in one of the piles. “Look.” He held it up for me.
It was a customs slip showing the delivery date and the port and who it was for—Vincenzo Mancini.
“Fucking assholes.” He pulled out his phone and made a call. “Yeah, we’ve got the guns. Bring the truck and load it fast. We’ve also got to cut the camera feed. Move quickly.” He hung up then turned to me, his eyes falling to my bloody shoulder. “Too bad Frankie isn’t here.”
My eyes narrowed on his face, surprised he cared enough to address it. “I’ll be fine. I get shot all the time.”
Once the guns were loaded and the camera system was cut, we left Port Gela and headed back to Caltanissetta.
There was extra linen in the back of the truck, so I secured it around my shoulder to stop the bleeding in order to survive the drive.
It felt like a flesh wound, the bullet making a clean exit with no major damage done to the arteries, so it was probably fine.
I just needed not to bleed out and die.
The gate opened, and we pulled into the vineyard, stopping outside the main villa where Don Mancini lived. He, Elio, and Salvatore were already outside with some of the other guys—along with Francesca.
Leo hopped out first. “Look what we found.” He moved to the back of the truck and removed the latch to throw open the door.
“Lombardi lied to our fucking faces. We asked him if he knew who took it, and he told us it was probably a mix-up at customs. Son of a bitch.” He spat on the ground to curse his name.
Don Mancini looked at the contents in the back of the truck, his arms crossed over his chest.