Chapter 34 Cristiano
Cristiano
I close the car door softly and look around.
I’ve never had cause to set foot in Tony Castellano’s port, but I should have come here sooner.
It’s clear this is a business that’s cared about.
The roads are clean and tidy, and the port workers seem mostly relaxed and happy.
Only those whose gazes flicker my way appear uncomfortable.
Three large containers are lined up side by side. There’s a sign on one of the doors signaling which one is the visitor’s office. I’m guessing the other two are Tony’s management office and a workers’ breakroom.
I open the door of the visitor’s office, and two women look up. They’re older, around Allegra’s age, and looked like they were immersed in work until I showed my face. Now they look mostly alarmed.
One of them rises to her feet. “Mr. Di Santo . . . How can I help you?”
“Is my brother still here?”
“I believe so, sir. He was in the portside warehouse at the south end of the yard. Or at least that’s where he said he was going.”
“I haven’t seen him leave,” the other woman says, her expression hopeful.
“Thanks.” I go to let myself out but stop mid-stride. My brow furrows in thought before I glance across at the women. “Do me a favor. Whatever you hear in the next fifteen minutes . . . don’t call security, okay?”
Both of them widen their eyes at me.
“Or the cops, or Tony, or anyone for that matter. Understand?”
They nod timidly.
I follow the port road to the bottom of the yard.
The walk takes ten minutes. I really should have given myself a longer window.
When I reach the warehouse, I walk around the outer edge slowly and quietly, until I hear voices coming from inside.
I close my eyes and let the sounds help me decipher a view of where everything is.
I tune in to the three voices and acclimate to the accents, then I focus on the words.
This is what I do.
I listen and watch for cheats.
Savero seems to be doing most of the talking. “You don’t need to concern yourself with what’s going to happen to them when they arrive on these shores. I’ll handle that, Miguel.”
Miguel?
The only Miguel I know of works for one of the Mexican cartels. Our father had an ongoing dispute with him over the importation of illegal firearms. Is that what Savero is doing—setting up another firearms transportation deal?
“All you need to worry about is getting them onto the boat. How secure are the containers? Do they have air holes? I mean, I’m guessing they’ll need to breathe.” He emits a dark chuckle, and I press my ear to the side of the warehouse.
“No need for air holes. They’ll be sedated, and there’s enough oxygen in those things to last the journey across the Atlantic.”
What the fuck are they talking about? Animals?
“Trust us, Savero. We’ve done this a thousand times before. Only a couple die each journey, but that’s the risk. They know the risks.”
“Promise me, no children.”
Savero’s words slice through my chest.
“Dead children are bad for business.”
I’ve heard enough. It’s clear my brother—my own flesh and blood—is plotting with the Mexicans to traffic humans into the country via Tony Castellano’s port. It makes complete sense now why he was so keen to get his hands on it.
A lot of other things make sense now too.
This is why Savero poisoned Father—because Father got wind of his ambitions and didn’t want him to succeed as don.
This is why Savero wanted me out of the way—so I wouldn’t jeopardize his marriage to Trilby. It needed to be him, because he needed the port.
This is why he tried to drown me as a kid, and why I’ve never felt close to him—because he’s a fucking psychopath. I mean, made men are hardly model citizens, but this takes “morally gray” to a whole different level.
“I’ll do my best, Savero, but, you know, some slip through.”
The nonchalance of the heavily accented tone makes me sick.
I draw a glock from my waistband and turn back the way I came, toward the entrance. The door, understandably, is closed and probably bolted. I can either wait out here until they emerge or shoot my way inside. Either way, I guess I have the element of surprise on my side.
I weigh up my options.
Out here is pretty open, and I don’t particularly want to subject Castellano’s workers to an open-air bloodbath—not that they’re likely to be morally pure either.
I aim the barrel of the gun at the door and roll my neck. Knots crackle along my muscles, and I hold onto that sense of satisfaction, then I gun the entire door off its hinges.
I step inside the warehouse and come face-to-face with three pistols aimed at my head. Savero and the two Mexicans have stood up at my arrival.
I laugh. “Here you all are. Now . . .” I slide the glock into my waistband and stride toward them. “What did I miss?”
Savero’s eyes are wide. Understandably so—he thought I was dead.
Thankfully, he can’t shoot me in front of Miguel and his sidekick.
If I know anything about this particular cartel, it’s that they don’t like infighting or betrayal.
They’re old-school. A code is a code. If they saw Savero shoot his own brother, their faith in his loyalty and honor—as laughable as that is already—would be called into serious question. This deal would not go ahead.
Miguel flashes an annoyed scowl at my brother.
Another thing I know about this cartel: they don’t like surprises.
“Fratello . . .” Savero says through gritted teeth, sliding his pistol into his waistband.
I suppress a shudder.
“Seems like you got yourself a good yard here,” I say. “Especially for the kind of shipments I just heard you discussing.”
The two Mexicans exchange a nervous glance but lower their firearms.
I hold my hands up and sit on one of the metal chairs positioned in the center of the space. The three men tentatively sit but lean forward as though they’re ready to spring up at a moment’s notice.
“I was just walking our friends out,” Savero grits out. “Come. Let’s see them off, and I’ll bring you up to speed.”
I beam him a smile and stand again. No one is saying what they’re really thinking. This is the world I’ve lived in for ten years running casinos. I’ve seen great poker faces and terrible poker faces, and I can read them all. And I’m bathing in the awkwardness.
“Great.”
I wait for Miguel and his associate to pass. They’re still white-knuckling their firearms.
“Hide the guns, will you?” I ask. “This port is a family business.”
They both throw me another scowl but do as I ask.
Savero pauses when he reaches my side. He’s pissed—either because I’ve interrupted his meeting or because I haven’t died.
“After you, brother,” I say, cocking my head toward the exit.
Savero doesn’t conceal his gun, but I didn’t expect him to. All I needed was a slight upper hand, and I’ve got it.
We reach the exit, and the Mexicans walk on through, leaving me and Sav still inside.
I wrap a hand around the back of my brother’s neck, shoving him face-first into the wall.
His arm flies up, and I shoot a bullet straight through it before pressing the barrel to his temple.
His gun clatters to the stone floor, and I flick it up with my foot, catching it in my free hand.
I haven’t had as much practice at handling a gun as Savero has, but I’ve been preparing for this the whole drive here.
Miguel’s face appears around the doorframe. Nothing like a gunshot to make a mob man curious.
I cock the trigger of Sav’s gun and put a bullet through Miguel’s forehead. When the second cartel guy pokes his head around the frame, he gets one in the side of his face. Both slide to the ground.
A thin smile creeps across Savero’s face. “Drink the water, did she?”
“What water?” I test.
“Well, something’s clearly happened to your precious woman, and you’re still alive, so . . .” He shrugs. “Is she dead?” His tongue clicks against his teeth on that last syllable, and I shove his head so hard into the wall blood starts to trickle down his cheek.
“If you think I’m telling you anything about that “woman,” you can think again,” I hiss in his ear.
I press one gun to his forehead and turn him around so he can see nothing but me. Then I press the other to his throat.
The smile on his face is designed to make me crack, but he’s getting nothing but steel out of me from here on in.
“Why?” I say. It’s not a question—it’s a fucking command.
“Why . . . what?” A sneer curls his lip.
Man, he’s going to play with me till the end.
I roll my eyes skyward. “Where do I begin?” Then I level him with the kind of glare I’d give a murderer, not a brother. “Why did you try to drown me?”
His right eyebrow inches upward. “I didn’t like you.”
I grind my teeth. “Why did you try to poison me?”
His eyes narrow into slits. “I still don’t like you.”
I can’t deny the way his words form a fist around my heart. I had no idea his hatred wound this deep.
“What did I ever do to you, brother?”
His sneer sharpens. “You were born.”
My natural reaction is to step back in shock, but there’s a part of me that knows I need to fire at least one of these two guns. Not for me—I can deal with his hatred—but for Trilby.
I step up to his face. “I’ve done nothing to you. I even moved to the west coast because I didn’t want to get in your way.”
“Until something caught your eye—right, fratello?”
My teeth grind so hard I feel like I might soon be spitting them out. “Not that it matters to you, but I met her first, fratello.”
“Two nights earlier, right?” he says lazily. “I heard.”
I laugh in his face. “Bullshit. It was a little earlier than that,” I say, cryptically.
“What the fuck does it matter? She was engaged to me.”
“Because you wanted this port. Not because you wanted her.”
He enunciates slowly, so I don’t miss a beat. “She was collateral. That’s all women are fucking useful for.”
My fingers itch to pull the triggers. Both of them.