Chapter 5 #2
Through my marriage to Filippa, I took control of an established yet failing freight distributor that handled arrangements for warehousing as well as shipment of goods by road, rail, ocean, and air.
Using my fleet of trucks, I leveraged their already developed cross-border connections and long-term clients across North America to morph the entire enterprise to serve my needs.
My drug trafficking needs. Under the guise of a legitimate subsidiary of Ruffo Enterprises, the upgraded fleet of uniquely identical vehicles has been providing ground freight forwarding services across the continent, and has recently expanded into Central and South America, too.
We guarantee safe and reliable transportation of all goods in our possession.
Especially our “priority” cargo, which is transported in specialized trucks, equipped with false flooring and siding.
Secure compartments that, should the crates, appliances, furniture, or whatever freight is being carried be subject to inspection, will remain undetected.
With no identifiable markings, there is no way to tell a priority vehicle apart from a regular one. Nothing sets them apart.
Although every truck in the fleet has been altered to carry drugs, only a limited number is utilized to move the product at any given time.
The rest are used as part of day-to-day, legitimate business operations.
The trucks that are packed with drugs are rotated with every shipment, thus changing their status to “priority” transport.
The drivers have no idea if they are carrying anything beyond what is on their cargo manifests.
And no one, aside from a handful of employees inside the central logistics department and local boots on the ground at each distribution center, is the wiser. The process is clean. Simple. Surefire.
Until now, this system has run without any hiccups, thanks to the select team of capable, well-compensated, and most importantly, well-informed individuals.
People who damn well know what would happen to them should they undermine or betray the responsibilities they have agreed to fulfill.
They do their jobs without fail, not out of some personal loyalty to me—I don’t believe such a thing exists.
Nor am I stupid enough to think that being paid well inspires fealty.
Presented with a sufficient monetary carrot, even a saint might crack.
No, the only true currency people value above all else is their own hide.
So it is not some sense of sentimentality and loyalty that keeps them honest; it’s the knowledge of the perilous consequences that await them should they ever betray me.
Knowledge gained not from nebulous hearsay, but from witnessing firsthand my retribution against a few morons who thought they could outplay me.
“How do you want me to handle this?” Brahms asks as I walk back toward the car. “I can start with a thorough check into everyone with access—system logins, surveillance footage, and see if there’s a money trail to follow. Maybe someone received a large bank deposit lately.”
“Do that. You have three days.” I open the back passenger door of my Bentley. “If you have not found the culprit by then, get rid of the entire team overseeing the Boston warehouses and have Nathan recruit a new one.”
“Sir?” Brahms’s tone holds more than a little astonishment.
“You heard me. Everyone. Anyone who had the means to get at this info.” I slide into the seat and slam the door.
“Home, Mr. Ruffo?” Jim asks as he navigates out of the depot’s parking lot.
A glance at my wristwatch confirms that it’s almost nine at night.
The drive to my house—my new house that I needed to purchase after my wife’s tragic death during the home invasion on the night of Brio’s retirement party—is about an hour.
It’s a beautiful oceanfront property located on the North Shore, within reach of a charming historical village with its quaint little shops, but still far enough away to ensure my privacy.
The eight-thousand-square-foot, six-bedroom residence nestled on five acres of land is nothing to sneeze at, but I still miss my old place in Weston.
Unfortunately, appearances in Cosa Nostra are a fucking plague.
And a widower is like a bug under a microscope.
If I were to behave in a socially unacceptable manner in the eyes of la Famiglia, the goddamn earth would shift.
So, while grieving (yes, my fucking heart bled for the bitch), I found it was too painful to continue living in a home filled with my late wife’s memories. Hence, I moved.
The pain in my head is approaching a nuclear level.
The pounding at my temple resembles the heavy downpour that has been unleashed outside.
A million pings on the car roof feel like a ceaseless drill inside my skull.
I remove my glasses and close my eyes, then lean my head against the headrest. “Home.”
Today utterly sucked as far as my migraine is concerned.
The punishing pressure behind my eye ramped up around noon and hasn’t abated.
Seeing that damn list of license plates doubled its intensity.
I need to contact Bratva right away to find out how the hell that info ended up in their possession.
The more worrisome question is, why did Petrov choose to show me his hand?
Letting me know he knew which of my trucks were currently carrying drugs sure as shit wasn’t out of the goodness of his heart.
The Russians’ leader is well-known for exploiting leverage.
I’m certain he’ll demand a favor in return.
Unfortunately, I don’t presently have the mental capacity to negotiate with Roman Petrov.
My goddamned brain feels like it’s being turned into mush.
And, to date, I’ve discovered only a single remedy that soothes my headaches.
I reach into my pocket and wrap my fingers around the bundle of cellophane-enclosed crumbs that, at one point, was a rainbow cookie.
I really should throw it away. But I can’t.
For some logic-defying reason, touching this silly homemade cookie helps subdue my pain.
But not as much as setting my eyes on the treat’s creator does.
Three weeks ago, I endured one of the worst migraines I’ve had in months.
Just my luck, it coincided with a meeting at the Spada Estate.
The don’s constant yelling only amplified the pain.
If I hadn’t distanced myself by moving to the sitting area across the room, it’s quite possible I would have slit his throat just to muzzle him.
So there I was, reviewing a mind-numbing contract, seconds from excusing myself so I could flee that madhouse, when from the corner of my eye, I noticed Little Iris stepping into the room.
In that exact moment, the stabbing throbbing in my head disappeared.
I was so stunned by the abrupt relief that I sat dumbfounded while the skittish girl carried her tray of refreshments directly to me.
I didn’t connect the two events until after she ran out of the room.
That’s when my migraine roared back with a vengeance.
Being as pragmatic as I am, thinking that someone’s mere presence would have such an overwhelming impact on me is simply ridiculous.
I discarded the notion almost as soon as it formed.
It didn’t stop me from sending Jim to intercept the woman and give her a ride wherever she needed to go to get to her ill mother.
I refused to believe I did it out of some subconscious sense of gratitude for temporarily suppressing my pain.
That shit was just a bizarre coincidence.
More likely, I did it in a moment of weakness, witnessing a rare sight—genuine worry for a loved one.
A truly atypical occurrence. An hour later, I wasn’t feeling so magnanimous, though.
I had to call a fucking Uber to get my ass home since Little Iris was using my car.
A few days later, on my way into the office, I received a report from one of Brahms’s men keeping an eye on Miss Iris Fabbri.
That’s yet another idiotic thing I’ve done.
Having Little Iris followed and her daily activities relayed to me.
Nevertheless, it was happening. I was informed that she was at the park, walking a dog not far from Ruffo Enterprises headquarters.
Should I have cared where she was and what she was doing?
No. But something possessed me, and I directed Jim to head to the Public Garden immediately.
Then, I spent nearly an hour hiding behind the trunk of a weeping willow, watching the girl play with a dog and pick up the pooch’s crap afterward.
And while I was being an utter creep, my head didn’t hurt at all.
To be sure—not for any other reason—I tested my theory, following Little Iris on a few more occasions.
I really hit my stride with my stalkerish behavior while she did mundane things like shopped for groceries, watered plants on the windowsill of the shelter she volunteers at, and arranged a power tools display at the hardware store.
I did it from the comfort of my car. Watching her from behind the tinted window. What the fuck is wrong with me?
This insane behavior needs to stop. Nothing I’ve seen leads me to think the woman will spill the beans about what transpired between Filippa and me.
She had plenty of chances thus far, but kept her mouth shut.
There’s no reason for my men to continue to follow her around.
And, migraines be damned, I definitely won’t seek her out again.
Of course, the very second I make my decision, a piercing pain slashes through my head. The jolt is enough to halt my breath.
“Damn,” I rasp. “Jim. Turn the car around. Need to make a detour.”
“Shoot!”