Chapter 8
Sam, aka Leo, aka Saint
“Satellite imagery confirmed the shipment is en route.”
“Should be around the Horn of Africa tomorrow. This file includes every item in the shipment. The names are those who financially benefitted when the US administration declined to authorize the sales.”
Nomad released a long-winded sigh I identified as weary of this game. We dedicated too much of our careers to passing information with no sign our efforts were paying off.
A cardinal’s high-pitched tune eclipsed the thrumming forest, a reminder that light thrives, even in the shadows.
“Any plans this weekend?” I didn’t expect Nomad to answer me. I asked to wind up our covert meeting and to force an end to the growing apprehension that my efforts were futile and my sacrifices in vain.
“You won’t believe me if I tell you, mate.”
Nomad smiled and stood, brushing off his pants and adjusting his cufflinks.
“Try me.” Hell, entertain me.
“I’m getting married.”
“No shit. For real?”
“Before God in a church. I’m not a particularly religious chap, as you may have gathered over the years.” He paused, raised an eyebrow.
We’d both killed and been responsible for killings. We’d never waxed poetic over philosophical matters, so I assumed he referred to the killings.
“But her family is. Her aunt and uncle. It’s happening tomorrow.”
Friends of mine, in my former life, had had the same beam to them. “Congrats, mate.” I bounced the British friendship term back at him and clapped him on the back. “Your family excited?”
He stiffened and said, “It’ll just be her family.”
“Don’t be an ass. When you get married, you need the important people there.”
That’s what I’d said. The brief conversation from years ago with Nomad, my Interpol contact, comes out of nowhere. It’s obvious why that memory would surface on my wedding day, but this one’s an arrangement. It’s not a real wedding. I’m helping a young woman. She’s a mafia princess who could become a mafia queen, but she wants more for herself, and I’m assisting. I’m doing something good, something that’s within my power to do.
That day in the woods, when Nomad talked about his wedding, marked the day a true friendship sparked between us. After that day, along with sharing photos of my sisters, he started sharing photos of his wife and then later, his daughter, breaking every rule in the book.
Will I tell Nomad about my little arrangement? I might as well. There’s no way other sources won’t inform him. And if I can’t trust a contact willing to show me photos of his daughter, who the fuck can I trust?
“Papa sent me to get you.” Orlando approaches, wearing what I’d bet is the same suit from Friday. The sunlight reflects on a path of sparse dark hairs the kid missed when shaving.
“How old are you?” He’s tall but gangly and baby-faced.
“Fifteen.” His back straightens. “Almost sixteen.” He’s nearly up to my chin, but at fifteen, he’s likely got some inches in front of him. “Why?”
“I’m shit at pegging ages.”
His eyes narrow, and I guess that means he doesn’t understand my American vernacular, but he doesn’t need to.
“So, is it time to get the show on the road?” I ask.
“Five minutes. Willow will be arriving soon, and they want you inside, so you don’t see her until she enters the church.”
I can’t believe this shit. “Everyone knows this isn’t…” I exhale both amusement and frustration.
Orlando bites on the corner of his lip, looking more prepubescent than teen. His hands fall to his waist and he blows out his lips. “You have my eternal gratitude. I didn’t want to see her with…” He hesitates, and I sense he’s been told to not speak badly about the men in his outfit. “If there’s ever anything, if you ever need anything, I owe you.”
I understand him more than he knows. If someone saved one of my sisters, I’d be all kinds of grateful, too.
“Brothers?” He offers his hand, and I take it, and a load of shame threatens to take me under. It’s one thing to fake friendships when in deep cover. It’s a requirement. But faking family falls into questionable integrity territory.
If I act like I like someone, either he’s a criminal I might kill one day or turn over evidence on, or I genuinely like the guy. Most of the time, it’s a mix of both situations. Faking family is a whole ’nother level I’ve gotta wrap my head around.
His grip is firm, belying his youth.
The heavy church door opens, and a woman’s voice calls, “She’s close. You need to get in here.”
The church the Gagliano family secured for our nuptials is centuries old and comprises one room with pews. Stained glass windows adorn the front of the church and along the aisles. A modern architect would have positioned the church so the stunning view of the Mediterranean benefited the congregation, but in this church, those exiting the damp, cloistered room profit.
My dress shoes rasp against the dusting of sand covering the pavers. My heart rate rises, and I swipe my palms against my trousers. None of this is real. The situation incites the physical reactions. It’s the church. It’s the day. A day that, as a boy, I assumed would one day come, and as a man following a select path, believed impossible. It’s my past coming to haunt me. My mother, my father, my sisters, my teammates. Shadows from my past that I carry in my soul.
I shake my head as I walk, pissed at emotions and thoughts that should be tamped down.
A black Mercedes with tinted windows spins dust behind it.
Orlando pauses, watching the approaching Mercedes. The woman in the door well shades her eyes with a hand.
“Is that Willow?” I ask.
Orlando gives a quick shake. Negative.
I reach for the Glock tucked in my waistband, a last-minute wardrobe addition when I considered the potential for a Red Wedding. It’s my understanding Alessio took a coward’s approach, canceled some cocked-up cocktail hour with Massimo and Leandro, and didn’t mention the arrangement to Massimo until sometime last night.
From what I’ve heard of this Leandro character, I wouldn’t put it past him to use force to stop the wedding. With men like Leandro, it’s a matter of pride and ego. He wants something, and if he doesn’t get it, it’s an insult.
And these are the people I’m negotiating arms deals for in order to gain intelligence. It’s sickening.
The car slows to a stop.
I unlatch the snap on my holster, readying the gun.
A uniformed driver exits.
The back passenger door opens well before the driver reaches it.
Nick steps out, grinning from ear to ear. “Word on the street is you need a best man.”
He says something to the driver, who goes to the trunk of the car as Nick waltzes over like he’s saving the day in a freaking tux.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I’m grinning, too, but it’s because this guy is such an oaf.
The driver lifts a garment bag from the trunk.
“Brought you a wardrobe change. If I’m your best man, you’re getting married in an outfit befitting a gentleman. Those boots of yours…disaster.” His face crinkles in disgust, and I snort.
“ Ciao ,” he says, greeting Orlando. “I’m his best mate, and his best man, Nikolai Ivanov. Is there a place he can change?”
“Orlando,” a woman’s voice calls, “call your mamma. Tell her to have the driver wait a few minutes.” An attractive older woman steps out from the shadows. “I’m Caterina Gagliano, Willow’s aunt. Andiamo . There’s not much time.”
Caterina leads us to a small building that from the outside might be mistaken for a crypt, but it’s a marble building the local church uses to store items, and it apparently doubles as a small office. She leaves us, but not without admonishing us to hurry with a tap on her wrist for emphasis.
Nick grins as his driver passes over the garment bag. A shoe bag dangles in front. The driver brushes his hands over the front of his uniform, scanning the area. Based on how he positions himself outside the door, the driver doubles as security.
When the door closes, I unzip the garment bag, marveling that Nick acquired a tuxedo in my size on tight notice.
“You know this isn’t real, right?” I spare him a glance, and he just grins his maniacal grin. “This is going overboard.”
“Everybody needs a best man.” He shrugs like it’s no sweat to drop everything, find me a tux, and fly to another country. “Besides, you’re too good a soul. If you’re doing this, it’s real.” I stop, one leg in a trouser, one out, ready to set him straight. “Don’t argue. You’ll honor her more than men who marry for love. It’s in your genes. It’s why you’re one of the few I trust with my life.”
Long-buried guilt threatens to erupt. If he knew me for who I am, Nick, known in my covert communications as Falcon, would have me killed in the most inhumane and excruciatingly painful manner known to assassins.
“Unless she’s a hag.” His nose crinkles in disgust. “Is she ghastly?”
“Nick.” My tone is meant as a warning, but he cackles.
“My money says she’s–”
I glare at him, and he wisely shuts the fuck up.
Silence mixes with the dust as I dress, and Nick feigns interest in the clergy’s papers. I fumble with the buttons, and he pushes my hands away and finishes buttoning my shirt and ties the bow tie. There’s no mirror in the room, but I trust his skill. I don’t need a mirror to know he’s tied it better than I could.
“You, my mate, look like a man about to shackle his ball sack.”
“Thanks for that.”
There’s a knock at the door, and Willow’s cousin, the redhead, peers in. “Are you ready?”
“I am.”
“No, you’re not.” Nick says and shifts his coat, withdrawing a velvet bag. “Rings.”
“I’m sure the Gaglianos?—”
“They don’t know your ring size. And you don’t want a bride with some tasteless ring on her finger.” His gaze travels to the redhead, and, for once, Nick appears apologetic. “No offense, love.”
“None taken,” she says. “My name is Scarlet.” She holds the door open, waiting for us to exit.
“How do you know my ring size?” Inside the velvet bag there are indeed two rings.
Nick’s transfixed on Scarlet, but casually says, “I know everything about you, mate.”
If that were true, I wouldn’t be alive.
“Let’s go.” Scarlet, tired of waiting, returns to the church with long strides, leaving us to catch up. She completely disregarded Nick.
That might be the first time I’ve ever seen a woman ignore Nick. He’s flustered by it, too, looking at me as if he wants to ask if I saw that.
“She married?” he asks.
“Don’t believe so.”
“Fascinating.”
“Are you two coming?” she calls, halfway to the church.
All I can do is grin and rush to catch up.
Grinning like a lunatic has never been a more apt fit. My alias is marrying an Italian mafia princess, and a leader in an international criminal syndicate will stand by my side as my best man. And he’s eye-fucking my bride’s cousin as if she’s a woman he can select from a menu board. If I live to tell the tale, no one will ever believe me.