Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
As he entered the house, Enzo was livid with himself for agreeing to allow Kathleen to go with him.
His heart had almost stopped beating due to the amount of danger she’d been in.
He should have insisted that she stay behind.
He would never get over it if something happened to her.
Not just because her brother was his close friend, but because he would be the one who was responsible, and that would crush him.
He turned to her. “If you need anything, just ask Aldo. He’ll help you.”
“Wait! Where are you going to go? What are you going to do?” she demanded, hands fisted on her hips.
“I can’t—” He couldn’t tell her he needed distance from her.
He needed space to get his equilibrium back and to get his rage at what happened under control.
“I have to make some phone calls in my office.” He relented somewhat.
“I know that must have been scary as hell for you, but in about ten minutes, the adrenaline will drain from your body, and you will feel exhausted. And then the aches and pains will start. You got thrown around the car pretty good. Go take a hot shower and maybe have a glass of wine. You’ll feel much better afterward. ”
She looked like she was about to argue with him. “Is that the voice of experience talking, or are you just trying to get rid of me?”
He ground his teeth to keep from telling her how terrified he’d been on her behalf. “A bit of both. The calls I have to make, Kathleen, you do not want to be a party to. You need plausible deniability.”
She frowned but nodded. “You’ll tell me what happens?”
“I’ll tell you what I find out.” That sounded promising enough to keep her satisfied.
He was only going to tell her what he thought she needed to know.
He had a feeling that this was a much bigger deal than a fucking ugly statue.
He’d protect her every way he could, and if that meant keeping her in the dark, so be it.
He turned and walked down the hall to his office, feeling moderately good about keeping a straight face when he lied to Kathleen.
He’d always been good at that. He just had to remind himself that she excelled at reading people.
She wouldn’t have survived the years in witness protection without that skill. He would have to be careful around her.
Reaching his office, he dropped the backpack onto the visitor’s chair.
It landed with a thunk, but the sound was off.
Enzo reached for the backpack, unzipped it fully, and pulled it open.
The statue was in pieces. It must have shattered when it hit the ground after the biker had flung it into the air.
This put a new spin on things. What happened if the statue wasn’t in one piece anymore? Did anybody still want it? Was there even a way to advertise that fact? He stared at the broken pieces, contemplating that thought, when the glimmer of something caught his attention.
The statue wasn’t the only thing in the bag.
He nudged the fragments aside and plucked up a piece of expensive-looking, tightly-folded cloth. Slowly, he unwrapped the scrap and spread it on top of his desk.
It was a map.
A treasure map.
With an X and everything.
Enzo started to laugh. How ridiculous. A real, honest-to-God treasure map with fucking X marking the spot. Somebody clearly had a sense of humor. But suddenly, it all made much more sense. People weren’t after the statue; they were after the treasure. Whatever that might be.
There was no indication of what the X marked, just that there was an X. The map itself looked old, but he couldn’t tell if it was genuinely old or if someone had deliberately aged it by artificial means. He thought it was the latter. Someone created a fake, old-looking treasure map.
Why?
He stared at it. There were no place names or labels, but a shape in the center looked slightly familiar. The outline of something tugged at his memory. It was nagging at him, like something he’d seen before, somewhere he’d been.
A treasure map explained everything. It explained why this ugly little statue was suddenly drawing so much attention, and why someone was willing to kill for it.
The real questions were: If, in fact, there was a treasure, whose treasure was it?
What exactly was the treasure? And why did everyone else seem to know about it but him?
Well, not everyone. But at least two groups.
Maybe three. The guy from the alley and his people had started it all by dropping the statue in Kathleen’s bag in the first place.
The guys on the motorcycle, and the guys who had tried to run them off the road.
They could be from the same group. Hard to tell at this stage.
Although… the suspects on the motorcycle had started out on a bicycle and tried to take the backpack without hurting anyone.
It wasn’t until he and Kathleen took off that they started shooting.
Kill everyone and grab the treasure appeared to be their backup plan.
The third group had been heavy-handed from the beginning, and it had quite possibly cost them their lives.
They had tried to kill Enzo and Kathleen right out of the gate; no conversation, no attempt at getting the backpack peacefully.
Or at least semi-peacefully. No, they were definitely a different group.
Which meant at least three groups were after the map.
But there could be more, and who knew which approach they would take.
The more Enzo stared at the map, the more convinced he became of one thing: this was going to get ugly.
People went crazy for treasure. Did outlandish, stupid things to get it.
That did not bode well. He leaned back in his chair.
He should tell Kathleen about the map, but he really didn’t know anything else.
Just that they now had an ugly, broken statue and a map marked with an X.
Enzo grabbed his cell, scrolled through his contacts, and grimaced before hitting the number.
“I was wondering if you’d call,” a familiar voice drawled down the line.
“As always, Sylvester, you’re the one who knows everything going on in Milano, or so you’ve always said.”
Sylvester Blankenship, Blanks to everyone who knew him, was a scum-sucking maggot. Unfortunately, he was the scum-sucking maggot who knew everything that happened in Milan.
“So… They’re shooting at you again? Just like old times.”
Enzo frowned. “I don’t recall ever being shot at in Milano. I think you’ve got your facts wrong there, Sylvester.” He used the man’s first name deliberately, knowing how much he hated it.
“No, but you’ve been shot at plenty in the rest of Italy. And a few other countries, if I remember right.”
Time to get down to it. “What do you know, Sylvester?”
“It’s Blanks, if you don’t mind,” the man replied, apparently relishing the fact that Enzo was asking for help. He knew Enzo didn’t have a choice. And Enzo knew it too. There was no way he was leaving any stone unturned when it came to Kathleen’s safety.
“Blanks,”—Enzo’s tone was mildly derisive about the man’s demand that he use the fucking stupid nickname—“what do you know?” Enzo prompted.
“What are you going to give me in exchange?”
Enzo paused. “Wait, you don’t know who was shooting at me? Sylvester, are you losing your touch?” He couldn’t resist needling the man. It would rankle Blanks, and Enzo wanted him uncomfortable. “You’re losing your edge. I thought you were the guy who always knew what was going on in Milano.”
“I am,” Blanks snapped. “I’m working on it.”
“Then why can’t you tell me anything?”
“I told you, I’m working on it. What are you going to give me in exchange?”
“Give you?” Enzo’s voice hardened. “So far, you’re not giving me anything.”
“Come on, Valardi, you know how this works. I give you something, you give me something. So… What’s it gonna be?”
Enzo sighed. “Fine. I’ll give you the number of the woman who works the front desk at the Four Seasons. Donatella.”
There was a sharp intake of breath.
Enzo grinned. It was well known that Sylvester Blankenship was madly in love with Donatella Turchetta.
Enzo had known Donatella for years. She didn’t really work the front desk as much as she was the fixer for the hotel.
But every once in a while, she pulled a shift, and that’s where Blanks had met her. He’d been in love with her ever since.
Enzo didn’t mind offering the number because he knew two things: one, Donatella owed him big time, and two, he’d never actually have to follow through. If Blanks didn’t know who was behind this yet, Enzo would probably find out himself before the man ever did.
“You get me the info, Blanks,” he said, “and we’ll do the exchange.”
“Fucking hell, alright, Valardi. I’m on it.”
Enzo disconnected the call and dropped his phone onto the desk as the smile slid off his face.
If Sylvester Blankenship didn’t know who was shooting at him, that was problematic.
It meant the threat hadn’t come from anyone local.
This was all an outside operation. Enzo was an outsider to a certain extent himself, but he’d had a residence here for years.
He knew the players. Whoever this was, they weren’t part of Milano’s usual web of alliances.
Worse, they hadn’t hired local muscle. Sylvester would’ve known them if they had. Whoever was behind this had brought their own thugs, people who understood the city’s layout and how to move unseen.
Enzo’s mind ticked through a growing list of possibilities. The problem was that the list kept getting longer. Too many names. Too many motives. Too many players capable of pulling something like this off.
His phone rang, startling him. No caller ID. A tightness gripped his gut. For a moment, he debated not answering. But that didn’t seem wise.
He picked up. “Yes?”
“Vincenzo... how I’ve missed your voice.”
Every hair on Enzo’s arms and the back of his neck stood on end.