59. Dominic
59
DOMINIC
The roads are quiet at this time of the morning. Once we’re off the highway and drive by the small town of Vena di Maida, we take to country roads that pass through dry summer woodlands and olive groves.
“Can we stop a minute?” Ariana asks. “We aren’t far now.”
“Sure.” I call the front vehicle, and we pull off on the side, cars fairly far apart to not cause suspicion at a first glance. “What are you thinking?”
“I don’t know if he has guards or if he is by himself. He never kept much company except for the purposes of a halfway house.”
“Okay, it’s also the crack of dawn.”
“Which means you can approach the house without him noticing until you are there. There’s a path through the olive groves and another one hidden through the woods.”
“Okay, where’s the road to his house?”
“It’s about two kilometers on.”
I study her face. I’m putting all my trust in this woman, but for some reason, I don’t think she’d be lying to me. Not anymore.
“Anything else I need to know?”
She blinks, seeming to rake her brain. “He sleeps with a gun and has a machete hanging by the door. He is very good at knife-throwing.”
“Good to know.”
I take ten minutes to consult with my bodyguard and the men in the other cars, and we come up with a plan which isn’t foolproof. It seems one of the older guys I’ve hired for this trip knows about Antonio Mancuso as he grew up close by. Everything Ariana said rings true.
I instruct the driver to continue on a crawl until the side path through the olive grove comes into view.
“Be a good girl—” I whisper to Ariana as I lean closer to her, “—and wait in the car.”
“What if you don’t come back?” she asks, real fear in her voice.
“I’m coming back, sweetheart, because I promised to protect you. Help me by staying put.”
“Okay.”
I tilt her chin towards me and kiss her full on the mouth. It’s soft, and I linger there for a moment, deepening the kiss. “Remember, we have plans for that sweet pussy of yours.”
With that, I tap on the conversation screen for the driver to open it again so he can keep an eye on her. I exit the car, leaving her with a soft blush on her cheeks and something to think about.
I’m not worried she’d run. What she doesn’t know, as she wouldn’t have been able to see them through the tinted windows of our two other cars, is that I have eight men with us, over and above the two we brought on the jet. Three of them are to have eyes on her at all times. Maybe Ariana Morelli has caught on and knows better than to test me.
I don’t have a weapon on me, but the men from the other cars are weaponed to the chin with concealed guns, knives, and possibly a grenade or two. I indicate to one of them that we should take the path through the olive grove. Another team will hit the farmhouse from the woodlands’ side, and a third team will continue on and block anybody from driving to the old man’s house. As soon as the road and cars are out of sight, the man hands me a semi-automatic I push into the back of my jeans.
It’s a beautiful morning. Dried grass stands thick and tall between the olive trees, and I inhale the fresh, sweet air, perfumed with hay and sunshine. As we come through the grove, a stone homestead comes into view. It’s surrounded by old farming equipment, rusting away between sheets of plastic and old tires. What a fucking decrepit nest. The foul stench of pigs comes from a side structure, and already they are squealing for breakfast. Good thing, too, because when an old dog spots us coming through the trees, he gives a few unsure barks nobody would hear above the pigs’ racket.
I stop, hold out my hand for him as I block the other man. “Here, puppy,” I croon, and as if the dog can sense I mean him no harm, he stops barking, his eyes only blinking as he makes no attempt to jerk against his chain. Poor dog. In this moment, with his age, he reminds me so much of Bruno, I swallow as I inch closer. He leans in and sniffs at my hand, makes a turn, and slumps down in the dirt to scratch himself behind the ear. Fleas. Flies aplenty buzz around him. Poor fucker.
A few chickens are scratching away in a coop, and once the dog has lost all interest in us, clearly way past his prime and with several itches to scratch, I nod to my bodyguard to move on.
There are no lights on in the house, and I soft-foot to the side where I peer into a window. Dust and grime make for a blurred view into a sitting room, with torn couches and wine bottles on the side table and floor. Fuck. I hope the old man is still alive.
A rush of water comes down a pipe just to the side, and I freeze. Seems someone just took a dump and flushed the toilet. Excellent. I don’t need anybody shitting themselves. The rest of my team has arrived, the old dog beyond caring. Slack, so fucking slack.
We take corners, and when I approach the front door, I feel the handle. Locked.
Might as well be polite about it. I knock. No response. I knock again.
“ Chi è? ” comes a gruff voice, still sleepy.
I indicate to my friend who claims he knows Antonio Mancuso.
“ Nino ,” the man calls through the door. “ Nino Mancuso? Sono Paolo C, vengo con notizie di tuo nipote.”
It’s Paulo, I come with news of your nephew. That should tickle the old man, if he still had time for Franco.
Feet shuffle to the door, and when the man swings it open, I have to lean away from the stench emanating from the house.
Fuck. This guy let himself go. And he is hungover. But there’s more. His one eye is rudely stitched closed where he must have lost it, a nasty scar running from his brow to his nose where he seemed to have patched up his nostril. Maybe he wasn’t such a good knife thrower, after all. He hasn’t shaved in days, thick grey beard sprouting in patches on his chin and jaw.
He’s dressed in an old-man’s vest that was once white, and sleep shorts, thin legs protruding like sticks out of their wide holes. His toenails are long and yellowed, speaking of neglect, and his back is curved in age. This guy looks like he’s knocking hard on ninety and regrets making it this far.
There’s more, though. He has the same gaunt look the Don had in the last months of his illness. Shit, he’s dying.
“Antonio Mancuso,” I say as I step into the house, and the man shuffles to the side as if he knows he shouldn’t even try to stop me. I switch over to Italian for his sake, although I bet if I wring that throat just right, he’d start speaking English just perfectly. I take the room in with one sweep of my gaze. The machete Ariana warned me about hangs on an opposite wall, right by the front door. A gun lies on a side table, but nothing more.
As I take in the space, I nod to the stairs, and Gus takes them two at a time to make sure we’re alone.
“And who are you?” the old man croaks, his rotting breath hitting me in the face. “Which nephew?”
“Dominic Scalera. I don’t know your nephews,” I lie. “I’m here to enquire about the whereabouts of a girl that came through this house fifteen years ago. Gabriella Scalera. She came from America.”
The old man cackles, and it goes over into a coughing fit.
“Now-now,” I say as I grip him by the shoulder, firmly in warning, but also to keep him from keeling over. I’m repulsed at the dirt crusting his skin, the oily feel of his foul-smelling vest under my palm. “You can’t die on me now, old man.”
“Gabriella, Isabella, Anabella, Amar, Petra, so many.” He drags in a ragged breath. “How do people expect me to remember all these girls? Too fucking many. Nobody cares. All whores.”
I don’t like to lose my shit with this guy, not yet, but he mustn’t push me. I shift my hand from his boney shoulder to the thin skin of his neck. He doesn’t fight me. He might be hungover, but he’s been conditioned to know his place.
“I’d think a bit harder if I were you.” I put pressure just there, where the blood flow to his face will thin. “Gabriella Scalera. Gabi. Fifteen years ago. A girl named Emilia Korhonen was still living here.”
“Emilia? That fucking little thief. She’s dead.”
I put more pressure on his neck, and now he grapples with my hand with both of his as his eyes go wide. I’m so much taller than him, in the prime of my life—it would be nothing to take him out. I step on his foot, and he stills as the pain registers. Fear flashes through his eyes.
“Indeed. Emilia Korhonen is dead, but she remembers Gabi, though.” Nothing like fucking with an old man’s head. “Gabi was here for maybe a week, and then disappeared.”
Antonio blinks, and I know something triggered him to remember.
“Gabi,” he croaks. “From America. Emilio Randazzo’s other daughter.”
“That’s the one. See, I knew you knew something. Now where is she?”
“With Randazzo dead, she could be anywhere.”
Prickles chase down my spine. If we’re too fucking late, I’m going to have to kill somebody to avenge Gabriella’s death.
“Where did she go when she left your shit hole?”
At this, the man croaks some cackles again, but I cut it off with my thumb.
“The convent,” he groans, and I release the pressure a bit. “The convent in Potenza.”
“Are you sure about that?” I ask with another squeeze. “The convent in Potenza?” Fuck knows where that is and where she went after that.
“Yes, yes, Potenza. Randazzo kept her there, locked up with the religious sisters, to use, you know, when the time was right.”
“And when was the time right?” I ask, my blood boiling.
“He ran out of time,” the man says with a snarky laugh. “He’s dead if you haven’t heard. Dead.”
Gus comes down the stairs. “There’s nobody here. Just the old man.”
“Why are you so lonely, Antonio?” I ask, releasing some pressure off his throat.
He stares at me, his brown eyes sunken into the deep holes of his eye sockets. “When you’re old enough, when you’ve made it to my age without pissing anybody off too much, they leave you to die by yourself.”
What a fucking loser. Alienated from the world, a pitstop for humans in the sick trafficking business, here on a derelict farm in butt-crack fucking nowhere. How long will it take them to discover his body? Long enough that it would appear as if he died of natural causes.
“Get info on the convent in Potenza,” I instruct Gus. We might just be lucky. “Is there anything else you care to share, Antonio? Think over your answer wisely, because it so happened that you pissed me off.”
“I’ve done nothing to you,” he says. “Let me be in peace.”
Peace? After what he’s been part of? So much so, he can’t remember their names? All those girls… Ariana … I’ll hang him up to dry like cured meat. With the alcohol sweating from his pores, he’s practically cured himself already.
“Here’s the thing, Antonio. You allowed shit to go down in this house, and if you think you could stand by and let it all happen and die in peace, you’re fucking wrong. You let Franco Fiore rape Emilia Korhonen under this roof, and I bet it was with your fucking approval.”
“She’s dead.”
“Yes, and yet, she speaks to me. I know exactly what went on here. It’s time you pay.” I twist his arm into a lock, and his weak body is no match for mine. “This is for Emilia Korhonen and the hell you put her through.”
“Make it quick,” he begs.
I don’t think he deserves quick.
“Tie him up, gag him,” I say. “Then toss him with his pigs where he belongs. If we find out that Gabriella is still safe in Potenza, we’ll see what to do with him, if he’s still alive.”
“They haven’t had breakfast,” the man whines. “Can’t you hear them squealing? The boars…they’re big. They’ll trample me to death, and then—and then?—”
“Eat you? Eventually, yes.” The fucking pigs haven’t shut up since we arrived. “Let’s hope you weren’t lying about my little sister’s whereabouts then.” With that, I let him go, and he crumples to the ground.
I walk out, set the dog free, and stalk off, letting the men do as I told them to do.