12. Antonio
12
ANTONIO
T he two men responsible for the protection racket, Giulio Sartori and Paul Lanza, are old-timers, personally recruited by my erratic and undisciplined predecessor. I don’t really know either man—both are low-level grunts who work primarily with Joao.
“From what I’ve been able to find out, Sartori was the ringleader of this little operation,” Leo reports. “It sounds like Lanza was roped into it unwillingly. I have both of them under observation. Want me to take care of it?”
“No,” I reply, my voice hard. “Bring them in, Leo. I want to talk to them first.”
Once Leo leaves, I text Joao that I want to see him at my house. He shows up in ten minutes. “Good evening, Padrino. What can I do for you?”
I get right to the point. “Sartori and Lanza—what can you tell me about them?”
“Lanza is an okay sort. A bit weak-willed but fundamentally decent. Sartori on the other hand, can’t be trusted. Why, what did they do now?”
“They’re behind the protection money racket.”
Joao sucks in a breath. “I’m sorry, Padrino. I should have kept a better eye on them and?—”
I cut him off. “I’m not blaming you.” It’s been years since someone in my organization openly defied me. Joao wouldn’t have even known to keep an eye on his men’s extracurricular activities, but he will now. I’m more interested in his assessment of Paul Lanza. Joao called him fundamentally decent, and he’s an extremely good judge of character. “Leo thinks Sartori roped Lanza into this scheme. Any idea why he’d cooperate?”
Joao frowns. “Lanza’s been a bit preoccupied lately. It’s his daughter. Lila is sixteen, and she’s going through a rebellious phase since her mother died a couple of years ago. Paul went on a couple of dates recently, and Lila lost it and tried to run away from home.”
“Lanza started doing the collection rounds a month ago,” I say thoughtfully.
“The timing seems to match. Lanza’s very protective of his daughter. If Sartori has something on her. . .” Joao sounds frustrated. “He should have come to me, the idiot. I would have taken care of it. Where are they now? Let me?—”
What sort of hold could Sartori have that would possess Lanza to go against my orders? It’d have to be something big—Lanza has been around for years, and he should know that defying me has consequences. Then again, I’m not sure it changes anything. No matter the reason, Lanza went against me, and I will not tolerate it.
“No. Like I told Leo, I’ll deal with it myself.”
* * *
Leo has the two men in custody the next morning, held in one of our warehouses on the outskirts of the city.
They flinch when I walk in. “We appear to have a problem, gentlemen,” I say mildly, my temper once again under control. “You’ve been collecting protection money from several local establishments.”
Lanza swallows hard, his throat bobbing, while Sartori goes for defiance. “That’s a lie,” he spits out. “We’ve done no such thing. Who said that? Give me a name.”
“So that you can go beat them up and burn down their establishment the way you beat up Giuseppe Moran?” I shrug off my jacket, remove my cufflinks and start to roll my sleeves up to the elbows. “No, I don’t think so.” I move in front of Sartori. “You went against my rules, Giulio. I believe I made myself quite clear when I said that we were not going to extort money from local businesses any longer.”
Sartori doesn’t respond, but Lanza immediately confesses. “Padrino, I did it,” he mutters, his eyes on the floor. “I’m willing to accept the consequences. I just ask. . .” His voice breaks. “My daughter Lila. . . She has no other family. I only ask that you keep her safe.”
“Shut up,” Sartori snaps. “This is bullshit.” He glares at me, his eyes full of contempt. “If the old padrino were alive, he’d die all over again seeing what we’ve become. No more extortion, no more hits, no more muscle in the unions. What’s next? Are we the Mafia, or are we fucking accountants? ”
“This isn’t a democracy, Sartori. We are whatever I say we are.” I take off my tie and toss it aside. “You don’t get a vote.”
“And are you going to exile me for it?” he sneers. “Go ahead. I’ll find another gig in no time.”
My predecessor, Domenico Cartozzi, screamed and shouted. He was erratic and out of control, and some people—people like Giulio Sartori—mistook his outbursts for strength. I’m self-controlled and rarely raise my voice, and so he’s decided I’m a weakling.
It’s the last mistake he’ll make.
“Exile is for people that go against me inadvertently. You deliberately broke my rules, Giulio, and when that happens, there’s a consequence. Your body feeds the fish in the canals.”
Lanza hangs his head. Sartori finally pales, but even now, he doesn’t have the good sense to throw himself at my mercy. Not that he’ll find any. “You going to have Cesari do it? What’s the matter, Moretti—don’t like to get your hands dirty? Or are you afraid to take me in a fight?”
Looks like it’s time for a demonstration.
I grew up on the streets, and I know how to handle myself. I don’t know what Sartori thinks he’s achieving by needling me. I don’t have anything to prove, but I already woke up feeling irritated and out of sorts, so what the hell. I might as well get my exercise in for the day.
“You heard the man, Leo,” I say, my voice as cold as ice. “Sartori wants a fight. Untie him.” I turn to Lanza. “What about you, Paul? Want to join?”
He’s stupid enough to get involved with Sartori but smart enough not to cross me. He answers immediately. “No, Padrino.”
Leo goes forward to free Sartori. “You idiot,” he says unsympathetically. “If you’d kept your mouth shut, it would have been quick.” He hoists him to his feet. “And now it’s going to hurt.”
Sartori lunges the moment his hands are free, driving his shoulder into my ribs. I stagger back, but he’s already swinging again, coming at me with vicious determination, his fists quick and wild. I duck one punch, block another, and then slam my elbow into his jaw. He grunts and stumbles back, breathing hard.
I assess my opponent. Sartori is a few inches shorter than me, but he’s about fifty pounds heavier. A big man and a former boxer, but judging from the way he’s panting, he hasn’t kept up his conditioning.
I have.
He comes at me again, slamming into me like a battering ram, driving me back against the wall. I regain my footing before my skull crashes into the stone floor, and I punch him hard. Before he can recover from it, I take him to the floor, my forearm locked around his throat.
His face turns red, and he claws at my arm, gasping, trying to break my grip. His right fist flies toward my face, and I twist away before he can make contact, and he manages to break free.
I jump to my feet. Sartori is slower to get up. His jaw is bloody where my signet ring hit him, and his gaze is unfocused. “Fuck you, Moretti,” he grits out. He throws another wild punch, and I block it, catch his wrist, and drive my knee into his ribs.
It slows him down, but he’s not done. He slams into me again, throwing his weight behind it, and we go down hard, hitting the concrete floor in a tangle of limbs. He tries to place me in a chokehold, but before he can succeed, I shift my weight, flip him, and slam his head against the floor.
Once.
Twice.
The fight drains out of him with a choked gasp. His body slackens, and his chest heaves once—then nothing.
I’ve killed men by shooting them. By sliding a blade between their ribs. Or, in Sartori’s case, by beating him to death. Easy or not: death is the price you pay for breaking my rules.
I push myself up, steady my breathing, and turn my back on the body. “Clean this up,” I tell Leo before turning to Lanza. “What did he have on you?”
Lanza gapes at me. It takes him a minute to register that the fight is over. “Compromising photos of my daughter,” he replies shakily, his face still white. “He threatened to put them online if I didn’t cooperate.”
If I had any regret about killing Sartori, it just evaporated. “You should have come to me.” My knuckles are bloodied and raw. Leo starts to fuss about them, and I wave him off. “But you didn’t, and that was a mistake.” I take a deep breath and stare at Lanza. “I don’t want to leave your teenage daughter without her only parent, and that’s the only reason you’re alive. You have a week to leave Venice. If I ever see you in my city again, I will kill you. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Padrino.” He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it. “Thank you.”
Leo’s phone rings. He listens to what the person on the other end of the line is saying, and then he turns to me. “Lucia Petrucci is visiting the cemetery where her parents are buried,” he says. “She seems in distress. Dante thought you’d like to know.”
Dante is an interfering son of a bitch, but he’s right: I do want to know. “Take care of this,” I tell Leo. He can handle the details of Lanza’s exile: I have something more important to do.