Chapter 5
Rico
New torture method: endure a plane ride with Pietro Morelli for a strenuous six hours and thirty-five minutes.
All of our enemies will be singing like fucking canaries in no time.
I had even prepared by taking ibuprofen for the impending headache. But alas the medicine hadn’t succeeded.
Planes are already an issue in itself for me. Not being in control sends my mind into a frenzy. Having to blindly trust another human to operate an airborne object makes me want to crawl out of my skin.
Control. Routine. Structure.
Three things woven so incredibly deep in me they’ve become a part of my DNA. I don’t know who I am without them. They’re the only things that keep me relatively, for lack of better word, sane.
In my mind I’m very well aware I’m not the average neurotypical person. There’s too many differences to count. And quite frankly I’ve never been interested enough to care to gain more knowledge as to why.
Psychologists would say my upbringing would have a hand in how I feel. Perhaps they’re right.
My childhood is dicey at best. Pieces come and go.
What I do remember is mamma and pa fighting over my peculiar brain.
As he would remind me all too often in a derogatory fashion.
I was too different, he had said. A son who would’ve been better off dead.
From my delayed speech, to lack of imagination and once I did start talking I was far too blunt.
I questioned too much. I criticized his way of thinking, just as I did the whole world.
Pa never seemed to understand the need for my questioning.
I had to know the why behind things. I needed the clarification for it to make sense.
And when the world was too much, from being too loud to routine going awry I would shut down in isolation and silence. Which my father did not appreciate. Not in the slightest bit.
Carina and I had both suffered by our respective father’s. She bears the scars on her back as well as the emotional wounds the eye cannot see.
I carry the scars on my flesh, all hidden beneath clothing. I’m a canvas of pa’s frustration and hatred. His contempt and anger.
His abuse, mental and physical, I don’t think of.
Once in a blue moon. Maybe my brain had decided it was best to keep the demons of my pa locked away.
Rationally I know I can’t change anything.
My brain sees it as it is. I suffered. It’s done and it will never happen again.
No point in dwelling about things that cannot be changed.
“We should have brought snacks,” I hear Pietro whine beside me in a hushed tone.
We’re currently on the outskirts of The Murphy Estate.
We’ve steadily been closing in for the past two hours.
Seamus’ property extends far from the structure of the home.
Owning nearly thirty-five acres of land there’s much to cover.
All heavily surveilled with traps to catch intruders.
With my tactically gloved fingers I pinch the bridge of my nose. “How is it you’re still talking?”
Maybe I can sew his mouth shut.
He snorts, clapping me on the back. The bulletproof vest takes the impact. “Good one. I knew there was a funny bone in there somewhere.”
I cast him a side glance. Eyes vacant as always, my voice just as detached, “If you are referring to the humerus it’s spelled differently. And we all have one.”
His snort transforms to a cackle that’s most unpleasant to my ears. “See! That was funny.”
Pietro’s jovial mood is one that isn’t infectious. At least where I am concerned. For a man who kills for fun and lives in a world society would deem as dark and gritty he is quite the blithesome Made Man.
His lack of seriousness, as much as I hate to admit, is his greatest strength. Enemies underestimate him. And in turn they lose against him every time.
No one expects a fool to be cunning or a master in their craft.
“Pietro.”
“Si?”
“Stop. Talking.”
From my peripheral vision I see him roll his eyes. “You can be rude as fuck, you know that? I guess it’s a good thing we’re friends and I can look past that.”
“Pietro,” I repeat his name.
“Fine,” he simpers. “Consider me as quiet as a mouse.” As if he can’t help it he mutters under his breath in our native tongue, “ancora maledettamente affamato.”
“Constantine and Carina are right. You are worse than a child.”
“Hey!” He feigns offense. “I’m their child. Only they have the right to insult me as such.” Pausing for a moment, he ponders before snickering, “That makes you the uncle.”
If I argue with him it will only feed into his antics. Yet my brain will not allow me to not correct him. “By blood relation. None of us are of blood relation.”
“No,” he agrees easily before adding sincerely, “we’re a chosen family.”
I don’t comment. I’ll only ruin his sentiment.
We’ve closed in on the property. The grand estate before us. Ten bedrooms. Six bathrooms. Three stories. It’s a colossal house. One too big for my tastes. Frankly I’ve never understood having more space than you can occupy. It seems excessive.
Our best entry point is to climb up the lattice vine supports that expand half the back of the house. It will lead us right outside her window. Once I have her sedated I’ll carry her through the home and exit through the basement.
I check once more that I have everything in order. And as I do I hear Pietro question with both awe and bafflement, “What the fuck?”
“Be more specific.”
“Look ahead.” I do and I see exactly what his what the fuck is about. “The Irish Princess is doing the hard work for us,” he snickers.
My brain short circuits. Thousands of sparks firing off and leaving my thought process heavily muddled.
This isn’t part of the plan. My perfectly crafted point by point plan. She has just taken the finished canvas and splattered paint all over it.
Despite the ball cap she wears, peeks of her vibrant copper hair beg to be seen. They shine like a beacon against her pale skin under the moonlight.
While she moves with strategic purpose it does not undermine her lithe movement. With each climb down the lattice vine supports she becomes more graceful and confident.
Gazzella.
The thought comes suddenly and unwanted.
And yet it reverberates in my head until the only word I can think of is gazzella.
She makes the final step down, her feet firmly planted on the ground. Cautiously, she moves her head from side to side to make sure the coast is clear. A small smile plays on her lips. It has me questioning why.
Why would a daughter leave her loving father? Why would a daughter smile about leaving her family who adores her?
What the fuck am I missing? And why didn’t I find it prior to my plan?
Failure screams in my mind. Incompetent comes next.
“You okay?” Pietro breaks through my internal meltdown with a confused and slightly concerned tone. “Because I’m not sure you’re aware but our target is about to escape us.”
He’s right. The gazzella has just taken traction to a light jog as she navigates through the heavily secured area. And she’s headed straight to the woods.
“She’s escaping on foot and not her car?” Pietro questions.
“Her car is most likely tracked. I don’t know a Made Man who doesn’t have their possessions traceable.”
His brow raises. “Do you think he has a tracker on her?”
“I wouldn’t put it past Seamus if he had one secretly embedded in her. He did allow her to attend college in the states.”
“I’m still surprised he even allowed that.”
“Niall was alive then. The son he wanted as heir. Indulging Imogen to study abroad must’ve softened the blow of not leading the family one day.”
Pietro tsks disappointedly. “You’d think living in the 21st century we’d be past that bullshit.”
Sometimes it’s as if we never progressed. Two steps forward to only take five steps backwards.
My eyes stay focused on her. The woman who ruined my perfect plan.
More ribbons of copper fall from her ball cap. The light of the moon catching them causes them to glow.
From the cadence of her run she’s an experienced runner. And from the confidence in the path she’s chosen to take she must’ve been planning this for weeks.
“So,” he begins his proposition, “are you running after her or me?”
There’s something suspiciously odd that I find myself heavily opposed to Pietro hunting down my prey.
“Stay here and keep watch,” I order him. “I’ll get the princess.”
“What?” He begins to be offended. “You don’t trust me enough to get the job done?” I only look at him and he snorts. “Eh, I don’t feel like doing cardio anyways.”
Stashing the sedative in a secure place I then begin the hunt to catch la mia gazzella.