5. Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner?
Guess Who's Coming to Dinner?
Salvatore
“Imight shoot someone twice.” Andrea grimaces at the dark volcanic rock encasing the hollow tunnel we take to a narrow staircase.
“No one told you to wear white gym shoes,” I say. It makes no sense that he cries over scuff marks.
Our steps ricochet off igneous rock stained in centuries-old grooves from the eruption of Mount Etna. The lava cave inside this restaurant is a popular destination, luring tourists in Catania into underground rooms for photos. It’s also a prime location for the Preda to meet.
With law enforcement surveilling private residences, the mafia family uses everyday places for low visibility, not to incite suspicion. The problem with not encrypting communications is that anyone can show up unannounced.
Guess who’s coming to dinner?
“Minchia!”
Peppe, Luca, and Olindo scramble to their feet, knocking their chairs over as they reach for their weapons.
The trio represents the three clans of the Preda who operate in the surrounding provinces.
Lap dogs to their ringleader, who sits at the head of the small tables pushed together with a glare that provokes my smile.
“I’m disappointed, Tino. My invite must’ve gotten lost,” I say. “No need to get up.”
Andrea joins me at the table that the waitstaff rushes to set in front of us, along with two chairs. I unbutton my suit jacket, sit, and cross my ankle over my knee, nodding at the server who drops off plates of caponata di pesce.
“Would you like me to put in a word with the kitchen to get your food faster?” I offer to Tino.
“Give me one reason I shouldn’t kill you, Bennici.” His jaw clenches around my name. Flecks of gold in his stare narrow into slits.
I unfold the cloth napkin onto my lap. My eyes never leave his when I say a quick prayer. The gun at my back’s on ready should Tino or one of his men want to test my reflexes.
I bite into white tuna and peppers. “You wouldn’t make it down the block. My drones can locate each of you and will fire if my pulse jumps.
The Preda is one of Italy’s largest mafias. No one touches them in Sicily. Their membership is in the thousands, more if counting the associates on their payroll. The Scilari doesn’t compare, but where we lack in numbers, we make up for in technology.
My drones not only fly undetected but also use guidance technology Andrea and I created to locate specific targets with the click of a button. Four hover in the air right now, programmed to shoot identified targets.
The look I wield is a silent challenge to the guns still pointed at my head. Well, all but one.
“Aim higher, Peppe.” I motion for him to raise his Glock. He has a weird infatuation with shooting people in the dick.
Heads swivel at Andrea’s long slurp. His cheeks hollow around a roasted pepper that requires neither the enthusiasm nor the audio to eat.
He grins and goes back to whatever has his attention on the phone, like a shootout won’t happen.
Knowing him, he’d picked someone to shoot on account of his damn shoes.
“What do you want, Bennici?” Tino’s growl pushes a vein against his temple.
I cut into my dish. “The name of the person who paid Franco to steal from me.”
His eyes shift toward his men. He cools his expression, but not before the skin between his brow creases.
His square jaw, dusted with hair, and the slight pull of his olive-skinned cheekbones are reminiscent of his father.
Tino wears three-piece suits but lacks the candor to lead.
We both inherited our positions. The difference between us is that I won’t hesitate to put someone down if it comes to it.
Where Agostino Messina is sharp and confident, his namesake—the youngest of two sons—shows cracks in his armor. Weaknesses I use to my advantage.
“Any attempt to encroach on my territory or meddle in my businesses will be considered an act of war,” I say. “A blood debt from the person who paid him is what I’m owed, and I always collect.”
The room stills at my vow of retribution.
As capo mandamento, Tino is a high-ranking boss in the Preda, responsible for the clans in the area.
Nothing happens without his consent. Either the order came from his father, the Preda don, or there are people within his network operating behind his back.
Either way, I’ll end bloodlines if necessary.
Tino swallows hard, bobbing his Adam’s apple that I contemplate splitting open with my knife. The contoured lines of his face cloud with the need to appear competent in front of his men while battling the urge to run.
We’ve stayed out of each other’s way not to bring bullets or blood into the street. That could all change soon.
The guns around the room lift when I stand. “The name,” I say again to Tino. “If I discover it before you tell me, there will be death.”
Andrea pulls his dinner plate from the table, his lips working over a piece of tuna. A napkin hangs over his cream shirt like a bib. He slurps the sauce at the bottom of the plate with a loud pop.
“You done?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Getting one to go.”
“The next time we see each other”—I walk over to Peppe and crouch low—“aim higher.”
It’s only a matter of time before we uncover the person who paid Franco and the woman he saw at Eden. They’re both connected, and when I prove it, we go to war.