16. Open, You Dckhead!
"Open, You D*ckhead!"
Salvatore
“Mr. Bennici, someone from the police is here.”
“Send them in.” I release the intercom and sit back in my chair.
The door to my office opens. In steps Inspector Meloni, a corrupt asshole with a personal vendetta against ties and socks.
I motion toward the wing chair across from my desk. “Have a seat.”
“I’ll stand.” He stuffs his hands into his pockets and walks to the window overlooking the gulf. “Nice view.”
“Business is good,” I say.
“Which one would that be?” His brow raises.
I flash a smile. “Depends. My fishing company. My distribution business. My restaurants. Wineries. Citrus grove. Life is good. The chef is planning a fire-cooked blue lobster for dinner if you want to come back in a few hours. I’ll get you a table.”
Meloni’s short laugh rattles his throat but doesn’t reach his eyes. “I can’t afford to eat here.”
“I’m surprised your business interests don’t pay more.” I tilt my head and nod at the watch on his wrist under his wrinkled suit jacket. “I would’ve thought corruption pays at a premium.”
A vein in his balding head pulses as his mouth sets into a thin line. The Preda bought and paid for Meloni. He’s their lapdog who sniffs around for information to feed them and looks the other way in their territories.
Intimidation works on weaker men, not me.
He casts a shrewd glance. “Would you know about the murder that took place two nights ago?”
“Why would I?”
His jaw agitates his unkempt beard, in need of another barber. He lifts a paperweight from my desk. “Nicholas Spinelli died from a high-caliber round to the head. No casings retrieved or fingerprints.”
I play along. “Sounds like you’re looking for a sniper.”
“Or a drone with the capability to carry out hits,” Meloni counters. “You have drones, Bennici.”
“I do.”
“You studied engineering.”
I sag in my seat and yawn. “Public knowledge and not a crime. Unless you plan on having me sent to prison for earning my degrees in case the fishing industry was unsuccessful.”
The tips of Meloni’s ears redden. “I’m not an idiot.” Sure about that? “Your toys were out during your little trip earlier this month.”
“Ah. Did Tino send you? Or was it Peppe, Luca, or Olindo? Kinda hard to keep up with who’s on my dick.” My smirk dissolves into a glare. “Check my compliance with the aviation authority. My transmission data will show I haven’t flown my drones for some time.”
The guidance chip Andrea and I created for our unregistered drones serves as both protection and a means to carry out targeted attacks when necessary. Meloni will never find the ones he’s looking for, no matter how much he huffs and abuses his authority.
He leans over my desk. At best, he reaches my collar when wearing the lifts he adds to his shoes. “I know you killed Spinelli,” he sneers.
“I find it interesting you came to my restaurant to talk to me about a dead man with ties to the Preda and a migrant smuggling ring your department conveniently overlooked.” I stand and button my suit jacket.
“Thousands taken—forty at a time between Turkey, Tunisia, and Egypt—funneling into your backyard, and you’re asking me about drones? ”
Spinelli died feet away from a known Preda operation that controls agencies transferring smugglers’ transport funds. They earn eighty thousand euros per trip and weren’t too happy about the hit that uncovered their trafficking ring.
Meloni clears his throat. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Bennici. All of your success will disappear if you aren’t careful.”
I grin. “Your arms don’t reach high enough to come at me. I have multiple businesses to run. Now get the fuck out before I help escort you off my premises.”
Cagacazzo.
I’m scanning new distribution contracts when my phone rings. I cut my eyes toward my desk drawer buzzing to life and rub my temples. My men know to go to Luiggi when Andrea and I are at one of our businesses.
“Boss,” Luiggi says. “We’ve got a problem.”
“Explain to me again what happened.” The weight of my rings keeps my hand pressed to my desk and not reaching through the phone to strangle my third-in-command.
Surveillance video of Bianca running into my underground garage replays on my computer. Her chest heaves as she scans my private collection of luxury vehicles, searching for the keys.
Luiggi clears his throat on the other end of the line. “Scemo—“
“Scemo,” I repeat, slower, my eyes on Bianca running toward the Lamborghini Sian my cousin gifted me years ago.
Her fingerprints decorate the custom paint job as she pats the car down like it’s under arrest. She glances at the garage entrance before banging on the car window.
The driver’s side door finally swings open after her shout for it to “turn on.”
“He removed her ankle restraint after she complained about pain,” Luiggi explains about Bianca playing Scemo.
I huff. The strongest of my men would buckle from those pouty lips and soulful eyes.
Bianca is striking, beauty and temptation delicately carved into honey-brown skin beneath a crown of braids.
I purposely confined her to that room so no one would fall victim to her pleading gaze or the lull of her voice.
It’s why I forced myself to stay away all day.
“And?” The line is silent.
Luiggi sighs. “Scemo wanted to show her your cars.”
Minchia.
My hand flexes as Bianca slides behind the wheel. I removed the garage’s intrusion detection system so the cleaning staff could move freely without anyone near my vehicles triggering the alarm.
A costly mistake I watch in high definition.
Bianca’s first attempt to drive through my garage door should’ve been a sign that she’s not getting through reinforced steel. But Trouble wouldn’t live up to her name if she didn’t try again.
And again.
The crunch and clang of my collector’s item colliding with steel roars through the computer.
“Where is Scemo?” I check my watch.
Tires screech before Bianca rams the gate again.
Luiggi is quiet before he says, “We sent him home once the physician cleared him to leave. He’s under concussion protocol.”
Another crash.
Her attempts to steal my vehicle and demolish the gate trigger the alarm.
“Open, you dickhead!” Bianca shouts through the rolled-down window at the garage door that won’t budge. It’s a miracle the airbag hasn’t deployed. The front of the car is totaled.
“Did you handle him?”
The engine sputters.
“Don’t you quit!” Bianca jerks the steering wheel.
“We found him unconscious in her cell,” Luiggi says.
My lips twitch.
Fucking Trouble.
Security surrounds my vehicle now worth the fucking cost of a can opener. I’m about to text my cousin that his four-million-euro gift with hybrid technology I never drive is shit when my vision turns red.
Every breath burns my throat watching Bianca be pulled from my mangled Lamborghini.
Her hips jerk and her arms windmill as two of my security grab her by her hands and feet.
She’s slammed against the car, knocking the air from her lungs.
Her eyes widen. She winces at the man in front of her and swings at him when he goes to grab her again.
The jab is clean; she follows with a cross and an uppercut.
“I’m sorry, boss.” Bianca going to work on my men trained in hand-to-hand combat drowns out Luiggi’s apology.
My brow quirks at her heel driving into one of my men’s feet who grabs her from behind.
The back of her head collides with his face.
She spins, introducing her elbow to his nose and kneeing him in the balls.
She doesn’t break a sweat defending herself against three men who become eight after one radios for help who she then tosses over what’s left of the hood.
Bianca knocks out two more men before she’s subdued.
“I want everyone who put their hands on her to choose a bullet or knife in theirs,” I growl into my phone. “I trust you’ll handle it.”
“Yes, boss,” Luiggi says.
“Send them to the operating room once it’s done. I’ll deal with you later.”
I disconnect the call and rub my temples. This fucking woman might kill me before the Preda tries.
Bianca’s escape should send me over the edge. She fucked up my garage and beat down my men. My dick stirs at her exertion and the promise of her fury.
A smile finds its way through my scowl.
“Okay, Trouble. Let’s play.”