17. Gabriel Returns to Italy
GAbrIEL RETURNS TO ITALY
HALSTON
Halston helped the ambassador navigate the State Department meeting, staying on top of the myriad of conversations. As expected, it had run over. This one topped four hours. En route back to the embassy, the ambassador made a call, then directed his driver to his dentist in DC.
“Do you want me to come inside with you?” he asked.
“You should get back to the embassy, sir.”
“I’ll wait,” the ambassador said.
Halston went into the white building with too many windows and over to the directory.
Fifteen minutes later, the dentist was wrist-deep in Halston’s mouth.
“I’m not seeing anything,” she said. “Which tooth is it again?”
Halston pointed. “The pain was here. Any chance it could be my jaw?”
“Are you carrying around any tension?”
Halston cracked a smile. “There’s some of that.”
“When was the last time you had a cleaning?”
“It’s been a minute.”
“Let me see if my hygienist can—”
“That’s okay,” she protested. “I need to get back to work.”
“My lecture on dental health is longer than the cleaning.” With a kind smile, the dentist left. A moment later, she returned with another woman.
“I’m Debbie, the hygienist. Come with me.”
Once in the hygienist’s chair, Halston texted her boss.
I’m going to be a while. I’ll catch a ride
Are you ok?
Looks that way
See you back at the office
She saw the text from Gabriel.
I miss you. Next time, you’re coming with me
I would love that! I miss you too. Be safe.
Fifty-minutes later, Halston left feeling refreshed and rejuvenated. She hadn’t had her teeth cleaned since before her assignment in Russia. On the street, she caught a rideshare, hurried into the embassy, and into her office.
The ambassador sat waiting in her guest chair.
This isn’t good.
“Minka, we need to talk.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The dentist called me. Your teeth were fine. In need of a cleaning, but otherwise healthy.”
“She thought the pain could be from tension radiating into my jaw. I’ve been getting used to life in America, trying to manage my new responsibilities and do an excellent job for you. I’m not sleeping well.”
I hope he bought that.
“Did you try to login to my laptop?” he asked.
“Yes. I couldn’t remember where you were.”
“Don’t you have my schedule on your laptop?”
“You never gave it to me.”
If he knew she’d gotten in, it was all over.
She could hear her heart beating in her ears. Loud and strong and too damn fast. His death stare was creeping her out, but she said nothing more. To continue would be a sure sign she was covering.
“Minka, I mentioned a very critical assignment, but if you aren’t at top of your game, I will assign to someone else.”
“Sir, whatever you think is best. I’m here to make your job easier.”
After too many seconds, he said, “I’ll discuss with Petrov.” He stood and walked out.
Too close.
She eased down at her desk, breathed deep.
You cannot crash and burn. Not now… not ever. Get it together.
She worked the rest of the afternoon without another incident, but she was eager to pass along the thumb drive to Evangeline and remove the rubber finger from her crossbody bag.
At the end of the day, she left. Instead of returning to Hotel Dillinger, she walked to the dingy apartment she was supposed to be staying in.
It took her all of five minutes to deduce someone else had been there.
Had they hidden a micro camera? In order to find it, she’d have to tear the furnished apartment apart.
That’s not happening.
If someone had set up a camera, they knew she hadn’t been staying there. Did they know where she had been staying?
The lights in her apartment flickered, then went out. A chill swept through her.
Another blackout?
Plunged into darkness, she wished she had the pistol Sin and Evangeline had given her, but she’d left it in the hotel safe. After turning on her phone light, she left the apartment, rushed down the dark hallway, and outside.
The city had been plunged into darkness.
Relieved the blackout was bigger than her tiny apartment, she called for a rideshare but got a message that the blackout had interfered with the company’s ability to transmit messages to its drivers.
She kicked up the pace, walking quickly toward the hotel.
As she passed others trying to navigate the darkness, she wondered if she’d compromised her assignment, or worse, put her life at risk. Even back on her home turf, she wasn’t safe.
I’m not safe anywhere. Not anymore.
GAbrIEL
Gabriel landed at one in the morning, local time, walked outside, and was greeted by Carmelo, his Santini Spirits GM, and his bodyguard Diego.
He shook both men’s hands.
“I got your text.” Carmelo patted his chest. “I’m wearing it.”
Gabriel eyed Diego. “Body armor?”
“No, Boss, it’s back at the club.”
“If I tell you to wear it, you wear it, goddammit,” Gabriel snapped.
“Yes, sir,” Diego replied.
Diego glanced around the quiet area outside charter flights. “Let’s get you inside, Mr. Santini.” He opened the back door of the black Mercedes-Maybach.
In Gabriel went, followed by Carmelo. Diego got behind the wheel and drove out.
“Where’s our crew?” Gabriel asked.
“At your club,” Carmelo replied.
Gabriel said nothing more as they sped through the streets of Milan.
Fifteen minutes later, Diego pulled up to Gabriel’s nightclub, La Grande Fuga—The Great Escape—in an upscale section of the city.
Diego opened the back door of the sedan.
Out went Carmelo. Once he unlocked and opened the front door, Gabriel slipped silently into the building.
The club was first class, featuring top-shelf booze, gourmet food, and exceptional service. Years earlier, he hired an up-and-coming chef. A year after that, Gabriel hired the chef’s wife—a renowned pastry chef—and the duo served the finest food in a twenty-kilometer radius.
Once upon a time, Gabriel had strippers, but they turned their private lap dances into screwing, so he replaced them with lounge singers. The back room was reserved for gambling. The clientele shifted, the club got a reputation for being classy, and Gabriel moved his Cosa Nostra operation upstairs.
Though La Grande Fuga closed at two in the morning, they’d shut it down early tonight.
With the Bratva moving in on his business, Gabriel wasn’t about to get ambushed at his own club.
The familiar aroma of his Italian whisky had him breathing deep.
But this wasn’t a social visit. He was there to take back what was his.
Up the stairs they went and down the hall to his personal lounge.
Diego first. Gabriel waited while Diego cleared the space. After he did, Gabriel stepped inside, followed by Carmelo.
He hated that Angelo wasn’t with him. His number one had been a good friend and hardworking underboss. While Gabriel loved change and pushed for aggressive growth, not all change was good. The loss of Angelo hung heavy in his soul.
The low-lit space was filled with a long table, several small round ones, all covered with bright white tablecloths over black ones.
Dark walls brightened by sconces, a chandelier set on low dangled from the center of the ceiling.
A few of his guys were playing cards, others sat and talked in small groups.
Two were on their phones. Within seconds of his entrance, they stood to greet him.
He’d been the head of Cosa Nostra for the past decade. He ran a tight group, made sure they were paid well and that their loyalty remained steadfast. The power in this room thundered through him, but it paled in comparison to the respect he was being shown.
One by one they let him know they were glad to see him, that it was good to have him home.
When finished, they waited for him to take his seat at the head of the large table.
The seat at the far end sat empty. That had been Angelo’s spot from the moment they’d made the decision to take back what had been his grandfather’s all those decades ago.
His head bartender appeared to take their drink orders. Gabriel dismissed him with a wave of his hand. The bartender left, shutting the door behind him.
“Carmelo, update us,” Gabriel said.
“Ten Bratva took over the distillery,” Carmelo began. “They kicked out management, kept the workers. Since the takeover, four guys stay with the night shift, six during the day. They rotate every twelve hours. Five o’clock in the morning, five in the afternoon.”
Tension tightened Gabriel’s shoulders. His high-end distillery ran twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Since the luxury Italian whisky required round-the-clock attention, Gabriel had three eight-hour shifts.
“During the night shift, one of their thugs stays in the office,” Carmelo said. “Three patrol the floor. During the day, two work in the office, four patrol the plant. One of the workers snapped some pics.”
Carmelo handed Gabriel his phone.
The office workers had pistols. The patrolmen, long guns strapped across their chests.
Anger burned through Gabriel as he viewed the photos.
This wasn’t a damn prison. He’d hired skilled, competent workers to ensure the whisky was treated with the utmost care until it was time for bottling, then shipped out in small, controlled batches.
Gabriel leaned back in the wing chair, gripped the arms with his hands.
“I’ve handled power plays with the different regions of Cosa Nostra several ways over the years.
We talked it out like gentlemen, we negotiated.
On one occasion, I gave them a significant cut of our earnings.
The Bratva don’t talk. No one from their group contacted me.
They just took advantage of my being gone, moved in on my business.
That’s a takeover.” He paused. “It’s time to take back what’s ours, Cosa Nostra way. ”
Affirmatives all around.