Chapter 19
ETHAN
After hanging up with Olivia, I stood in the crappy apartment the CIA had leased for my cover, and the odd tension lingered in me. I trusted Fletcher, but I didn’t like her out of my sight. Crawling out of that bed with her had been difficult.
“Is it finished?” Gio snapped at me when I finally called.
“They’re secure, but I’ll need more time to get it done completely.” Making bodies disappear wasn’t normally an easy task, and I hoped he wouldn’t press for details.
“How much time?”
“A day.”
“Fine.” He sounded irritated. “But my father wants to speak with you first. Where are you?”
Twenty minutes later, I ducked into the large back seat of Vitale’s limo, and the car was in motion as soon as I had the door shut.
Vitale Abramo was an elegant man with sharp eyes and a cruel mouth. He was in his late fifties, but didn’t look it. He seemed like he took care of himself. A calculating and exacting man.
Gio, however, looked like an exhausted, strung-out mess. He sat on the seat beneath the dividing wall, his eyes shifting hesitantly from me, to his father, and back again. There were no introductions. Vitale’s discerning gaze assessed me quickly. “Can you tell me what happened to Renzo Librizzi?”
Gio fidgeted. He hadn’t had time to work out his story with me, and had probably been under his father’s watchful eye ever since arriving.
“Giovanni killed him,” I said, savoring the sharp intake of breath from the younger Abramo. “But he didn’t have a choice.”
“Why do you say this?” Vitale’s gaze snapped to his son, who stared back at me with murderous rage.
“Renzo fought with your son the entire flight to Dakar,” I explained. “It escalated, and guns were involved. Giovanni didn’t have another option.”
Chances were, Vitale would believe this lie, especially since most of it was true. He knew his son and Renzo hated each other, and that they were both impulsive. But he would need justification over losing his assistant.
“Who drew their gun first?” he asked.
Gio and I answered together. “Renzo.”
Vitale’s piercing eyes didn’t faze me, but they sure as hell scared his son. “Why didn’t you tell me this?”
“I was worried,” Gio said. “I thought you might not believe me.”
Vitale pressed his fingertips together. “My staff?”
“Unfortunately,” I said, “they witnessed it. They won’t be talking about it, and don’t worry about where they are.”
The sneer on his face was ugly and threatening. “A man like me is smart to keep worries.”
“I understand. As I’m sure you understand why I need to keep some worries as well.” In case Gio or Vitale got any bright ideas about eliminating me.
The sneer faded from Vitale’s expression and was replaced with something that looked like disappointment. “Did it bother you? Cleaning up after my son’s . . . lapse in judgment?”
The pointed question was not lost on his son, who stared at the floor like the carpet was goddamn fascinating.
“No,” I said. “I should have taken Renzo’s gun before he threatened Gio.” If I’d done that, Olivia’s co-workers would still be alive. Their deaths were my fault, all because I’d been too concerned with getting her away from the Abramos.
“I cared for Renzo, like one of my own. You must know this,” Vitale lectured. “Was it quick?”
Gio gave a hurried nod.
“Well, then,” he continued, “he was a fool to pull on you.” The older man straightened the black silk tie around his neck that was tucked into the vest of his gray three-piece suit.
His gaze wandered away from us and out the window to the storm clouds that were rolling in overhead. “Renzo will be hard to replace.”
I had proven I could be trusted, was willing to get my hands dirty, and able to follow orders.
The Abramos didn’t handle the nasty stuff—they had their underlings take care of it.
In fact, chances were that Vitale didn’t carry a gun.
He didn’t need to. The most vile and creative orders came from the man controlling the money, and that made him the most dangerous of all.
And South Africa had proven that turning Gio was unlikely to help with the Serbian terrorist cell the CIA was most concerned with. Vitale played a larger game that his son wasn’t in on. At least Renzo’s death could work in my favor, if I could get the head of the Abramo family to trust me.
“What about my plane?”
“It happened outside, so only the luggage compartment will need some,” I searched for the right word, “attention. It shouldn’t impact your schedule.” It took twice as much effort to act natural, and hide my interest while speaking another language, but I did my best. “Are you traveling soon?”
“I’m going to Germany,” Gio announced, “to find out who killed my brother.” His gaze shifted back to his father. “Getting close will be a challenge. The video in that town square made them famous, and the younger one used to be a police officer.”
Vitale glared at his son. Shut the fuck up. He did not approve of Gio being so forthcoming with a man he’d just met and barely trusted.
I channeled all my energy into remaining indifferent, but beneath my shirt, I broke out into a sweat. “Famous?” I played dumb. “Are you talking about the Dunns?”
That couldn’t happen. They’d been through hell, and the Abramos needed to stay the fuck away from them. Plus, Olivia was currently on Shawn Dunn’s plane.
For the second time since meeting her, I considered putting what I wanted above the mission.
“The bullet pulled from Constantine’s body wasn’t traceable,” Vitale said. “The Hayward woman knows what happened. Giovanni will go to Munich and ask her.”
Fuck.
Gio’s focus sharpened on me. “Carlo, the man you replaced, doesn’t speak German. Do you?”
My throat was unbearably tight. “Yes.”
A stack of euros was shoved in my hand. “Then, do what you need to with the bodies, and meet me in Munich tomorrow.”