21. Matheus
I stretch my body awake and roll over, finding the other side of my bed empty.
My stomach sinks. There”s no naked, sleepy Dani to stroke.
But there is a scribbled note and a streak of blood on her pillow. As if to remind me, the knitting skin on my palm stings when I reach for the piece of paper.
Early morning training. I’ll be around.
P.S. I like your tattoo.
That was it. No signature. No girly kiss at the end. Short and to the point.
It’s still cute though. My woman isn’t the love letter type. Yet she’d left me one.
Sure, there weren’t any doodled hearts or declarations of love, but I can read between the lines. Telling me she’d be around is her indirect way of saying she’d sit on my face later.
I know it.
Part of me was annoyed she’d left without waking me first. And the fact she was outdoors in the morning sunshine––carefree and sweaty on the beach without me, while I have to play at being the big boss––nearly tipped me over the edge.
I suppose I could’ve gone for a run or wrapped my cut hand to lift weights in the home gym. Except, the lack of sleep lately must have caught up with me.
An extra hour in bed was the perfect remedy for putting me right back in the game.
Well, that and hearing those three little words I needed to hear from her. No one else. Just Daniela.
However, leaving a note on her pillow gave me a whole new perspective on where this relationship could go. The grin stayed on my face while I’d showered, stuck a dressing over the cut on my hand, stepped into charcoal suit pants, and tucked in a classic white shirt, leaving the top two buttons undone.
I followed it up with a gun holster and slotted in my loaded matte black revolver like clockwork. Concealing it with a designer blazer, I left my suite behind and headed downstairs to the pale blue breakfast room, only hearing the sound of busy cleaners on my way.
The typical hum of André’s chaos was absent, and an eerie peacefulness had my footfall echoing to the artwork painted on the ceiling.
Sitting at the oval table set for my whole family, I shook out a linen napkin and placed it on my lap. I took in the empty seats to the left and right of me, accepting we’d all need space.
But the emptiness that once plagued me didn’t seem to exist anymore. I was comfortable sipping lemon water and gazing out of the big windows at the morning sunshine.
Tomás and Giovanni were off doing whatever those two do best, and Lola had taken Leo for a walk on the beach with Daenis.
Even André’s right-hand man, Letterman, was a no show for breakfast.
While I should have eaten the food laid out before me, I read a text message from Sinéad instead.
André is out of the intensive care unit and in a private room, on the sixth floor with restricted access.
Relieved by the good news, I called Mama to check in on her, too. Only she didn’t pick up. Probably because she was with the twins and the phone signal in the hospital is shit.
My mama and I have a lot to discuss when André finally wakes up.
I want the truth.
After I’d pushed pink watermelon around a shallow bowl, I asked one of the serving staff to prepare a black coffee for the road and dumped my napkin.
Wandering through the historic residence, smoking a blunt, I’d stopped in the baroque style music room where a glossy white piano sat by the picture window, unused and underappreciated.
I’d sat for a few minutes to play a piece that had stuck in my head from years ago. It certainly wasn’t a musical masterpiece, and I laughed when I hit a few wrong keys, but I liked giving the old thing a purpose again.
I wondered if a home this enormous was necessary. All the grandeur and hollowness, ironically, made the silence too loud.
The 18th-century mansion continued to serve generations of Saporis’, now becoming a lavish prison for one of the most powerful families on the island.
A place where my brother and his wife could roam freely without interference from the outside world. I guess that was the plan until it had backfired.
Eventually, I’d burst out into the mid-morning sunshine and jumped into a waiting SUV, ready to meet with the Zanetti family––long-standing Italian mafioso’s with connections everywhere.
I’m used to wearing smart clothes. I guess you could say it was my signature style once upon a time.
Though these days, I find the extra pockets in utility pants useful and tactical vests less bulky than I’d once imagined. Today, however, I’ve dressed the part for the important role I have to play in my family’s business.
Strangely, I don’t give a fuck about the power it gives me or that Elias Souza is turning in his grave now that I’m stepping into André’s Italian mafia boss shoes.
Over an hour later, the convoy escorting me inland parks outside a sandstone building.
Sun bleached red canopies hang above the windows and the writing on the sign is faded.
I move from shade to sunlight and stroll straight inside the Michelin star restaurant. My security detail follows closely.
Once we’re inside, they give me space.
The modest exterior doesn’t do the decor inside justice. Polished concrete walls are the same muted tone as sand and low ceilings curve into an archway that frames a glass fronted wine cellar.
Greeted by a head waiter in a smart three-piece suit, I let him guide me up a set of sharp-angled block steps, passing unoccupied tables set with fresh ivory linen, crystal clear wine glasses, and shiny copper cutlery.
I expect to smell bread, roasted meat, or some sort of cooked food. Instead, I notice a light floral scent from the modest centerpieces.
“Buongiorno, signore Souza,” welcomes the guy sitting at the table I’m being shown to by the staff.
He sets the phone he was using on the table, sits back in his seat, and runs a hand through thick waves of espresso brown hair, fixing it off his brow.
When I reach him, he rises and holds out his tattooed hand. A fitted black shirt lays open to mid chest, the tails loosely stuffed into snug pinstripe pants and a few gold chains hang around his neck.
His unshorn facial hair is neatly trimmed, and he wears a gold thumb ring on his right hand. I’d say he’s a couple of years older than Tomás at most and every bit as powerful.
“Come stai?” he asks, when we shake hands and then he switches from Italian and asks me how I am in Spanish instead. “Cómo estás?”
“Sto bene, grazie,” I tell him I’m good in his native language and wink.
I have a few languages up my sleeve and being in Sicily for the past few months had given me the opportunity to polish my Italian.
“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, my friend. I’m Rocco Zanetti.” He waves to the seat in front of him. “I’ve heard a lot about your adventures in Sicily. They say that Matheus is the fire starter,” Rocco deadpans.
“Only when it’s necessary.”
“In this business, it is often necessary.” A smile tugs the corners of his mouth as we both make ourselves comfortable. “Unfortunately, my father is unavailable to meet with you today. However, he wanted me to pass on a message.” He scratches his jaw. “We currently have a lot of respect for your family. Sinéad Souza has shown herself to be worthy of the Sapori inheritance. What happened to your brother…was unacceptable.” His head shakes a little. “How is he?”
I know how to dance with motherfuckers like this guy. Mama taught me how to listen and learn. Always keep my cards close to my chest while offering just enough information to make them think I’m amicable.
Rocco hasn’t earned my trust yet. As far as anyone outside of my family is concerned, the Souzas are invincible. And that includes André in his hospital bed.
When a Souza falls, they always rise.
“My brother is a strong fighter. He’ll be leaving the hospital very soon. As you can imagine, I’m keen to exterminate the rat infestation ahead of him being discharged.”
Rocco lightly drums the linen tablecloth with his fingers, quietly considering me.
“Sì,” he agrees, low enough to be heard. “This is why the Zanettis have chosen to stand beside you and offer our support at this time.”
A waiter approaches our table and pours from a bottle labeled Armani into our glasses, respectfully bowing as he backs away. “Sparkling water, signore.”
“Grazie.” I look right at him and nod, then my gaze cuts back to Rocco.
“And in return for your valued support––you would have ours without question.” I cock my head. “Provided the information is accurate, of course.”
“Of course, my friend.” Rocco waves to the waiter across the empty restaurant. “Una bottiglia di Firriato Gaudensius Reserva Vintage, per favore.”
Once the waiter is out of earshot, fetching the bottle of vintage wine, Rocco sits forward and presses his elbows to the table.
“We shall eat before we do business, my friend. Sì?”
Out of respect, I agree and take a sip of water. “I was hoping you’d say that. I’m starving.”
He’s the one proposing a beneficial alliance and offering important information. I’d be rude if I didn’t at least offer him my time. Mama taught me better than to show impatience in business situations.
Course after course, we’re presented with meat and fish dishes, prepared by the head chef. While we eat, the conversation naturally flows from family to our network of entry points throughout Europe used for the distribution of drugs and weapons.
“Okay, Rocco.” I dab each corner of my mouth and set the napkin on the table, ready to get what I came for. “I’m sure you can understand the urgent need to deal with my brother”s sensitive situation. I’d like to end it as soon as possible, so any intel you can provide would be greatly appreciated.”
Rocco knocks back the last of his wine in one long gulp and takes his time to swallow.
“My father met with a very interesting man a few weeks ago. The eldest son of a well-known Colombian businessman.” He puts the glass down, pushes his seat back, and throws his ankle onto the opposite knee, completely relaxed in his surroundings.
“The guy was a show-off. He wanted to buy my father’s respect before earning it. That…” His pointed finger jabs the air. “…is not how we work. The Zanettis pride themselves on having trusted relationships with our associates. You, my friend, took the time to break bread with me. Signore Lozano, however, was not so dedicated to the old ways. And for that reason alone, my father refused to help him. Apparently, his youngest brother was murdered by the Souzas.”
Fabian Lozano…the kid who had an immature plan to rise up from the Souza ashes. Except he underestimated Giovanni––and India.
“Jesus fuck,” I mutter. “They weren’t after André.”
“You appear to have a vermin issue in Italy that won’t go away without a fight. I’d say they’re watching the Souzas very closely. Where your family goes, Lozano’s men will be close. Another hit is imminent, amico mio.”
Rocco dabs his mouth with a napkin. When I shove my chair back and stand, my security guys are quick to respond, as are Rocco’s, who appear from out of nowhere.
“Please excuse me.” I offer him my hand when he rises to match my height, our eyes connecting. “As soon as I have this particular situation under control, I’d like to invite you into our home as a loyal friend. Please let your father know we appreciate his support.”
I’m playing it cool even though my nostrils flare as I breathe deeply and my vision feathers from a dark desire to kill my family”s enemies.
His returning handshake is firm and strong.
“Sì. Of course.”
My chest grows tighter, urgency pumping through my veins when I walk away, burst into the daylight, and dig out my phone.
Immediately, I hit speed dial and pace the front of the restaurant waiting for Giovanni to pick up. He doesn”t.
Squinting in the sunshine, I take a second to think.
“Fuck!” I growl, climbing into the back of the SUV.
Given the fact it’s well after midday, there’s every chance India is sitting with André or watching over the twins.
“We need to get to the hospital,” I bark out the order to my driver. “Step on it.”
I shirk off my jacket and stuff my fingers into my hair, feeling useless. As the convoy rolls forward, I fist the headrest in front of me.
“Go faster, for fuck’s sake. This is an emergency.”
The only other person to call is Tomás––and truth be told, he’s the guy I always phone when there’s trouble. My big brother takes my calls day or night. When I ring, he answers.
As expected, after three rings, Tomás is in my ear. “Mat.”
“Where’s Giovanni?” I ask quickly.
“He’s beside me––why?”
“Where?”
Despite the speed of the SUV blurring the landscape beyond the window, it’s still not going fast enough for my liking. The knot in my stomach is growing tighter by the second.
“We’re back at André’s place, dealing with a few things.”
“Is India with you?”
“No, she’s at the hospital with Carina and Mama. There’s a whole security team there. Why, what’s wrong?” his typically calm tone waivers.
“Tommy…” My breath catches. “The attack was orchestrated by Fabian Lozano’s family. The kid from Blackwater. They were after Indy, not Dré. I’m guessing Gio will be next.”
There’s a commotion on the other end of the phone and all I hear is Tomás yelling at the top of his voice like a god declaring war.
Bringing the phone back to his ear, Tomás speaks to me, his voice hoarse.
“We’re leaving for the hospital now,” he snarls. “Cari…fuck…FUCK!”
“I’m on my way, Tommy. I’ll get there before you. Don’t worry, I’ll protect them. You have my word.”