52. Tomas
52
TOMAS
A sniper is shooting at us.
In Valencia.
I roll us under the nearest stone bench. The sniper is firing from one of the large, arched windows on the upper floors. The tree foliage is interfering with his or her line of sight and the fountain in the middle of the courtyard acts as another barrier, but we’ve still been immensely lucky not to have already been hit.
He fires again, and a piece of marble chips off the fountain. My heart spikes in panic. My thoughts race. Gabriel d’Este does not allow violence in his city. Who would be stupid enough to ignore his edict and risk his wrath?
Is Vidone Laurenti truly this desperate? But he has to know that this attack won’t do anything. Even if he succeeds in getting rid of me, Ali isn’t going to meekly offer herself up as Damir Malinov’s bride. Even if I die here, she will not be unprotected. Antonio Moretti will not stand aside and watch her get married off to Malinov against her will. Of that, I’m sure.
Or is this Gabriel’s doing? That unwelcome thought burrows in my head. Is this payback because I don’t want to work for the d’Este family any longer? But that doesn’t make any sense. If Gabriel d’Este wanted me dead, I’d already be rotting in the ground. And if the padrino believed that d’Este was still holding a grudge, he would have never let us come to Valencia.
Who, then? Who do I have to kill? Laurenti, d’Este, or someone else?
My thoughts are churning so much that I don’t realize at first that the shots have stopped. But they have. I wait for a good five minutes and then roll off Alina. “Sorry,” I murmur, every nerve in my body on edge. “I didn’t mean to squash you.”
“You didn’t.” Her breathless voice makes a lie of her words. “Is it safe to get up, do you think? Or is the sniper biding his time?”
“The sniper is dead,” a man’s voice says calmly. “It’s safe to get up.”
Gabriel d’Este. I spring to my feet and move. Before he can say another word, before he can even react, I have a knife to his throat. “Tell me,” I growl. “Was this you? Are you responsible for this?”
He freezes. “There are three guns trained on you right now, Tomas,” he says. “You won’t survive this. Put down the knife, please, unless you want to die.”
“I might not survive it, but neither will you. Answer my question.”
“No, of course I didn’t have anything to do with this,” he says, the impatient edge in his voice hard to miss. “I understand your fiancée has been shot at and you’re not thinking clearly, but come on. Do you really think I’m stupid enough to send a sniper after you, watch them fail, and then show up in person, putting myself at risk, all for the dubious pleasure of shooting you myself? Don’t be a fucking idiot, Tomas, you’re better than this. The hospital your mother works at bears my name. I’m the biggest investor in your sister’s restaurant. If I wanted you dead, it would have already happened.”
The adrenaline slowly fades. Gabriel’s right; it’s not him. Then who? I let my hand drop and slacken my grip around his throat.
He pulls away from me, putting some distance between us. “Please drop the knife,” he says. “My security team can be somewhat trigger-happy, and I really don’t want to be responsible for your death.”
I let the knife fall to the ground and kick it toward him. D’Este picks up the weapon and makes a covert hand sign. I half-expect a hail of shots to ring out, but to my shock, nothing happens. He must have asked his security team to stand down.
Gabriel turns to Alina. “Senorita Zuccaro,” he starts, but Alina isn’t paying attention. Her eyes are fixed on my arm. “You’re bleeding,” she gasps. “One of the bullets must have hit you.”
I look down. “It’s just a flesh wound.”
“It’s just a…” Her eyes widen in outrage. “Tomas, you got shot. Why are you so calm about it? Is this a daily occurrence for you?”
“Every other day,” I quip. I turn to Gabriel. I pulled a weapon on Gabriel d’Este in the heart of his city. What the hell was I thinking? “Sorry about that. You’re right, I wasn’t thinking clearly.” I start thinking now. I’ve been assuming that I’m the target. But it doesn’t add up. Laurenti is many things, but he hasn’t survived over three decades in the mafia by being stupid. If Gabriel blacklisted VDL, they wouldn’t be able to get their money laundered, and the organization would be in deep trouble. Vidone wouldn’t make such a rookie move.
But if I wasn’t the target, it was Alina.
Then, it all comes to me in a flash. All the information was right there—I just had to put it together.
The Kutuzovo OPG had a deal with Vidone Laurenti, but Antonio had been surprised by that. What were his exact words? ‘I’m surprised Kutuzovo has time to flirt with Italy; I thought they needed all their resources to keep the Sidorov Bratva at bay.’
And Vidone’s daughter Sabrina died under suspicious circumstances.
Of course. It was Kutuzovo OPG—and their pakhan Gregori Malinov—who had Sabrina killed so that they could get out of the deal with Laurenti. When they found out that Vidone had another daughter for Damir Malinov to marry, they targeted her, too.
“Under the circumstances, your reaction was understandable,” Gabriel says with a wave of his hand. “I take it from your expression you’ve figured out who’s responsible for this attack.”
It’s not the father; Gregori Malinov is in Russia. It’s the son.
I nod tightly. “I need Damir Malinov’s address.”