50. Nero
NERO
Being sober fucking sucks. It happens so infrequently these days, I genuinely forget what viewing the world without an alcohol-induced daze is like. Twice in the same week I’ve been battling that demon.
It makes being unwillingly dragged to the scene so much worse.
“What the fuck am I looking at?”
He grimaces. “You really need me to explain it?”
He doesn’t. The four dead bodies of our soldiers say enough.
I crouch by the nearest one, lifting the arm of a recently trained inductee, to study the stab marks up and down his chest. Four bodies, all with identical wounds. Elio and I check pockets and weapons, searching for anything to indicate their killer.
My head thumps the entire time, both from a hangover and from the hankering for more liquor.
Elio showed up bright and early after receiving a call from one of the other soldiers who discovered them, and was his cheery asshole self at six o’clock when he dragged me out of bed sooner than my body could handle, all without a sip of anything that’ll make being alive tolerable.
Lucky fuckers, I think, standing from my crouch.
“Missing merch and dead soldiers.” They were here to oversee a drug delivery, which the buyers already paid for, so there was nothing to gain by killing our guys.
They’re frequent buyers, too, and they’ve never resorted to violence.
“They killed them and stole what they paid for already. Make that make sense.”
“Maybe this will.” Elio stands from the final body, gripping three bank notes valued at five thousand roubles each—equivalent to one hundred sixty euros.
“Maybe a bet? If Z was gambling with them, he likely had cash from his second home?” It’s a long shot since Zeno doesn’t really gamble, especially with the soldiers, but my head isn’t working well enough to be making sense of anything.
Elio’s frown is expected and causes me to shrug.
“I’m reaching. Makes no sense that our own guys, fresh inductees at that, would have Russian currency in their pockets. ”
“Or be targeted,” he adds, scratching his chin. “What if the money’s a sign? How many of them are secretly pissed their Capo spends half his time out of the country, with the Russian Pakhan of all people?”
Good fuck, if this is all because of who he’s marrying, Zeno will lose his mind.
“There hasn’t been any strife that I’ve caught wind of.” I flick the money. “Maybe they’re trying to pin this on the Bratva?”
He rolls the cash between his fingers. “Two months ago, a weapons shipment went missing. Last month, that major deal with the Triad that Zeno was working on for a while randomly fell through. He assumed it was a business choice on the Triad’s side, but what if it’s more? Something isn’t adding up.”
Because this is exactly what we need after all the other shit.
“If they’re trying to set up the Bratva, they’ve underestimated Z’s love for Vanessa. He’d burn the entire Cosa Nostra before letting anything come between them.”
“Agreed, though…” Elio’s hand shifts to the back of his head before he grimaces and glances up and down the strip of warehouse.
“Between us, Nero? I hate even considering this, but do we know for certain Vanessa isn’t playing the long game?
A year hasn’t even passed since Zeno was attempting to murder her. A vengeful woman can hold a grudge.”
Well aware. I rub my chest, shattered by the lingering effects of another woman’s grudge. The headache, the blissful feeling when the alcohol sucks me into oblivion and makes everything a bit better—it all comes from her.
“I hear you, I do, but no, I don’t think so. She nearly exchanged the Bratva for his life. That seems pretty real to me. Even if it was initially a set-up, she wouldn’t let Lev near Sera. She’d want to be sneaky about how deep her deception went.”
He blows out a breath. “Thank fuck, because even asking that felt treasonous. Understand that everything needs to be examined objectively.”
Arguably, it is treasonous, but since Elio took the Capo role after Giovanni’s death, he comes from a place of care, not doubt.
“It’s why we have you, old man.” I slap his arm to cease his concerns and approach the four bodies. “Do you want to inform the families or should I?”
“So discord within my ranks,” Zeno summarizes later that afternoon through our phone call as I park outside the airport. “Because it couldn’t be a simpler answer.”
“I’ll find them,” I promise, intending to begin it as soon as I return from my unplanned trip that’s been in the works for weeks.
Given that Elio got me before my hand found the nearest bottle, today may be a good time to take advantage of a daylong detox.
“It has to be a team because no way is a single person stealing entire shipments of weapons and drugs and taking down four trained soldiers.”
“A team with means and resources—funds. They would have offered the Triad a better payday to convince them to back out of our deal.”
“No one in our ranks has that kind of money. Maybe an outsider? Either way, somewhere out there, a team of assholes is unimpressed with your upcoming marriage, and they’re making it known.”
A loud thump through the speaker suggests it’s his fist hitting something. “Nothing can be simple.”
“It’s fucked, but we’ll find them before the wedding. I swear it, Z.” I fucking hope it pans out this way, anyway.
“I still want those weapons found, and it feels like we’ve scoured the world for them.
” He sighs through the exaggeration. Our search could only go so far, since looking for illegal weapons would trigger international laws’ attention.
“Figure out what you can, and I’ll draw up a list of anyone who may have an issue with us.
I’ll ask Vanessa about enemies she may have too.
We can’t rule out the team being Russian and hurting our ranks to confuse us.
Keep this between the three of us for now.
I’ll ask Lev to run background checks on anyone we come up with, see if phone records and emails bring up something. ”
“Will do. I’ll start as soon as I’m back.”
There’s a beat of silence before the expected question: “Where are you running off to this time?”
“Cayman Islands.” Again.
More silence. “Why? Haven’t you done enough damage?”
“Because I’m sober and allowed on a flight.” For almost twelve hours now, which is becoming somewhat a record these last two months—minus my recent trip to Moscow and back.
“Be serious.”
“I am.” I slide out of the car and ensure the door shuts loud enough to reach him, so he wraps up the call. “Look, I’m trying.”
“Nero,” he starts low in that don’t make me say it tone he’s so proficient at. “She’ll reach out when she wants to. Don’t push it. Were you really at her show two days ago?”
I blame the roses—the same ones I bought her at Christmas. She’s smart enough to have put it together and undoubtedly went yelling at Zeno for allowing me in Russia and in her vicinity.
I had to.
The flowers, my donation…all for her. An apology while she won’t allow me to give her in person.
“Nero.”
My lungs decompress with a long breath. “As long as you don’t say shit to her, sì.”
It was a risk, and took me days of work-up knowing I’d have to detox myself at some point in order to get on the commercial flight. So I packed a bag and sat in the airport parking lot for hours as my body sweated through the cravings with only the images of her in my mind to get me through.
It worked. Then again, it shouldn’t really be a surprise. She’s always made the cravings go away. Betraying her returned them greater than ever. Thoughts of her help me to the other side.
My body sweat through the trip, and I couldn’t wait to drink again, but once reaching Moscow, the cold grip of addiction released me to her—even if substance addiction doesn’t realistically unwind its binds so cleanly.
There wasn’t a drop required to get me through the performance that had me on the edge of my seat.
Not from her skill, but the fact that after months, she was right there.
My preferred kind of liquor greeted me once returning to Rome.
I missed her so fucking much, and being inside her dressing room that was tainted with everything Anastasia—her clothing, her makeup, her perfume—killed me.
I needed to be sick in a different way before I’d hop a flight and return to her on my knees, pleading for her to take me back.
“She suspects,” he murmurs what I guessed already. “I lied and said you were in Rome since you should have been. Why didn’t you join me when I flew up?”
“Because you’d know I went and could have told her. She wants nothing to do with me, so I’m respecting that. Doesn’t mean I can’t watch from afar.”
He goes silent for another beat, so I collect my bag from the trunk. “Please don’t tell me you’re stalking her or having her followed.”
If only. “I’m not.”
“Alright, so you went to the show, returned, and now are heading to the Cayman Islands, presumably to her padre’s house? What are you looking for exactly?”
“Don’t tell Vanessa, but I’m not sure yet.
Anastasia briefly explained what happened to her.
” In between screams. “Lev called the other day, mentioned they were clearing out his house soon. Last night, I got thinking about Ursin’s journal, the one Vanessa discovered that detailed his plans.
Once, you even located documents in your padre’s desk that listed his larger deals.
The old generation was fuckin’ weird about keeping a paper trail, so maybe hers did the same. ”
His sigh is lost in the crowd of people hugging one another on the curb as I pass by a few small groups and head for the main entrance. “Were you drunk when you came up with this plan?”
“Maybe.”
Another sigh. He should teach a course on the sound of polite aggravation and irritation. “Don’t get arrested. When’s the last time you drank?”
“Does it matter?”
“To me it does.”
“Last night, but not a lot since I returned from Moscow late. Elio dragged me out of the house this morning before I had a sip of anything.”
“Prior to your trip?”
“Dunno. Hours before leaving for Moscow. Withdrawal is a bitch, by the way. The flight sucked.” Maybe I should have flown with Zeno because we’d be on the private jet, where no one cares if I’m passed out intoxicated.
Though, besides the symptoms, it’s been pleasant having a clearer mind.
“So, what you’re saying is you’ve only had a few drinks over the past few days, but have been clean otherwise?”
“Where are you going with this, Z?” My tone sharpens, telling him to back down.
“Nowhere. Making conversation, that’s all.”
“Do it with your fiancée.” I end the call before he finds more reason to dissect the life I’d prefer to burn within.