16. Adriano
Chapter sixteen
Adriano
Someone had tried to kill her. Again.
When we were summoned from New Orleans, Lorenzo said that they’d traced the death threats to a small mafia whose don, Dean Rossi, had murdered years back.
Enzo had supposedly sent some men to wipe out the rest of the family, so who were the people who tried to murder her only two days ago?
I’ll find those cowards, whoever they are, and take care of them myself.
I rub a rough palm over my face, exhaling deeply.
I had sent Francesco to Harvard again to find the consigliere after his first unsuccessful attempt.
One of my men, whom I had ordered to take his place keeping an eye on Elena, suddenly called my phone, screaming, “Code red, code red, Capo!” And then he went silent.
Instantly, I jumped in my car and drove down there like a fucking madman. As soon as I parked, I heard the gunshots.
There was a sniper on the roof, with clearly only one person as their target.
I had no choice but to go in, but before I did, I sent the fucking sniper to hell.
Seeing her scrambling around, eyes wide with fear, an irritating wave of guilt washed over me instantly. I hated it. But the urge to protect her was fucking overwhelming.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Straightening the sleeves of my shirt, I grab my arsenal and head out of my bedroom to the dining room. But that does nothing to stop the images of a crying Elena invading my mind.
And… how I’d fucked her senseless.
Inhaling sharply, I shake my head. I’d brought Elena home with me simply for protection. But when Francesco found out and asked me ‘why,’ I wasn’t sure I still had the real answer.
Taking her from danger to protect her is care—
A scoff escapes my lips as a vibration from my pocket pulls me out of my head.
All I wanted… still want… is her damn gorgeous body. And if that comes with protecting her, then it’s to my advantage. Nothing more.
Reaching into my pocket for my phone, I see Francesco’s name on the screen and swipe to respond.
“Parla con me (Talk to me).”
“Capo, Valente just left his villa in a black sedan. There are five cars flanking his.”
Hmmm. The man seems truly formidable, but he’s not half as impressive as the silent precursor.
“Stagli addosso (Tail them closely). Vi aspetto a Queens (I’ll be in Queens waiting).”
“Sì, Capo.”
Francesco and I evaluated this kidnapping as the most dangerous but feasible way to reach Valente. Three of my snipers are already positioned at strategic locations in Queens. One wrong move and all of Valente’s men are dead meat.
The only downside to this plan is that a lot of innocent people are going to get hurt… but only if Valente puts up resistance.
I finally reach the dining room. I grab an apple and some toast from the table as another idea starts to form in my head.
Nothing can go wrong with Valente’s operation.
***
The midday sun is fucking blinding, just like my need to burn every single bastard who butchered my family.
Sweat trickles slowly down my spine and the sides of my face. My arms are crossed over my chest, my gun tucked securely into my waistband, and my baseball cap pulled low over my face as I lean against the temporary barricade set up by my men.
They’re in reflective vests, moving around with lazy efficiency, signaling away civilian cars with the “Closed Road” sign in their hands.
The drivers blare their horns and curse at us, but they all reverse to take the detour, except for the black Mercedes inching slowly toward us.
My lips curl menacingly without the smile reaching my eyes. This is a trap, and Valente’s men just walked directly into it.
One of my men flags down the first escort vehicle, walking over to the driver, whose window slowly winds down to reveal his ugly face.
“You should turn around. The road’s closed.”
The driver snarls at him, “Road looks fine to me. Take the barricade out.”
This one is definitely looking for trouble.
Another man steps down from the car behind the escort vehicle. That should be the car Valente’s in.
He walks until he’s nose-to-nose with my man. “Do we have a problem?”
It’s time. Signaling my men with one flick of my forefinger, they spring into action, and suddenly the air is filled with the deafening sound of gunfire and the smell of gunpowder. My men easily outnumber his security detail as we catch them by surprise.
I move stealthily toward Valente’s car, snatching the shirt of the guard who’d been harassing my man and smashing my fist into his face.
Blood spurts from his nose and mouth as I shove him into the path of one of my other men; he’s not my main target.
I grab the handle of the car, reaching into it for Valente, who’s smartly trying to make his way out the other door.
A bullet tears through the car door inches from my head. Fucking annoyed, I grab onto Valente with one hand, signaling Francesco with my head to come and take him to the designated spot. Through the tinted window’s reflection, I immediately locate the source of the shot.
My jaw ticks when my eyes locate one of Valente’s men firing wildly, eyes wide, chest heaving up and down in fear. Fucking coward.
I put a round through his thigh with my other hand. He drops, screaming, his gun skidding across the asphalt.
Another man ducks behind the car, trying to reload his gun. He must be targeting Francesco, since he’s crossing over the road with Valente now.
My fingers close around the trigger, hitting him square in the shoulder. He collapses to the ground.
My men have taken care of the other potential threats, so I make my way behind Francesco, my crew flanking me.
***
The smell of mold and dust hits me as soon as Francesco kicks the door to the shed open. Valente stumbles in, his boots scraping concrete as Francesco shoves him forward. I’d called in a favor with a contact in Queens, and they let me use this shed for my brief ‘meeting.’
My father had two close friends when he was alive, and I knew both of them by sight: Dean Rossi and Valente Ricci. They used to be three fearsome men when it came to both looks and deeds.
The man before me right now is a shadow of who I knew him to be. He once had rich, brown hair, but now he’s bald, his face deeply etched with wrinkles.
He’s still very well put together in his white suit and dark sunglasses, but without the shield of his entourage, I wonder if he’s still as tough.
My eyes run over him, stopping briefly at a nasty gash bleeding across his forehead now, the dark red staining the white of his suit jacket. His lower lip is also busted, blood pooling at the corner of his mouth. He struggles in vain to twist out of Francesco’s grip. Pathetic.
My knuckles flex at my side, eager to ram into his rib cage, but I still my fingers. He’s an old man, and moving without caution could do irreparable damage before I get the answers I came for.
“Any casualties?” I turn my eyes to Francesco, my jaw tightening.
“None, Capo.”
I tilt my head slightly, satisfied. “Mmm.”
Valente wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, winces, then glares at me. Anger flares behind the pain in his eyes.
Good!
“I hear you’re Bellandini’s son,” he says roughly.
I let the silence sit between us, my eyes holding his gaze without flinching until he gets uncomfortable and looks down.
“You hear correctly,” I say, pacing slowly around him. My fingers brush over a rake handle, then a shovel, and I struggle not to grab one to smash the fucker’s skull open. “And you must’ve heard you’re not here to ask questions.”
He scoffs, blood flecking his teeth. “What’s this about?”
“Five years ago.” I stop right in front of him, chin dipping, eyes lifting beneath my brows. “My father was accused of sabotaging a potential deal, and because of that, his entire family was massacred.”
He adjusts his stance, squaring his shoulders. “Unfortunate.”
I reach out to adjust his collar with slow, mocking precision. “I know you forged the evidence you handed Dean Rossi.”
He blanches, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. Then he does something I already anticipated. He moves swiftly, snatching a gun from his waistband, but at the same instant, I ram one hand against his throat and slam the other down to block his pathetic attempt.
My hand clamps around his throat, squeezing until I see his eyes bulge. The gun in his hand clatters to the ground as I tighten my grip around his wrist, and Francesco picks it up instantly.
I draw my Glock, cock it, and press the muzzle hard against his temple, eliciting a defeated groan from him.
“Shut up.”
His feeble fingers scratch weakly at my hand, which is completely locked around his windpipe. “Don’t fucking play with me.” My tone drops dangerously. “The only reason you’re still breathing is because I don’t want a war just yet.”
He closes his eyes, coughing violently as I release him from the chokehold.
“I forged it,” he gasps.
I press the muzzle harder into his skin, smearing the cold steel in his blood.
“Keep talking.”
“Look, at the time I made a mistake, okay? I’d aligned with the ex-police commissioner who brought the deal to us behind Dean and Marco’s backs.” His face suddenly pales. “He promised me… and my mafia, special political immunity. And it was something I needed at the time.”
My teeth grit against my jaw. I’d have called him a pathetic old man, but that doesn’t even begin to cover it. He’s a conniving bastard.
“Where did my father come in?” I growl.
“Oh, Marco Bellandini. He was a good man, but he began making too much noise about how Victor Caughn didn’t even exist, and when the ex-police commissioner found out, he threatened the promise I was holding on to.
He said the only way was to frame Marco for contacting federal agents, claiming he planned to expose the entire association we had going on.
I didn’t ask Dean to kill him, but we swore an oath to be bound in the association or be killed. ”
My lips press into a thin line. It makes much more sense now.
“But I promise, I can help you find the man who created all of this chaos. Just let me go…”
“Oh yes, you’ll find the man,” I say menacingly, dragging him by his collar until we’re eye-to-eye. “Because if you don’t, I’ll be the one to end your already miserable life.”
With nothing left to say, I let Valente go, watching him scamper out of the shed. Then, I turn to Francesco.
“Put surveillance on him. We want to be sure he won’t run or pull something sketchy.”