29. Matteo

29

The Don has several files on Emilio Randazzo, the Sicilian. Thick ones, full of letters and documents, photos, and details of people he's killed or had killed, information about his businesses in Italy and beyond.

The only link the Don still has with Randazzo is a birthplace which both men deserted for more lucrative soil. The Don split from the Cosa Nostra to form Il Consiglio on the East Coast, refusing to burn bridges along the way. Randazzo, on the other hand… The man is a worse psychopath than the Don.

Where Il Consiglio has gone above-board as far as possible and has steered clear from anything under eighteen, that seems to be Randazzo's specialty. Desperate immigrants crossing the Mediterranean disappear, become anonymous organ ‘donors.' Girls and boys are fed into the European sex trafficking rings Randazzo seems to have a stake in. Sicily isn't the bedrock of his crime ring, but he has retired here, out of the fray, under the protection of the Bratva and 'Ndrangheta he's in bed with. Without their protection, there's no chance in hell that the Cosa Nostra would allow him to nest here in his old age. His goons are spread across Europe and killing this man would make chaos erupt through his operations. It's a good thing every police agency in Europe has been on his case too. I'll pull the trigger; they can deal with the aftermath.

The fucker needs to die. Only one problem: I have no idea what he looks like.

Like any crime lord who has blood on his hands and too many enemies to count, his images have been wiped off the internet, and there weren't many to start off with. All I had was a grainy black and white photo to go on, taken on the day of the Don's wedding to my mom. Yep, the Sicilian was there, giving Bianca Randazzo away. Mom told me once she wasn't Randazzo's blood relation, and I never unearthed the whole intricate web around the Sicilian, Don Scalera and Bianca, his ‘donated bride.' Before I had a mind of my own to dig into family history, she had passed away. All I know is that Mom was part of the truce between the Don and Emilio Randazzo, a human barrier to guarantee no further bloodshed between the families. The photo only shows Emilio Randazzo's profile, a mustache hiding his mouth as it droops down the sides, a diamond earring in his lobe. He has a notch in his ear, a triangular cut-out, as if someone marked him like cattle.

That's a lot to go on, but not enough.

I walk into a restaurant in Catania, one of those popular family places that caters for tourists. The space is already filling up with families after a long day at the beach. Younger kids are nagging, older kids are finally on their phones, blocking out the rest of the world. It can't get safer than this. My security detail has been all over the place, and the men I have with me have been under Burley's watch for years. I'm good.

Tasha is safe.

The mere thought of her makes me groan. No amount of ‘disciplining' is going to tame that one. It might only make her wilder. Which is a fucking turn-on.

A man rises from a corner table, and I recognize him from various intelligence reports Dominic's team has been working on the past few weeks. My mole is one of Randazzo's right-hand men, one of those who has been crossed too many times. Asked too much of, pushed too far. A mole the Don has been nurturing for years. Groomed almost. Yep, the Don plays a long game.

We shake hands, not acknowledging each other by name. He's on my team now, as we've guaranteed him protection when shit hits the fan.

I sit down and he takes an envelope from his inner jacket pocket. "Keys, remotes, codes, house plan, garden map, guard rotation, everything your brother asked for. Also, weapons caches. There are several marked."

"Thank you." Walking into Randazzo's compound is going to be the easy part; coming out is always the fuckup waiting to happen. I open the envelope and peer inside. Photos. I pull one out halfway, just to see what I'm working with. I blink. Emilio Randazzo. The Sicilian. An old man now, smiling at the camera in a way that makes a shiver run down my spine. His face is turned slightly to the side, showing off his diamond earring and the notch in his ear. This old man's face is familiar in a weird way I can't pinpoint.

I've seen him before, I just don't know where. It's more than just a synapse connection my brain has made with the wedding image from the Don's files. I shove the photo back into the envelope. "This is enough to go on."

"Good."

"You'll be there?" I ask, knowing this guy is risking his life as a security detail going rogue.

He nods and I stand. Our business is concluded for now. Normally I don't trust men off the bat, but this one defected to the Don years ago. He's been feeding the Don information for years and has earned our trust. Best of all, this mole was primed by Randazzo himself: in our world, you don't kidnap a man's older sister, force her into prostitution, and think a much younger brother forgets. A brother you've left for dead. We all make mistakes and at some point, they catch up with us. This one is the Sicilian's catch-up.

Tasha is mine. A mistake waiting in the wings to fuck me over.

As I walk out into the early evening heat, I nod towards my crew who have blended into the surroundings. The car is waiting. I can go back to her and the old family house and relax. My ‘meeting' with Randazzo is planned for tomorrow. He might already know that I've landed. That a Scalera has entered his sacred Sicilian territory. He could preempt me by killing me before we can ever meet face to face. In fact, I know this is what the Don would do. Kill first and don't bother to ask questions. I might come in ‘peace,' but Randazzo didn't get where he is today by taking things at face value.

I don't trust myself around Tasha, not after what happened earlier, and her sassy promises, promises she threw at me. That mouth needs cock and will get it if I don't hold back. I won't be able to stay away from her, and that's what I need now. Distance. Going back to the house, even with all those empty rooms, isn't an option.

The night is young, and so am I. Fuck, this might be the last night I'm alive. Shit could go south tomorrow, and I'm not bulletproof.

I get into the back seat and lean over to the driver. "Take me to a night club."

"What type of night club?" the driver asks, his eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror. "It's a bit early."

"One with strippers and other services." The type of club that doesn't keep hours and the last type of club a newly married man in love should be visiting. Not that I care. I'm only living up to my reputation.

May the word spread so that the Sicilian can know I'm the real deal.