34. Matteo

34

I should have chartered a helicopter. Driving is fucking killing me right now, especially since Tasha traveled on a speedboat where there's no traffic to contend with.

If Randazzo has been keeping an eye on my place, the most logical thing for him to do when he captures a rogue unit jumping randomly off a cliff is to take her in for interrogation. Now the clock is ticking, with her probably being tortured, while I'm stuck behind some fucked-up camper van that drives half the speed limit. My driver understands the urgency, but crashing won't help Tasha either.

I've calculated everything to the T for this meeting, and now have to deal with a curveball I didn't anticipate. Never mind dealing with the Sicilian once and for all, my focus is on saving Tasha first. The last thing I want for her is to become one of the women at the club last night. Without a doubt, Randazzo will slot her right in, drugged until it's the only way she can function, her spirit broken.

I have to get Tasha back. Should I get to eliminate Randazzo in the process, I'll consider myself lucky.

I have the best luck.

And Burley is here. He's been stretching and fisting his fingers a thousand times since we clambered into the car. He has murder on his mind. I might adjust the initial plan just to accommodate him.

There's a gap and the driver speeds past the camper van, and suddenly the road is open. Two other cars are backing us up; men I would have had with me in any case.

By the time we approach the compound an hour later, every scenario has replayed in my mind. I have to keep my cool. Stick to the original story. I'm here to sell the family farmhouse, I brought my wife on our honeymoon, the Don wants to have a clean cut with his past. I've been sent as emissary to come in peace as the Don is dying.

A security checkpoint at the gate keeps us for twenty minutes as they search every fucking nook and cranny of the car for weapons, the undercarriage for bombs and scan us for weapons too, airport style. They confiscate our phones and I protest, but I expected this. My phone is only a decoy, but Randazzo clearly lives on the edge. He must be a nervous guy.

We drive on, the house coming into view behind an artificial hill, landscaped for maximum privacy. The sea is right there, an escape route we've considered but the mole told us that it's too risky.

The driver parks in the circular driveway and I pop the car door open with a final nod at Burley. He'll be right behind me. Randazzo won't deny me all my men. We're the fucking Mafia, after all.

I button my jacket as I wait for Burley to circle the car, taking in the place. It's a classic Italian villa, glaringly white in the warm summer splendor, with a shocking pink bougainvillea in full bloom stretching over a pagoda, reminding me of Tasha's ripped dress.

Tasha. When the fuck did she happen?

Another armored guard appears at the front door and nods at us to follow. We don't speak as we enter the lion's den, but then, Burley and I don't need to talk to communicate. As we walk through the house, my gaze flits over the interior, making connections to what I studied last night. I've clipped two weapon caches to my memory by the time we've walked the sprawling mansion to the back veranda.

A grey-haired man is sitting at a table, a closed laptop in front of him, staring at the expanse of the garden. He is wearing a black polo shirt and chinos, as if he just got back from a round of golf. That diamond in his lobe and the ear notch confirms my target. He doesn't even look in my direction, not until I'm right in his peripheral.

When our gazes meet, I'm flooded by this feeling that I know this man from somewhere, from some previous life. Those eyes, the dark brown of my own, so Italian, but the shape… it's like looking into my own eyes.

Can't be.

"Matteo Scalera," he says, studying me keenly. "I've been expecting you."

"I did make an appointment." So yes, it follows that he's been expecting me.

Randazzo chuckles. "Sit, mio figlio. To think Don Scalera took so long to send you to me."

"Don Randazzo," I say, following his lead and not shaking hands, but rather sitting down next to him. Burley has my back, and in the corner of my eye I see the mole, there where he guards Randazzo from the shadows.

"I'd stand to embrace you, but my leg—" He waves in general. "An old bullet wound is playing up more and more nowadays."

Good. "I'm sorry to hear that." And I'm not a fucking hugger. I had an arsenal of small talk prepped to lure this man into a false sense of security, but now there's only one thing I want to know. "I believe you have something that belongs to me."

He laughs, and the sound makes me want to crush his throat with my fist. "She claims she isn't your wife. Fresh-faced and feisty by the looks of it. Something to tame. It's always been my preference. It runs in the Randazzo blood."

I shift in my seat, plugging my rage. "I'll do the taming. And for that I need to see her and take her home."

He shrugs, bobbing his head as if he is hemming and hawing. "I wasn't under the impression that you were coming to see me because I have your wife."

"And I won't tell you my business until I'm sure she's safe." We're negotiating. Soon there's going to be a middle school staring contest, which I'll blast the fuck out of him once I have a gun.

He nods. "Fair enough." He pulls his laptop closer and opens the screen. "Let's see how your pretty little wife is doing. A wife who jumps off cliffs to get away from her husband. I'd love to hear what you did to her to make her do something so drastic."

I close my eyes, forcing myself not to tense up and show my hand. The man is a fucking psycho, but I knew that.

"Here she is." Randazzo turns the screen to me, and my eyes home in on Tasha. Gagged. Hands tied above her head. Legs tied to something straight out of a gynecologist's toolkit, spread with a head leaning in between her thighs. The head looks up and a tattoo gun comes into view.

That perfect sweet little pussy, marked.

Behind me, I feel every muscle in Burley's body tense to snapping point.

I splay my fingers together as I rest my elbows on the tabletop. I press my forefingers to my lips, forcing myself to breathe. "You've gagged her," I say, softly, calmly.

"She was screaming, ruining my peace and quiet."

Which means she's here, in the compound.

"And then you tied her up."

Randazzo shrugs. "For the tattoo artist's sake. The girls aren't always willing, and I like things done… neatly."

"I see. So do I."

He beams. The decrepit fucker actually beams. "Another sign?—"

"Mostly." I interrupt him, not wanting to hear another word from his mouth. "I think you won't appreciate this then. It isn't going to be my finest work." I pull back and with all the force in me, punch him in the face.

His nose cracks and he rears back, shocked. Nobody moves except Burley. The mole doesn't come to Randazzo's aid. Shutters roll down, blocking the guards on the inside of the house from rushing out. The guards in the garden are too far off to realize there's a commotion. The two other guards in the vicinity are on the mole's side and only look on. Already Burley's thick hands are around the Sicilian's neck, pressing, blocking any sound but a strained gargle that comes from his throat as blood seeps from his nose into his mouth, staining his bared teeth.

Randazzo reaches for Burley's hands to pull him off, but the old man is no match for this giant. I stand and go to Randazzo's side, blocking what's happening from view on the garden's side. We are efficient and quiet. The garden birds haven't stopped chirping, music in his final minutes.

The mole comes out of the shadows and hands me a knife. I pinch Randazzo's notched ear and start to slice. He buckles in his seat, but if I were him, I'd save my oxygen. Already his face is flushed an unhealthy red.

"That's for gagging my wife," I say as I put the ear in my side pocket. Still he struggles as I reach over and slice off his other ear. "That's for tying her up." With the pressure on his throat, the blood pours out at speed. His eyes are bulging, and I dip in the tip of the knife and dig one out. "That's for looking at my wife's pussy."

I pocket his eye, wondering if I should bother with the other. The man is so to say dead. Still he fucking gargles, as if I care. That brown eye stares at me, bloodshot now, incredulous and petrified. Staring at me like every victim of his must have stared death in the face. Meh. They come in pairs. I dig the other eye out and pocket it. "And that's for inking her."

I nod to Burley and he intensifies his hold. Blood is oozing out of every hole I've made. I stare at the hand, the desperate grip that's weakening. I pick out his little finger, the one with the ring bearing his insignia, the fucking mark he had tattooed on Tasha's pure skin. With a surgeon's precision, I cut it off, final proof for the Don.

Randazzo heaves and shudders one last time. Burley relaxes.

I stand back and look at my handiwork.

Murder.

Is.

Art.