Malavita (21 page)

Halfway through his cover story—home from university, lost the key to the outside door, parents on vacation—Signora Passerini let him in. He stepped inside the vestibule and slipped out his gun, attaching the silencer as he headed for the stairs.

He bypassed the noisy wire-cage elevator and took the wide stone stairs at an easy jog—enough to raise his heart rate and dispel some nervous energy, but not enough to put him out of breath. He slowed when he reached the third floor, and ascended the rest slowly, careful not to make a sound.

The fourth floor was hushed as a tomb, yet the air felt charged, expectant, and Enrico’s chest tightened. He hated everything about the atrium layout.

The setup was horrible for someone breaking into an apartment. If anyone heard anything, or happened to be coming or going, he’d be easily spotted. There was absolutely no way to conceal himself or minimize his exposure—other than through the time of day he chose.

Enrico and his brothers had all learned to pick locks as kids—a skill their father had deemed necessary for any Mafioso—and Enrico had given himself a refresher last night and the night before. He hurried to 406 and slipped his toolkit from his pocket, temporarily stowing the gun.

Gingerly inserting the tools in the lock, he manipulated them delicately, feeling the tumblers moving into place, wincing with each soft click. If Gennaro were still awake, he might hear. Finally the lock gave way. He stashed the tools and pulled his gun again, easing the door open.

After a few centimeters, the door stopped short. Gennaro had put a chain in place.

Fuck. Fortunately, he’d planned for such a thing, but it was just one more delay, one more opportunity to get caught. One more opportunity to let Gennaro know he was coming.

Stowing the gun again, he pulled out the cutters he’d brought. They weren’t quite up to the task, but he hadn’t wanted to deal with bulky—and obvious—bolt cutters. He had to snip the chain half a link at a time—two careful cuts, but the broken pieces fell to the marble floor with clinks that echoed.

His heart beating like a terrible drum, Enrico switched the cutters for the gun, and opened the door the rest of the way.

He was going in blind, with no idea of the layout. Gun drawn, he stepped into a narrow corridor and carefully closed the door behind him, not wanting some early bird to come nosing around.

Stopping, he listened, every cell on alert. Nothing.

In the dim light, he could see a living space ahead, an open doorway to his right, most likely the kitchen, then another opening beyond that where the corridor branched.

For a moment, he stood rooted to the spot, his breathing shallow, quick, almost on the verge of panic. Gennaro knew he was coming. He was going to get killed. He’d been a fool to think he could ever pull this off.

He forced himself to take a deep breath and blow it out.
Come on, Rico
. Shifting his weight to the balls of his feet, he crept down the hallway, doing a quick sweep of the kitchen when he reached it. Empty.

He peered into the living room, the shadows starting to lift as dawn approached, the sun’s faint glow coming through the large windows that lined the far wall and the double glazed doors that led to the outside balcony. Nothing there either.

His pulse kicked into overdrive as he turned down the hallway. Three doors opened onto it, the first two ajar, the last one, the far one, closed. Most likely that was Gennaro’s bedroom, and if Enrico were lucky, Gennaro would be asleep.

Enrico swept the first two rooms—one a small bath, the other a simple office—before continuing to the bedroom. He’d just about reached the door when his right foot made several loud pops as he stepped down.

As he looked for the cause—the floor was strewn with bubble wrap—he heard the unmistakable sound of a shotgun being racked. He dove for the floor as a blast opened up a half-meter wide hole in the bedroom door.

Without thinking, Enrico scrambled over to the hole and peered in. He could see Gennaro holding the shotgun, half-dressed, his hair mussed. The man had been sleeping perhaps, but his trick with the bubble wrap had worked.

Gennaro saw him and raised the heavy gun. It was now or never. Enrico stuck the Beretta through the door and shot Gennaro in the abdomen. The man fell to one knee, but managed to raise the gun, and Enrico rolled out of the way just before another blast took off the lower half of the door.

“Fuck you, Lucchesi!” the man shouted.

Gennaro had to reload now—he’d been overconfident in his choice of weapon. Enrico rolled back and took aim through the splintered remnants of the door, the scent of gunpowder thick in the air.

Gennaro was shoving two more shells in the gun, and had it loosely pointed in Enrico’s direction. Any second he’d be ready to fire again. This one had to count.

Holding the Beretta in both hands, Enrico blew out and aimed, then squeezed the trigger.

The shot caught Gennaro in the throat instead of the face. Enrico must have tensed when he pulled the trigger. Gennaro pitched forward, clawing at his throat, and Enrico whipped open the door and stepped inside, advancing on Gennaro like an avenging angel.

A horrible sucking noise came from the man’s throat, and blood poured down his chest. Gennaro let out a hoarse moan, his eyes widening with fear, and Enrico froze. But his brothers, his mother, had no doubt looked at this man with the same terror on their faces, and
he
hadn’t stopped. Gennaro had shown them no mercy.

And neither should Enrico.
An eye for an eye
. He raised the Beretta and sighted on Gennaro’s forehead. “Only scum kill women and children,” he said before pulling the trigger.

The horrible sucking sound ceased, but Enrico’s ears rang from the shotgun blasts. He stared at Gennaro for a moment, then he heard a commotion outside the apartment. He was trapped. Any second now, the
polizia
or
carabinieri
would arrive. And he refused to kill any of the innocent people outside.

There was only one way out. He ran to the living room and unlocked the double glazed doors, then stepped out onto the stone balcony. He’d considered coming in this way, but had deemed it impossible without bulky climbing equipment. No choice now.

When he reached the far end of the balcony, he saw the window beside it that opened onto the staircase. There’d be quite a drop from the window to the landing, but if he were careful, he’d be okay.

Lowering himself over the side of the railing, he kicked out the pane. Now came the hard part—getting through the window without plunging to the pavement below.

He swung one foot, then the other onto the narrow sill, then leaned forward and grabbed the window frame with his left hand. With a muttered prayer, he pushed off from the balcony and felt one terrifying moment when his center of gravity was against him, before his momentum pitched him forward and he was able to grasp the frame with his right hand. He teetered on the sill, almost falling through the window face-first, but stopped himself.

After he caught his breath, he eased into a crouch, then grabbed the sill and swore when remnants of the pane penetrated the gloves. Lowering himself over the edge, he hung suspended for a few seconds before dropping to the landing below. Shards of glass crunched beneath his shoes.

He’d made it. He almost laughed in relief, but there was no time for that. He scrambled down the stairs, the neighbors’ angry shouts echoing in the stairwell behind him.

His breath coming fast, he raced down to the ground floor, then out through the entrance vestibule and onto the street. Sirens sing-songed close by—maybe a street away.

He bolted to his parked car and slipped inside just as the sirens grew louder and the blue and red lights strobed off the buildings around him.

Starting the car with a curse, he backed out slowly and drove off, praying that no one noticed him or the car’s plate.

He drove several blocks,
polizia
and
carabinieri
vehicles streaking by in the opposite direction, his heart beating so hard he felt dizzy.

He needed a new car, immediately, so he headed to the warehouse where Tommaso and Filippo were. Hopefully they could bail him out once again.

He’d done it. He’d actually done it. And aside from a few cuts, he was uninjured. “
Grazie a Dio
,” he murmured aloud.

Now all that remained was muzzling Carlo. Though if his father’s plan failed and Enrico’s loophole didn’t hold water with the other bosses, he could be facing the wrath of the entire ’Ndrangheta. A wrath he’d never outrun.

His father was already at the breakfast table when Enrico crept into the house. “Rico, is that you?” he called.

Merda
. He looked a mess, and all he wanted was to crawl into bed. “Yes. I’m going to take a shower.”

“Where have you been?”

Now
he cared? “Out.”

A chair creaked as his father left the table. Enrico wanted to bolt up the stairs, but he wouldn’t be able to hide forever, so he turned to face his father coming out of the dining room holding a linen napkin in one hand. His eyes swept over Enrico and he frowned. “Where have you been?” he repeated.

“Milan.”

“Doing
what
?”

His father’s sharp tone summoned Enrico’s anger. Papà had done nothing for them. It had been up to Enrico to risk his life to avenge them. “Settling accounts
you
should have handled years ago.”

Rinaldo’s eyes widened, and his words came in a rush. “Tell me what you’ve done.”

“I killed them. All four. The men Carlo paid.”

“
Cristo
,” his father whispered. He reached Enrico in a few steps and took him by the shoulders. “You’ve killed us.” He gave Enrico a hard shake. “You couldn’t wait?”

“No. Carlo was sending them for us next.”

“How do you know?”

Enrico relayed the story of seeing Guido Ripoli at the car park and how Antonella had confirmed his suspicions.

“So you started this after that? Why didn’t you tell me?”

A million responses flitted through his head. “You told me you didn’t
want
to talk.” He stared at his father’s angry face, then added, “And no, I didn’t start this
after
. I started it before I knew. I started it after that breakfast at Carlo’s house. There was no possible way I
couldn’t
have started it.”

“I thought you liked the girl.”

“I do. I love her, even. But I couldn’t let her father go unpunished.”

“Your fucking temper, Rico. I told you it would get you killed. And now you’ve killed us both.”

“I haven’t.”

His father stared at him open-mouthed. “You
saw
the contract. You know what it says.”

“And I know what it
doesn’t
say. Nothing in that contract forbids what I’ve done.”

“Are you blind?”

“Are you? I memorized the important part. It says: ‘Carlo Andretti and Rinaldo Lucchesi agree to lay down arms and forgo their right to vendetta.’ You and Carlo are forbidden from violence; I am not, at least not until after the marriage.”

Rinaldo said nothing for a moment. “You had better hope that’s how Lorenzo Andretti and the other
capi
see it.”

“My interpretation will hold.”

“You’ve gambled our lives on
semantics
.”

“
Someone
had to.”

The blow came quickly, a slap that made his ear ring and his cheek blaze. “You don’t know what I’ve suffered. You don’t know what it’s like, what I was willing to do to keep you safe.”

“I don’t? You forget the sacrifice
I’ve
made.”

His father’s face hardened and his voice lowered to a hiss. “At least your child still breathes.”

Those words hurt more than any slap.
Am I nothing to you?
He wanted to shout the question at his father’s retreating back, but he feared the answer.

Enrico and Rinaldo were hiding in Romano Marchesi’s private bathroom, just off his office at the bank, waiting for Carlo to arrive. It was well after normal banking hours. Enrico leaned on the marble countertop while his father sat in an office chair they’d commandeered earlier for the purpose. They’d hardly spoken a word since their fight the previous morning, but that was just as well. They needed to maintain silence.