On The Rocks (16 page)

“Everything is set up. The transfer method
you insisted on. The money… All we need now is you.”

“You have a leak,” Metis said.

“It’s been dealt with.”

“Are you certain?”

Abrahan frowned. Did Metis know something he
didn’t?

The only person privy to any information was
Sanzio, and he didn’t know much. Besides, Sanzio wouldn’t talk.

Unless he was drunk.

“Yes, I’m certain. Cleared up. Never to be a
problem again.” The line went so quiet he checked to be sure he
wasn’t alone. “If we can’t do this soon, my purchase offer will
decrease.

“Metis,” he snapped. No sound came across
the line. Biting back his anger, Abrahan paced into the vault.

Another long pause and then a robotic,
“Napoli.”

“What for?”

“Three days,” Metis added.

A beep sounded in his ear like the call had
ended. Abrahan stared at the phone in his grip. Inflated his lungs
to capacity and let the breath out real slow.

He didn’t like Metis. The agent was too
arrogant. Too demanding.

And he hated Naples. Too noisy. Too many
spivs with their street-level mind frames and limited ambitions
hoping for a mark to rob. He had no idea what would be waiting for
him there. Had no idea if Metis would continue with the sale.

He wouldn’t go.

Other arrangements could be made. Perhaps
sending his brother?

The thought left faster than it came. Sanzio
could not be relied upon. And he didn’t trust anyone else.

Abrahan turned around in his safe, eyes
scanning the weapons, the diamonds, the cash. Then he glanced at
the pictures of the
forasteiro
on his phone’s screen, his
chance at riches as limitless as the sea that was his backyard.

The decision had been made, then.

Naples it would have to be.

IN THE HALLWAY outside of Abrahan’s office,
Sanzio clenched his hands tight and dug his knuckles into the metal
door. He wanted to hit something, to punch his heavy fists through
the rock that kept the building standing until he reduced the
beautiful villa to nothing but crushed glass, pebbles, and
dust.

How long would he be his brother’s flunky?
When would Abrahan recognize his talents? Respect him as a man?

With a deep, shuddering breath, he spun on
his toe and marched along the plain interior corridor.

La Casa Sulla Rocce —literally the house on
the rocks— was built into the basalt cliffs with care, like a
precious diamond into a ring with invisible settings. Once a
boutique hotel and club, the four-level served as home away from
home for everyone from Hollywood’s A-list set to foreign
dignitaries on holiday looking to enjoy this spectacular stretch of
the Mediterranean.

Rumor had it the Prime Minister threw one of
his wild bunga bunga sex parties here and damn near shook the place
off its foundations. Zio wished he could have been there for
that.

The entire hallway on the second floor, as
well as all of the seaside rooms had outer walls of glass. Though
the walls separated, there were no balconies out there, just
foot-wide lips of concrete that helped level the rooms. The
remaining hallways —like the one Sanzio was in now— and interior
rooms actually tunneled through the cliffside itself, keeping the
sparkling residence firmly anchored.

It was a beautifully constructed home. Four
stories carved through sheer grit and determination, and furnished
with art and all manner of expensive items Sanzio himself could not
yet afford.

Everything here was a far cry from the slums
of their childhood. He and Abrahan had grown up on the Amazon.
Literally. In shanty houses cobbled together from wood and tin,
balanced on stilts too short to keep out the river water and
whatever mystery muck was found floating in it. Clean water wasn’t
immediately accessible and electricity was intermittent. Money was
always a problem and Sanzio’s clothes were often hand-me-downs that
Abrahan had had handed down to him.

He’d hated that.

Somehow, though, they’d made it out.

The apartment he kept in Belém was in the
newest high-rise the city had to offer. When he was there he’d
stand on the balcony at night, with the city all lit up and spread
out beneath him, and turn his head east. No lights there, just an
endless ocean of black in the
favelas
they’d once called
home.

He loved Belém though. That’s where his
roots were, dug deep into that muddy water. Unlike Abrahan, he’d
never forget it. The city was vibrant and alive. And now he had
creature comforts he couldn’t begin to
dream
of in his
youth. More women than he knew what to do with. He was thankful for
that.

But this place? This place was a palace.

And his brother was king.

Which made Zio what? Second in line to the
throne?

Growling, he picked up the pace. He needed
to get away from Abrahan’s quiet for a while. Away from the fancy
dishes and fine linens and stiff art. The lie his brother had
carefully constructed.

He rolled his eyes. So what if instead of an
art collection like Abrahan's he had a silly clown collection? His
older brother used to love clowns before he’d joined
Os
Cães.

Before he’d lost his ear.

Abrahan had never told Sanzio the story
behind the cropping. But he’d always wondered what mistake his
older brother had made to earn the punishment. To make him so
mean
.

Sanzio pushed the memory aside and reclaimed
his train of thought. He'd find a party, some wine, and some
women.

This was Italy, after all. Beautiful women
and delicious wine were never far away, and everyone was always
welcome.

“Sanzio.”

Zio turned toward the source of the voice
and his blood turned to lava in his veins. Sabine came toward him,
her poised strides giving her the appearance of gliding rather than
walking like some mere mortal woman. A turquoise headscarf made of
silk was tied over her long, dark hair, a delightful contrast to
the lily-white dress that flowed to her ankles.

She looked absolutely heavenly.

He didn’t have to force a smile or make his
body relax. Her presence always put him in a better mood.

He straightened his spine.

“If you’re leaving, would you mind dropping
me at the post?” She lifted the buff-colored box in her hand. “I
have a new piece to mail.”

“Anything for you,
fava
,” he
whispered.

Her eyes darted away, came back. “You must
never let Abrahan hear you call me that. It would infuriate
him.”

He knew. And he took extra measures not to
slip.
Fava
itself was nothing special, just “bean”, a not so
clever play on her name. But it was their secret alone and he
cherished it.

Zio opened the door that would take them to
the garage and let her precede him up the steps.

As soon as the door closed, she paused.
Looked back at him. He stopped on the stair below hers.

And then they were wrapped in each other’s
arms.

Sabine melted against him, pressed her mouth
to his in a kiss so soft it stole his breath.

“Oh,
fava,
” he murmured against her
lips. “I want you so badly it hurts.”

He cupped her bottom in his hands and
squeezed the firm globes, pulling her against the hard ridge of his
cock. Then he was guiding her down onto the steps, tugging the
skirt of her dress up her legs and nestling his hips between her
thighs.

Zio kissed her neck, nuzzled her chin. Felt
when she swallowed the moan that threatened to breach her lips. He
nipped her lobe and she gasped; swirled his tongue in her ear and
the faintest little mewl seeped from her mouth.

“Not…” she hissed when he ground his hips
against hers, “Not here. We can’t do this here.”

Oh, but they could.

“Zio,” she begged.

He pulled back quickly, breathing hard. She
was right. Though still in the stairwell, the walls of the garage
were glass, too, and they weren’t too far from Abrahan’s office.
But he couldn’t help it. He needed Sabine like he needed his next
breath.

Forcing himself to his feet, he reached out
a hand and pulled her up. She adjusted her dress, brushing at her
bottom like there might be dirt there. He helped out, swiping his
hand over her ass, and she pinched his arm playfully.

Retrieving the box she’d dropped, he glanced
at the address in Naples on the white printer label before handing
it back to her.

“Is everything all right?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Abrahan… He's just…”

When he didn't finish, Sabine’s face
softened and she cupped her palm against his cheek. “I know how
your brother can be. He’s…”

Her hand fell away abruptly, and she started
up the steps. Sanzio followed close behind, not liking how her
demeanor had changed. Had Abrahan hurt her in some way?

“Sabine.” He gripped her wrist as they came
fully into the garage. She stood near the wall, haloed in sunlight.
“Is everything all right? He hasn’t… harmed you, has he?”

“No. It’s just…” She shrugged. “He doesn’t
love me. I know he doesn’t. I serve a purpose for him —cleaning the
money, keeping house— and in return he indulges my little jewelry
store. Other than that, I’m just one of many trophies in a game
he’s playing.” With sad eyes, she spread her arms wide,
encompassing the vehicles in the room. “No different than a sports
car. He… shows me off when he needs to and then tucks me away until
he’s ready for me again.”

She strolled across the polished concrete
floors, wending her way through the cars— a rare Jaguar XKE on her
left, the more readily attainable Aston Martin to her right. A
Bugatti so new the protective plastic it had been transported in
still hugged the front and rear bumpers.

The Veyron.

The Tesla.

The crown jewel? A Ford GT super car.
Gunmetal grey. Black racing stripes from hood to tail. Condition:
Mint.

Zio had only one Mercedes in Belém.

“And then there’s you,” she said. He pulled
his attention from the comparison he’d been making and focused on
her face. Her mouth turned down and her eyes were shiny.

“I can’t have you, a man who actually lo…
cares for me. Abrahan would kill us both.” Her voice went so soft
he almost didn’t hear her. “What am I to do?”

He didn’t have an answer. Thick silence
settled between them, freezing them with the truth of their mutual
despair.

Abrahan didn’t love either one of them.

After a long moment he cleared his throat.
Asked cheerfully, “Which car shall we take,
fava
?”

Sabine followed suit, walking away as though
the moment between them had never existed. “Hmmm…” she sniffed,
“The McLaren?”

He shook his head. “‘You wouldn’t even know
how to open the doors
’,”
he said haughtily, repeating the
words his brother had said to him.

“The GT then?”

Eyeing the sleek sports car, he channeled
his brother again. “Only seven miles on it. And
no,
you may
not
drive it,
maninho.
”

Sabine giggled and the faint smile that
lingered made the painful memories worth it.

Sobering, she glanced at the walls. “It’s a
beautiful day out. Shouldn't we let our hair down?”

“The convertible it is.”

Sanzio retrieved the fob from the valet box
by the stairwell as Sabine folded into the passenger seat of a teal
Maserati. He climbed in beside her, hit the button to retract the
top. Pushed-to-start and the ignition turned over. He revved the
engine, coaxing the throaty purr louder and louder until it rumbled
through his body.

But Sabine seemed not to notice. Instead,
sadness clung to her like a shroud. A woman so precious and rare
should never look so hopeless.

“Ready?” he asked, wishing there was more he
could do to help besides ferry her to the post office. If he could,
he’d keep right on driving. Take them both away from this
place.

The corners of her mouth forced up, she
slipped on her shades and leaned back into the camel-colored seat
with a sigh. “If you’ve got to be satisfied with your lot in life,
might as well do it in a fancy car, eh?”

Minutes later, as they navigated the windy
roads and hairpin turns that hugged the coast, Zio turned their
shared predicament over in his mind.

Their lots in life.

Hers was to exist in a sham of a marriage, a
shiny elbow ornament for an untrusting man who thought himself a
king. His was to always be in his brother’s shadow, a meaningless
rock at the base of a mighty, majestic cliff.

Sanzio wouldn’t be satisfied with that. He
downshifted as they went into the curve, determined to find a way
to rule.

8

LEGS PLANTED WIDE on the mahogany deck,
Kizzie lifted the binoculars to her eyes and tipped her head way
back to observe La Casa Sulla Rocce in all it’s glittering
glory.

From her spot on the water, the sun threw a
glare off the many windows of the home embedded high on the
cliffside, making it almost impossible now to see inside Abrahan’s
office. But the people on the rooftop four levels up were clear as
day: two men in white —one at the corner, one in the center near
the edge— both flat on their bellies and peering through the scopes
of M21 semi-automatic sniper rifles.

Due to the downward slope of the cliffs the
house sat on, the detached garage appeared to be half a level up
from the office and some thirty-odd yards to the right. Three
thick, parallel cables connected the two buildings, hovering over
the churning water and jagged rocks a few stories below. What were
those for?

She shifted her view a hair, to the top of
the garage where a third man, also flat on his belly, held a camera
with a long-range lens in his grip.