Page 56 of Sweet Prison
“Do you know who that was?” I ask.
“Yes. A guy from prison. There was some beef between us, but he got out a few years ago.”
“Must have been a hell of a spat to try to kill you now. How did he find you?”
“I’d like to know the answer to that question, too.” He reaches out and cups my cheek. “You okay, angel?”
His touch singes my skin, the heat of it spreading through me until it’s hard to breathe. Massimo’s eyes remain focused on the road as he strokes under my eye with his thumb. Being shotat is hardly a pleasant experience, although suddenly, it doesn’t feel so bad.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Sure.”
As we make our way toward Massimo’s home, his focus keeps bouncing between the road up ahead and the rearview mirror. Is he worried someone is following us? I don’t think that’s it. He hasn’t looked back or glanced at the side mirrors with any wary intent. We’re stopped at a streetlight when his brows suddenly furrow and his gaze darts back to the mirror.
“Zip it, asshole,” he mumbles. “I’m sick of your constant bitching.”
I blink, confused. “What?”
“Sorry. I was just… Nothing. It’s nothing.” He shakes his head. “Fuck.”
For the rest of our drive, I can’t help but watch him closely. Massimo says nothing at all. Still, I’m worried about him. I’ve seen his temper. Never directed at me, of course, though with everyone else, he can’t seem to control it. He’s ruthless. Abrasive. Impatient. In itself, it’s rather strange, considering his meticulous and goal-oriented personality. His tact and ability to make calculated moves. If he fails to maintain his composure during the meeting with the Council, it will not end well. For them, but most importantly—for him.
“Any guesses why that guy would want to off you?” Salvo asks as he pours two fingers of whiskey into a tumbler and passes it to me.
“He tried to steal from me on a few occasions. So I took it upon myself to relieve him of one of his possessions.”
“In prison? What was it? Money? Cigarettes?”
I take a long sip and relish the burn down my throat. “His spleen.”
The leg of the chair I used for my handiwork caused significant gastrointestinal perforation. And that ensured the bastard would have to shit in a plastic bag for the rest of his life. So yeah, he had a grudge against me. Except there is no way he could have known I was out, much less be able to find me in a matter of days. Not without help. As soon as we got back to the house, I had Peppe check the car for bugs. He located a tracking device planted on the chassis.
“Well, I’m glad you made it out without a scratch. Not that I would have expected otherwise.” Salvo laughs and sips his own whiskey. “I got a call from our source earlier. Armando’s tox screen came back. Cyanide. They can’t pinpoint the time of death, other than to give an eight- to ten-hour window.”
So, Nera’s psycho husband was right after all, just as I suspected.
“The cameras at the Leone Villa didn’t pick anything up?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“I bet the fuck who ordered the hit on Nera is behind that, as well. Armando and he were likely working together, but when idiot got caught, he got silenced before he could talk.”
Salvo shakes his head. “Armando could be solely responsible for Nera’s attempted assassination. He was neck-deep in debt and taking money on the side. He probably got scared Nera was onto him.”
I raise an eyebrow. “And then, he somehow managed to get his hands—his broken hands—on a cyanide pill and check out? No. Whoever painted the target on her back with that kill order is behind Armando’s death. The question is, who would want Nera dead?”
“You had her break the two-decade-long collaboration with the Albanian cartel. Dushku is a rather vindictive guy. It could be him.”
“Vindictive, yes. Stupid, not so much. Endri Dushku would gain nothing but problems from her demise. There are just too many things that don’t add up.”
“What do you mean?”
Amber liquid sparkles enchantingly as I rotate my glass. It’s almost the same warm shade as Zahara’s eyes. I wonder if she’s asleep already.
“Massimo? What things don’t add up?”
I meet Salvo’s gaze. How long have we known each other? Almost three decades? I remember breaking into my father’s liquor cabinet when we were barely teens, so that seems about right. Other than Zahara and Peppe, he’s the only other person I’ve trusted with my plans. And he went to great lengths to help me handle everything all these years. So, why the hell do I have this feeling that I shouldn’t share this particular line of thinking with him?
“Why Armando?” I lift my eyes off the tumbler in my hand. “The only two syndicates that have a grievance against us are the Albanians and Camorra. However, Dushku has his own people who handle his ‘issues.’ Camorra does, too. So why involve Armando in their plan?”