Turning Point||Book 2

19: Romano.

It was a bitterly cold sight, the mere mention of "The Black Hand" sending chills down the spines of even the most hardened individuals. And yet, if one dared to shovel deeper, peeling back the layers of aliases and whispered rumors, the true name that emerged was no less menacing—Salvatore Bianchi.

I'd grown into this business hearing about him. Salvatore commanded respect and instilled fear that gripped the underworld with an iron fist. His vices were as dark as the devil's himself, murmured stories of ruthlessness and cunning echoing through the narrow alleyways of Europe's underworld.

But it was in the realm of trafficking where Salvatore's dominance reigned high. A puppeteer pulling the strings of a vast network of illicit trade. From contraband to human cargo, Salvatore's influence knew no bounds, his reach stretching across borders like tendrils of a poisonous vine.

I observed Angelo's beckoning gesture for Salvatore to follow, leading the way with his men, and I found myself grappling with the inexplicable bond between them—Angelo Rossi, Capo reigning over Sicily within the TIF, and Salvatore Bianchi, infamous as The Black Hand. Their alliance seemed as incongruous as oil and water, leaving me questioning whether my cousin had somehow lost his senses.

Drugging Xenia was a move that defied all logic and reason, so perhaps he had lost his sense.

Coming out of hiding, I discreetly trailed them until they were inside the cove. Salvatore's steely gaze scrutinized the array of firearms laid out before him, each weapon polished unpromisingly in the faint light. His fingers traced the sleek lines of a semi-automatic pistol, a faint smirk playing on his lips as he tested its weight.

My cousin stood by, a cigarette now dangling lazily from his lips as he leaned against the damp stone wall. "Top-notch pieces." His voice a low murmur laced with a hint of admiration. "Straight from the source."

So now what? He was distro, singlehandedly marketing weapons to one of the biggest players underground? It didn't faze me one but. I mean, why should it? I'd encountered garden rocks with more intellectual depth than him.

Salvatore's eyes narrowed imperceptibly. A silent acknowledgment of the risks involved in their trade seemed to cross his mind. "Quality comes at a price," he voiced out with a tone as cold as the steel he held in his hand. "But it's a price worth paying for."

With a nod of agreement, Angelo stepped forward. His hand brushed against the handle of a rifle. "You won't find better on the market." A note of conviction underscored his words.

Salvatore meticulously inspected the array of weapons, his sharp eyes assessing each piece. With the deal sealed and prices negotiated, his men swiftly transferred the black bags brimming with cash to Angelo. A proud smile appeared on Angelo's face as he nodded in satisfaction.

As Salvatore's men loaded the motorboat with the newly acquired weapons, I stealthily maneuvered to conceal myself once more. Within moments, the engine roared to life, and Salvatore, along with his crew, vanished into the distance.

Returning to the cove's entrance, I stumbled upon Angelo engrossed in a conversation on his phone, presumably with his father. His laughter echoed, accompanied by the sound of cash hitting the ground. Suddenly, he caught sight of me mere steps away, his cigarette dropping from his lips in surprise.

"Che diavolo!" His hand instinctively clutched his chest. "What are you doing here?"

"I might have a better answer for that if you can explain why Salvatore Bianchi would meet with you here," I retorted, gesturing to our surroundings, "to purchase weapons without even informing the interim Don."

"Let me call you back, papà," Angelo hastily ended the call, pocketing his phone. Our eyes locked as he straightened up, a hint of defensiveness creeping into his demeanor. "Some things slip through the cracks, and it's nobody's fault."