As I stepped out of the steam-filled shower, my eyes caught sight of a slew of missed calls from Ottavio. The nerve of Max, I thought, daring to spill the beans about my decision. But even seventeen calls from Ottavio wouldn't deter me from my rendezvous with Angelo.
I entertained no delusions that Angelo had merely wanted to plant a kiss on Xenia and touch her legs. This was the Rossi blood coursing through his veins, Vitriol's spawn; he wouldn't go to such lengths of injecting a woman for a bloody kiss.
Either Xenia was too terrified and ashamed to confront the truth, or the truth had been obliterated from her mind by the effects of GHB. I'd witnessed it before, in countless women, so my skepticism wasn't born of rage but of bitter experience. Most women, after a dose of GHB, woke up with their memories wiped clean, conveniently forgetting the debauchery of the night before. It was a safety net for them and their patrons, and it kept the thrill alive for men who reveled in such depravity.
I'd never indulged, never judged, never comprehended it, but now, I had every reason to loathe and confront it head-on.
I didn't need anyone chauffeuring me around. Maybe I was searching for something profoundly therapeutic, yet cruising around for two hours did nothing to calm my nerves.
I had tracked Angelo down to Cefalù.
The imposing cliffs rose dramatically from the azure waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea. The town had a picturesque harbor, lined with colorful fishing boats and overlooked by a towering medieval fortress perched atop a rocky promontory.
Parking the black sedan in a discreet alleyway near the harbor of Cefalu, I navigated through narrow cobblestone streets flanked by ancient buildings patterned with balconies overflowing with vibrant flowers.
I observed the bustling activity around me. Local fishermen haggled over their afternoon catch at the market stalls, while tourists meandered through the maze of winding streets, snapping photos of historic landmarks and sampling freshly baked pastries from local bakeries.
A young boy even waved a hand at me that I reciprocated. As I made my way towards the waterfront, I spotted a weather-beaten fisherman tending to his boat. Striking up a conversation, I negotiated a deal to hire the vessel for a few hours, offering a generous sum of cash to ensure his cooperation.
With the boat secured, I set off into the sparkling blue waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea, guided by the seasoned fisherman towards the secluded cove where I was sure Angelo was.
Stepping foot onto a weather-beaten dock on the opposite side of the cove, I could feel the cool sea breeze tousling my hair as I surveyed the rugged coastline before me. The cliffs towered above, their jagged edges casting shadows against the shimmering waters below. It was a secluded and desolate place.
I made my way along the rocky shoreline, careful to avoid attracting attention. A man in black would usually cause heads to turn.
I kept a close eye on the cove where Max had said he discovered Angelo would be rendezvousing someone. Hidden behind a cluster of boulders, I settled into a concealed vantage point, my senses heightened as I attempted to spot him.
Hours passed, the sun sinking lower on the horizon, casting long shadows across the rugged landscape. Finally, the sound of a motorboat broke the stillness of the air, and I watched intently as Angelo and his company exited the cove, their silhouettes brightened by the fading light.
I watched from my vantage point as the six men unloaded their hefty bags onto the shore. Angelo's company had a distinct way of walking that I recognized. As he turned and removed his sunglasses, I did the same, making sure my eyes weren't playing tricks on me.
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."
My gaze swept across the cove, settling on the neatly stacked wooden crates to my left. They seemed to taunt me, begging for release as my anger simmered. "How many women have you had to drug to get back at a man like yourself?" I veered away from physical confrontation, opting instead to strike at his conscience. Realization flickered across his face, igniting the rage boiling inside me. "I thought I was just shitting myself, then I realized I was dealing with you."
Angelo's smile was smug as he assumed a dominant stance, his suit leaking of arrogance. "Oh, you think I've got nothing against you? Fica!" The venom in his words dripped with loathing. "You had your balls deep inside my sister, you filthy piece of shit. Months of defiling her, you and your scumbag father. And to top it off, you played Russian roulette with her life."
"I was just a kid back then, barely knowing which end was up. Doesn't excuse a damn thing, but comparing our sins turns my fucking gut upside down."
Before things went to hell, we were close, like brothers. We'd shared some good times, making memories whenever we could. I still remembered the days spent in Sicily, learning the ropes of the TIF alongside my father. Angelo was my guide, and those weeks were some of the wildest of my life. Witnessing him lace drinks, giving CPR to the overdosed, fucking six women at the same time, I had gotten a fill of his audacity.
"Vaffanculo!" He cussed and literally spat out. "She was your cousin, her soul rest in peace. I won't tolerate speaking of Vilma as if she were your whore. She's not Katie."
My fists clenched, tempted to initiate the first blow. "Who gave you the audacity to involve her in this?"
"I do whatever the fuck I want. That includes mentioning how you've been clinging to that woman for over eight years. She got a better pussy than the English, doesn't she?"
As if all reason abandoned me, I lunged towards Angelo, disregarding his nearly six-year seniority. Respect mattered greatly within the TIF, but hierarchy superseded age or experience any day. And to my understanding, I was his Don. I landed a punch on his face with my right fist, then moved forward again, delivering another blow with my left fist.
Angelo's stumble proved fatal as I wasted no time in bringing him crashing down to the ground. Despite his retaliatory punch to my nose, causing me to stagger, I quickly regained my balance and charged at him once more.
"First, you stalk her around town until you find the perfect opportunity to intrude into her life like the gentleman you'll never be!" I pressed my knee into his groin, eliciting a pained groan from him. "Then you lure her to Nova!" Ignoring Angelo's feeble attempts to shield his face, my fists relentlessly targeted his head, delivering powerful blows. "And then, bored of admiring her in a 'fuck-me' dress, you resort to drugging her because you knew she'd never let her guard down willingly!"
My assault continued unabated, driven by sheer instinct. Eventually, he managed to topple me, seizing the upper hand and pinning me down.
"She wanted me, Romano. Stronzo!" He gripped my neck, threatening to gouge out my eyes with his thumbs. The pain was excruciating, my thoughts drifting to my father's lifeless form. Shivers ran down my spine, a cold dread enveloping me. "The girl craves a man who can take control. You refuse to acknowledge the flattering things she confessed when I fucked her like the little slut she is."
Then, darkness descended upon me. A deafening thud reverberated in my skull, leaving behind a throbbing headache. The image of Angelo atop Xenia consumed my mind, fueling terror and fury that coursed through my trembling body. I teetered on the brink of madness. What made it worse was that his words painted a vivid picture in my mind, a picture I desperately wished to erase but couldn't escape.
I urged to be the sole master of her body's secrets, the only one who could unlock each layer of her pleasure. But Angelo dared to trespass upon what was rightfully mine. Her essence, her intimacy, her body belonged solely to me. Any other man daring to venture into that sacred space defiled the sanctuary where I worshipped. Angelo had sealed his fate; he was already marked for death.
Just when I needed it most, a surge of strength propelled me to overpower Angelo. Instead of pummeling him mercilessly on the ground, I seized him by the collar of his shirt and unleashed a barrage of punches to his midsection, forgetting he wasn't the leather bag I had practiced on earlier that morning.
With each blow, ravened by the image of Xenia entwined with him, my rage intensified, boiling over until it consumed every rational thought that reminded me of the blood ties between Angelo and me.
The skirmish raged on for what felt like an eternity, the minutes ticking by as I relentlessly pounded Angelo.
By the time I shattered the final piece of the wooden crate on his back, my own face was a mosaic of blood. I could still feel the lingering ache in my eyes from his attempted assault, the trickle of blood from my nose, and the dried blood caked on my lips. Every inch of my body screamed in protest, as if I had been crushed under cascading bricks. Yet, it was the haunting image of Xenia, vulnerable in Angelo's custody, that gnawed at my very being, carving deep wounds into my soul.
Despite the stabbing pain in my back, I managed to stand tall, and I unholstered my gun. I aimed it at him. I was going to damn all consequences. When I uncorked it and wrapped my index around the trigger, Angelo stumbled back as if the walls could offer him shelter from my wrath.
Copper mixed with sweat and created a nauseating smell I couldn't ignore. I wanted to tear open my gut, and maybe even my brain that wouldn't stop replaying the madness that must have happened in Angelo's bed—the same one that rejected no type of woman.
Angelo split lip quivered, and he sank to one knee, adopting a posture of supplication
"Don't plead for mercy. Even God Himself unleashes hell on those who defile his sanctuary." He'd gone into a place I considered holy, there was no forgiveness. "There are countless women in Italy, Angelo. Countless. You could have had your pick, yet you chose the forbidden one."
"You're not thinking clearly, damn it! Lower that gun." He was begging, just not with the right words. "She's just a girl, Romano. It's not worth all of this over a girl."
"Cazzo di merda. She's not just any woman," I muttered under my breath, realizing the futility of explaining such matters to a man like him. He was an arrogant fool, incapable of grasping the complexities of love and loyalty. Even if, by some divine miracle, he had ever felt a shred of genuine affection for a woman, he lacked the depth to make her stay.
"Kneel!" My voice dripped with more contempt than I knew I was capable of. "Kneel! And don't make me say it again."
Without hesitation, he obeyed, dropping to his knees before me. Every fiber of my being urged me to pull the trigger, sooted by anger, frustration, and disappointment. But I knew better. As the acting Don, I couldn't afford such impulsiveness. Any misstep could be perceived as weakness, especially if it involved killing my own cousin, the Honcho of the Sicilian domain, over a woman.
I had to be strategic. I had to, let's say, set him up. And from what I knew, he was already deeply entangled in dealings with Salvatore Bianchi. I could exploit that.
If I had him firmly in my grip, I wouldn't even need to spill his blood myself; the Three Italian Families would demand his demise, and he would be eliminated. With that realization settling in, I holstered my gun.
"I'll let you live, cousin." My words, every damn syllable reeked of pain, if he cared to notice. "As Rossis, forgiveness is a rare commodity."
"Then why..." his voice trailed off, unable to grasp the depths of my decision.
"Because your fate serves a greater purpose,"I strained, my voice barely a whisper, feeling the tightness in my throat. "Run, Angelo! Run as if the hounds of hell are at your heels. For if I ever lay eyes on you again, the depths of the Tyrrhenian Sea will be your final resting place."
He straightened, weighing my words with a newfound gravity. Even without my gun aimed at him, the possibility of meeting a watery demise remained all too real. With a calculated assessment, he made his decision. He paced away, the soles of his brogues scraping against the concrete floor, leaving behind only traces of his despicable presence and the lingering scent of burnt tobacco.
Familiar with Angelo's ways, I knew he'd seek refuge with a local fisherman, bribing them to wait until I had departed before retrieving his ill-gotten gains. I wouldn't make things easy for him; even he would be too stupid to believe that. Motivated by my anger and need to hurt him back, I hoisted both bags onto my weary shoulders, summoning strength from my battered frame to carry out the first phase of Angelo's punishment.
I left with the money, fully aware that Angelo would waste it on vice: drugs, women, and liquor. I didn't need it, neither did Ottavio, as far as I knew. So I thought of a more productive way to dispose of it, rather than the bottom of this water.
Only one thought met the mark of productive: Joanna's recovery.