Six Months Contract With The Mafia God

”Then who?”

”I don’t know. Not yet. But I’m going to find out.”

She was quiet for a time. Her breathing slowed.

”You’re still not telling me everything,” she said.

”No.”

”Why?”

”Because you can’t stand up yet, and I’d rather you were standing when I do.” He pulled back far enough to look at her. ”I will tell you. I won’t keep it from you for long. I swear that.”

She searched his face. It was a tired face, an honest one. He hadn’t tried to soften what he’d said or dress it up as anything else.

”Is it dangerous?” she asked. ”What you’re not telling me?”

”Not for you.”

”For you?”

He didn’t answer.

”That’s what I thought,” she said softly.

She lay back against the pillow. The window had gone from gray to pale gold. Somewhere outside, a bird started up, thin and clear.

”The medicine you gave me,” she said. ”Will I need it again?”

”Yes. For a while. A doctor will bring you down slowly. Weeks, maybe. Until it’s out of you.”

”And then?”

”And then you’re free of it.”

She nodded slowly. She was very tired. She could feel sleep waiting for her, close and heavy, and she was afraid of it.

”Dante.”

”I’m here.”

”Don’t leave me alone with this.”

He took her hand again and held it between both of his.

”I’m not going anywhere,” he said. ”I told you that last night. I meant it.”

”I know.” Her eyes were closing. ”I heard you.”

She fell asleep with her hand in his.

***

POV: ANTONIO

Antonio Valentino did not like to be interrupted before noon.

His staff knew it. In the thirty years he had kept the same study at the back of the estate, with the same desk and the same view of the olive grove, he had been disturbed in the morning exactly four times. Each time, the man responsible had known beforehand that the news was worse than the interruption.

So when the knock came at ten past eleven, Antonio set down his pen and waited.

”Come in.”

His aide entered and closed the door behind him. He was a thin, careful man who had worked for Antonio for eighteen years, and he carried a single sheet of paper held flat against his chest, the way he carried everything that mattered.

”Signore,” the aide said. ”Forgive me.”

”Say it.”

”Someone is pulling at the courier.”

Antonio did not move. ”Which courier?”

”The one that serves Dr. Armani’s office.” The aide crossed the room and laid the paper on the desk. ”Over the last three days there have been requests against the shell company that holds its registration. Corporate records in Malta. A business registry in Naples. A freight authority in Civitavecchia. Each request was small and reasonable. Each came from a different source.”

”And together?”

”Together they trace the same path back toward the Armani account.” The aide hesitated. ”Two of the requests came through a private investigator in Naples. He works for Luca Benedetti.”

Antonio picked up the paper.

He read it slowly, line by line, the way he read everything. The aide waited. Outside, a gardener’s rake scraped across gravel.

”Benedetti,” Antonio said at last. ”Dante Romano’s man.”

”Yes, Signore.”

”Since when?”

”The first request came three nights ago. The most recent was this morning.”

Antonio set the paper down and folded his hands on top of it. His face did not change. It had not changed in public for thirty years, and it did not change now. But the aide, who knew him, took one small step back from the desk.

”Leave me for a moment,” Antonio said.

The aide bowed and went out.

...

For a long time Antonio sat without moving.

It was not possible, and yet it was happening. Dante Romano, a man Antonio had dismissed as a Calabrian with a grudge, was pulling on a thread that led, if followed far enough, to the one door in Italy Antonio could not afford to have opened.

He considered what it meant.

Dante could not have found the courier by accident. No one would have had a reason to look at it. Isabella Russo had taken her medicine from the same address for eight years without once wondering where it came from. The only reason to examine that courier was to know that something was wrong with what it carried.

And the only way to know that was to have tested a pill. Twice. Properly.

He did the arithmetic quietly, with the patience that had kept him alive.

Dante knew about the two layers. He knew the girl had been dosed, not treated. He knew, too, that she was without her supply, because no man digs this hard through paper unless someone he loves is dying. That meant she was in withdrawal. It meant she was getting worse. It meant that sooner or later, Dante would find a way to get her what she needed.

And once he did, he would not stop.

A man who had stolen a Russo daughter out of a guarded estate was not a man who gave up at a dead end. He would keep going. He would follow the courier to the shell, and the shell to the account, and the account to whoever paid it. It would take time. But the thread was already in his hand.

At the end of it was Prometheus.

Antonio looked at the paper again. It lay on the desk, a single sheet, and it was the most dangerous thing in the room.

He thought about Lorenzo.

Lorenzo, who had found Dr. Armani himself, in good faith, years ago, and had never once doubted him. Lorenzo, who sat at his own table every night across from a wife he could not comfort. If Lorenzo ever learned whose laboratory had made the pills his daughter swallowed, there would be no alliance. There would be no more calls, no joint hunt, no common enemy. There would be a war, and Antonio would be on the wrong side of it.

And Prometheus was the one weapon he had against The Covenant.

He had spent eight years building it. He could not lose it now to a man with a grudge and a laptop.

He pressed the intercom.

”Come back.”

...

The aide returned at once.

”Close the courier,” Antonio said. ”Today. Every registration, every account. I want it to look as if it never existed.”

”Yes, Signore.”

”Armani’s file. The clinic registration, the license numbers, the address history. Whatever is on paper, let it disappear.”