Page 92 of No Sweeter Poison

DEATH BY WATER

Alejandro

“Y ou’re doing the right thing.”

I glance at Beni as he takes apart his gun and cleans the inside.

“One day when she’s living her normal, boring life working a nine to five, has two whiny brats, and a perfectly adequate husband who enjoys lots of missionary sex, she’s going to reflect on her comfortable, picket-fence existence and think, wow, thank God that mafia guy sent me home all those years ago.”

The thing with Beni is that everything he says is either satire or entirely genuine. Problem is trying to decipher which is which.

“Thanks, Beni,” I deadpan. “You really know how to talk to a girl.”

He smiles and gives me a pat on the shoulder. “Any time, brother.”

Vincenzo Vellucci whistles at the two of us and juts his chin in the direction of the dock. “We’re almost there.”

“Thank God Damiano sent you instead!” Beni calls up. “He’s a shit sailor and even worse navigator.”

Vincenzo says, “You know him. He’s always got something going on.”

Indeed, he does which is why I wasn’t offended when my old friend from New York sent his little brother instead. I imagine the head of the Cosa Nostra has a lot on his plate now that his father is retiring.

I turn my head towards the Calabrian cost. Small flickers in the distance catch my attention and they run along the countryside like lights strung across a Christmas tree, each line dipping and curving to conform to the shape of the mountainside. Waves brush up against the sides of the boat but the movement is subtle.

We dock in the dead of night, in a town so small and rural, it doesn’t exist on most maps. Armed with enough guns to blow up a government building, Beni, Vincenzo, and five other men exit the boat, all awaiting my cue.

“Where are they now?”

Vincenzo checks his phone and his expression sours. “Still at the wedding.”

Wonderful. Just what I needed.

“In that case, you know the drill.” I check the magazine to make sure its full before sliding it back in my place. I holster one gun and move on to the next. “Don’t shoot to kill. No women or children. Understood?”

“What do we do if we can’t get them out?” Asks Beni.

“We’ll get them out.” I say. “We always do.”

A huff of frustration leaves my lips.

“All right, let’s try this again.”

I kick over both their chairs and Ibanez and Montenegro fall backward, the tide on the beach rising high enough to drown them from the breastplate upward. We’ve been at this for over an hour and Beni looks as bored as I feel. But we can’t finish this until I get the answer I need.

Regina only told me where Ibanez and Montenegro were. Whether they’ve been in contact with Sandro, told anyone about Dahlia’s existence, or found out who she was in the interim is all a mystery to me. If they told someone else about her, I need to know who. And if I can get them to admit Sandro put the initial hit on me back in June, even better. That son of a bitch tried to kill me twice in one summer. I’m looking forward to repaying the favor in kind.

I hook my foot under Montenegro’s chair and set him up right before doing the same to Ibanez. “Who ordered the hit?”

To Ibanez’s credit, he doesn’t budge easily. He spits a mouthful of seawater at my feet, expression defiant. As for Montenegro, it’s evident that I’d have had better luck interrogating them separately. He’s close to folding but won’t do so in front of his partner.

“How about you?” I cock my head at him. “Anything you want to say?”

Montenegro’s gaze darts between me and Ibanez, torn between loyalty and survival. An unenviable position, that’s for sure.

“Don’t say shit,” Ibanez growls. “He needs us alive.”

“Do I?” I slam the barrel of my gun against his temple and he grunts. “This is news to me.”