Page 63 of Love Me (Touch of Death 3)
Another vehicle chugs down the road to the dock and halts, this time a small truck. One of Gio’s guys hops out and hands the keys to Jackson.
“You.” Jackson points at a random guy. “Here are the keys to the truck. You just have to load those boxes and drive them out of the city. But, you cannot leave until one o’clock in the morning. Am I clear?” The man nods, and he hands him a burner phone. “I’ll text you a location. If you have any problems…well, you have weapons.”
Of course, it’s all completely pointless. These men aren’t here to do a job for cash. They’re the sacrificial lambs for the slaughter. Nero won’t kill his own men, but the simple fact is, someone has to die for this to be believable to Bianchi. These men are unskilled in any form of combat, deliberately so. We need Enrique to succeed. I would feel bad, but truthfully, it’s a masterful strategy, a means to an end. My empathy and humanity extend only to my own family.
Before one of the boxes is loaded, I stop the men carrying it and dig into my pocket, finding a tiny metal disk, exactly like the one I gave to Adelina. Bending down, I stick it to the underside of the metal crate. “Carry on.” I wave them away, and they put it in the van.
Gio jerks his head to the side, and I join him, jogging back up the road to where we parked. I climb into the car and drive away. The rest of this falls to Bianchi and a group of helpless men who have no idea what is coming.
Bianchi took the bait. The shipment was taken only an hour after we left. Jackson stayed, watching from a distance, ensuring that it all went smoothly.
Here we all sit, gathered in Nero’s office, just as we were when Nero told us of this insane plan. Only now, there’s no turning back. He picks up his desk phone, placing it on the speaker. I’m sure he’d usually take a call like this privately, but we’re all invested at this point. If this goes wrong, we’re all dead.
The phone rings and then clicks off. “Hello, Mr. Cole’s office,” a woman greets in Russian.
“My name is Nero Verdi. I need to speak to Mr. Cole. It’s very urgent,” Nero says.
“One moment,” she says in English this time. Generic classical music comes over the speaker.
It cuts off. “Mr. Verdi. What, pray tell, is so urgent?”
“Mr. Cole,” Nero says. “I have some bad news, I’m afraid. I’ve just got word from my men that there was an incident at the shipping yard in Brooklyn last night. I have quite a few dead Russians. Yours, I assume?”
There’s a beat of silence, and even through a phone, I can feel the tension. “The contents of the boat?”
“The vessel is empty as far as we can tell.”
There’s a long pause. I imagine the man plotting all the ways in which he can tear a man’s organs from his body. Ronan Cole is not known for his patience or mercy, though he’s certainly gained a reputation for some very inventive ways to kill a man. “Thank you for informing me.” He hangs up, and we all look at each other.
“Well?” Gio asks Nero.
“Now, we wait.”
“Cole will not rely on the word of another, especially not an Italian,” I say.
Nero’s calling Ronan isn’t a complete anomaly. The Italians run New York. They control the docks, which means anyone who wants to run product through here pays them a cut. They also look after things. It’s Nero’s job to ensure his territory is tightly controlled and that things like this don’t happen. People like Ronan Cole are paying for the fact that the police are in Nero’s pocket, and Nero is so feared, no one would steal from him. Otherwise, why pay him? So, this—to Ronan Cole—will look like a brazen affront from Bianchi but also a failure on Nero’s part. He’ll be back in touch because he will expect Nero to remedy this.
Barely an hour later, and I’m sitting at the breakfast bar watching Nero make a mess while feeding Dante. It’s Margot’s day off, and of course, Una isn’t here. Nero’s phone rings, and his eyes flick to the screen before darting to me. Ronan Cole. He hands me the little plastic spoon covered in some kind of mashed-up concoction.
“Yes?” Nero answers. There’s a brief pause. “I’ve been doing a little digging of my own. Not Italians. A chartered plane landed at Newark yesterday afternoon, in the name of Enrique Bianchi. The Sicilians.” Another pause and I can imagine Cole’s rage. “I believe it is me he intended to steal from, not you. We have somewhat of an ongoing disagreement.” The best deceptions are always founded within the truth. There’s a long pause. “I understand. Can I request one thing?” He inhales a sharp breath. “There is a girl with him; she is…important to me.” His eyes meet mine, and I nod. “I’d be very grateful if you would ensure she is unharmed.” A slow smile makes its way across his face. “Thank you.” Then he hangs up.
