Beautiful Beast - Page 97

The following day

Sicily: +7 hours of Chicago

Private property, 20 miles outside of Palermo

Three hours before the scheduled flight departure from Chicago

Blood runs across my fisted hand, the rivulets dropping to the ground and dissipating over the already sodden soil under my shoes. Guttural gurgling leaves the security guard’s throat as I rotate the knife I’ve buried hilt-deep in his neck. His body twitches a few times, then gradually goes still. I release the dead man, letting his body fall at my feet, where it lands with a loud thud. With rain coming down for the last few hours, most of the guards have taken shelter under the trees or inside the guardhouse, making the job of killing them less complicated.

Keeping to the shadows and the cover of foliage, I circle the house that’s been the primary residence of the Sicilian Cosa Nostra don until I spy another one of his men. The guy is leaning on the corner of the building, tucked under a slight overhang, his rifle casually draped over his back. A length of white cord extends from the phone in his hand to an earbud jammed into his right ear. I shake my head. Moron is listening to music while on guard duty.

The wet grass muffles my steps as I approach him from behind and yank the cord. He startles, turning around, but I already have the earbuds wire wrapped around his neck. When he starts flailing, hands reaching to free his windpipe, I push his face into the wall and tighten my grip on the cord. He manages a few weak whimpers before going to meet his maker.

There are no motion detectors or video surveillance anywhere on the property. Just manpower and a rather basic alarm at the front door. Like all narcissistic, overly self-confident men who have risen to power without much effort, my godfather believes he’s untouchable. He will find out very soon how utterly wrong that conviction is.

It takes me a little over half an hour to dispose of the remaining twelve guards. Afterward, I take a casual stroll around the building until I find an unlatched window to serve as my entry point. Infiltrating a target’s location is significantly easier when you can first eliminate the security detail. Aside from that double-tap in Germany a couple of months back, the last assassination I handled myself was more than a decade ago, and it took me almost four hours to get inside the guarded house. I had to sneak past twenty of my own men to reach my mark. Not an easy feat, considering I trained them all in the first place. To this day, Allard still occasionally brings up that Boston job, cursing the son of a bitch who managed to circumvent his team and force-feed cyanide to the guy being held in the basement cellar.

By comparison, sneaking into Calogero’s home is a fucking cakewalk. It’s been a long time since I’ve been inside this house, but I still remember the layout. I climb the stairs and head toward the master bedroom. When I reach the second to last door on the left side of the hallway, I unscrew the silencer from my gun and tuck it into my pocket. No point in keeping anything quiet since there’s no one left alive on the grounds other than me and my cumpari.

The door opens without a sound. The wall-mounted TV in the room is playing a documentary of some kind, its volume muted, but the screen is throwing plenty of light onto the bed where my godfather is snoring. I lean my shoulder on the jamb and cock my gun.

Calogero’s eyes snap open.

“Buonasera, Cumpari.”

For a few breaths, he just stares at me, then jerks upward. His hand extends toward the nightstand. I aim at the drawer and pull the trigger. Pieces of wood splinter off, and the flimsy stand topples over and crashes to the floor, some of the debris ending up in the corner.

“What do you want?” Calogero rasps while beads of sweat collect on his hairline. “How did you get in here?”

“Through the study window. The one you always forget to lock. And as for what I want . . . I’m sure you know that already.”

“Even you can’t be so bold. What would your mother say if she could see you now? How can you kill the man who held you up at the altar before God to baptize you? Who helped raise you into the man you are today?”

“Don’t you dare speak of her!” I snarl.

“She knew the rules, Rafael. Breaking the code of silence means death! There was nothing I could do. She understood it. And she forgave me. I saw it in her eyes.”

I take him in, this man I once revered, waiting for even a speck of regret over what I’m about to do. It never materializes. The man who took me and Guido fishing when we were kids, who showed me how to change the tire on my bike, who gave me advice about girls . . . he is already dead. To me, he died the moment he watched Mancuzo press the gun to my mother’s head and pull the trigger, and did nothing. That man who chose Cosa Nostra over the woman he once swore he loved.

“I’m sure she did.” I lift my gun. “But I never will.”

The gunshot sounds like cannon fire in the silence of the room. Calogero’s head snaps back. He falls onto the bed, his eyes wide and glassy, while a swell of crimson surges from the hole in the middle of his brow.

Chicago

One hour before the scheduled flight departure

I park my car in front of Uncle Sergei’s freshly painted two-story house and exit. I wasted three hours hiding in my room while I waited for Dad to finally get bogged down in his office, giving me a chance to sneak out of the house unnoticed. If I want to catch Rafael’s plane—and I do—I can’t spare more than ten minutes on this visit.

Roaring barks explode on the right as two enormous black dogs round the corner and run toward me. I take a deep breath and brace myself for the impact. A second later, I’m assaulted by paws and warm wet tongues.

“Jesus. I forgot how big you guys are,” I groan. “Uncle Sergei! I need help here.”

“Well, well, well. Isn’t that my favorite troublemaking little cousin?” a male voice says from the porch.

I look up and find Sasha, Uncle Sergei’s son, leaning on the doorframe. He’s dressed only in gray sweatpants, his partially inked bare chest in full view.

“I’m a year older than you, you schmuck!” I laugh as I try to keep the dogs from turning me over. “Help, please?”