Chapter 450: The Swap

Dimitri arrived at the estate at five to nine.

The long dining room had been laid for four. Enzo stood at the head of it, in a dark suit, with a glass of wine he hadn’t touched. He looked up when Dimitri came in, and for one second his face showed something that wasn’t welcome and wasn’t quite dislike. Then it settled into the polite blankness he used for guests.

"You’re early," Enzo said.

"You said nine." Dimitri replied.

"I said nine." Enzo nodded.

"Then I’m early." Dimitri removed his coat and handed it to the steward. "Where is he?"

"On his way. He doesn’t like to be kept waiting at his own table." Enzo glanced at the clock. "Which is ironic, given who asked for the dinner."

"You did."

"Did I?"

"You’ll say so if he asks."

Enzo’s mouth tightened. He turned and straightened a fork that didn’t need straightening.

Dimitri watched him. He had never been easy with his half-brother. For years there had been something sour in the air between them, a thing neither of them named. Dimitri knew what it was. He knew it had a name, and that the name was Isabella Russo, and that Enzo had carried it quietly for longer than either of them cared to admit. He had never held it against him. He had also never forgotten it.

Tonight he needed the man’s help, and he was not going to insult him by pretending otherwise.

"Thank you for this," he said.

Enzo didn’t look at him. "Don’t."

The door opened.

Antonio entered with a steward at his shoulder, dressed as he always dressed for dinner, in a gray suit and a dark tie. He moved slowly. His face gave away nothing. When his eyes found Dimitri, they rested there for a moment, steady and cold, and then he inclined his head.

"Dimitri," he said.

"Father."

"I’m told you’re here to give me an answer."

"I’m here to have dinner," Dimitri said.

Something flickered in Antonio’s eyes. It was brief, and then it was gone.

"Then let us eat," he said.

...

The first course was a clear broth. The second was a risotto with saffron, and Antonio ate precisely and in silence. Enzo carried most of the conversation. He spoke of the club, of a minor dispute with a supplier, of nothing at all. Dimitri answered when addressed and watched his father’s hands.

At ten past ten, Antonio laid down his fork.

"Forty-eight hours," he said.

"Eighteen," Dimitri said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You gave me forty-eight hours. It has been thirty since your man called. I have eighteen left."

The table went quiet. Enzo studied his glass. A steward at the sideboard became very busy with a decanter.

Antonio looked at his son for a long moment.

"You wish to use all of it," he said.

"I wish to sit at my brother’s table and eat what he has put in front of me." Dimitri picked up his wine. "I’ll give you my answer tomorrow."

"You said you would bring it tonight."

"I said I’d bring it to the table. I’ve brought it." Dimitri’s voice was even. "It will wait until the table is cleared."

Antonio said nothing. He folded his napkin and set it beside his plate, very precisely. When he looked up again, his gaze was flat.

"You are testing me."

"I’m having dinner."

"I do not enjoy being kept waiting."

"I know," Dimitri said. "You’ve said so."

Under the table, Dimitri’s left hand was flat against his knee. He checked his watch. It was eleven minutes past ten. Marco’s team would be in position by now.

Enzo cleared his throat. "Father. The lamb."

Antonio turned his head slowly toward him. For a moment he didn’t speak.

"Yes," he said at last. "The lamb."

The stewards moved. Plates were taken away. New ones were set down. Dimitri took a breath and let it out slowly, and Enzo, across the table, did not look at him.

...

MARCO’S POV

At eleven-twenty, Marco crouched behind the wall of a dry irrigation ditch and watched the gate of the cold storage facility through a pair of binoculars.

The night was cold and clear. The floodlight over the gate buzzed faintly. Beside him, a man in a dark jacket lay flat in the grass with a long, thin case across his forearms. Two more crouched farther along the ditch. None of them had said a word in twenty minutes.

"Camera loop?" Marco whispered.

"Not yet," the man beside him said. "Mike said eleven-thirty-eight."

"Dog?"

"In the kennel by the dock."

"Guard?"

"Gate, bored. The walker’s at the far fence."

Marco checked his watch. Eleven twenty-four. He thought of the room, the dinner table, a man across from his father pretending to eat. He thought of what Dimitri had said in the study: No one is hurt. It was a hard order. He had never once broken one.

His earpiece clicked.

"Marco." Mike’s voice, very low and clear, from a desk in New York. "I’m in. Four cameras. I’ve got the feed."

"Looped?"

"On your mark."

"Mark."

A pause. A faint tap of keys.

"Done," Mike said. "Eleven-thirty-eight. You have twelve minutes. I’ll hold it as long as it holds."

"Go," Marco said.

The man with the long case rose to one knee. He lifted it, steadied it against the chain-link, and breathed out. There was a small flat sound, like a cough.

Fifteen meters away, in the shadow of the loading dock, something large collapsed with a sigh.

"Dog’s down," the man said.

They moved.

...

The side door was steel, with a keypad on the frame and a lock below it. Marco’s lock man was already working. He had a thin flat tool in one hand and a small black unit in the other, held against the keypad’s housing, and his breathing was slow and even.

Eleven forty-one.

"Come on," Marco muttered.

"It’s an old controller," the lock man whispered. "Give me thirty seconds."

Eleven forty-two. A faint beep. The keypad’s light went from red to green.

The lock man pushed. The door opened without a sound.