Rogue Asset (Rogue Warrior Thrillers Book 11), page 18
Caruso squinted, confused. “What is that in kilos?”
“Like… seventy-five, I think? Thereabouts. That makes you a straight-up middleweight. So… not a big man. Just sturdy.”
If Bob’s needling got to him, he had no intention of showing it. Instead, he chuckled as he rose from the couch. “Sturdy. Yeah… that’s about right,” he said in English. “Oh? You don’t know I speak English, did you, Mr. Singleton?”
“Corrado Caruso, I presume.”
“You presume correct. You heard of me, I guess. But until real recently, I didn’t hear of you.” He turned his head to his associate. “Marco, his wallet.”
The burly thug reached into Bob’s jacket pockets and searched them. He tossed Caruso the wallet.
The gangster flipped through it. “I always found a man gave a lot of himself away by what he had in his wallet. Teenager with a condom? Desperate. Married man with a condom? Cheating. A big wad of bills instead of using a clip? Naïve, easily robbed.”
“And what does mine tell you?”
Caruso looked at the library card from Wheeling, West Virginia, puzzled. “Bob Smith?”
“For a few months, here and there.”
The gangster chuckled. “Chicago driver’s license, also in Bob Smith.”
“Yeah… I mean, it gets complicated. I don’t use Smith much, but it’s required on paper, because technically Bob Singleton is dead. It’s just how it is.”
Caruso pulled out a baby picture, the corner creased. He looked over at Bob, puzzled. “I read your file. You don’t got kids.”
“Yeah… but most people don’t know that.”
“So?”
“Old agency trick. A person is ninety percent more likely to treat a stranger with compassion if they carry a baby picture. It’s part of the natural protective instinct towards children.”
Caruso stared at him for what seemed like a solid twenty seconds, then said, “You know, that’s the most cynical fucking thing I ever heard, and I’m a fucking gangster.”
Bob shrugged. “And the CIA is the CIA. Most gangsters I ever met still had boundaries of some sort. Besides… it’s just a trouble-avoidance mechanism. It’s taken from a stock photo example of a typical family portrait, from a department store twenty years ago.”
Caruso sucked on his tongue and weighed that. “Okay. I get that, I guess. Pragmatism is good. Still… pragmatism ain’t going to bring back my brother Raffi’s fucking toes, eh?”
Strangely, Bob thought, he didn’t sound that disappointed. Almost amused.
“Sometimes, all people can do is bitch and whine.” Bob commiserated. “I’m surprised you came here to take care of it, though. From what I’ve been told, the tourist hotels are neutral ground.”
Caruso looked ambivalent about it. “Eh… when it’s advantageous to everybody, it’s advantageous to everybody,” he said. He stopped walking a few feet from Bob. “But sometimes, it ain’t advantageous to everybody. You get what I’m saying?”
“Super clear,” Bob said. “I’m guessing you’re here because you’re feeling like my presence doesn’t really make your life easier.”
“You’re, how you say… a smart guy. You understand, with everyone busting my balls, it’s very hard to get things done. To take care of business. Annoying, also.”
“And you’re here to propose a solution, I’m also guessing.”
The Mafioso gave him a finger point of confirmation, clucking his tongue. “Got it the first time, Mr. Bob. I’m a simple man; I do what needs to be done and try to keep the peace.”
“Sure.”
“Easy solution, we deal with you now. But like you said, there would be ramifications. And… if I’m real honest, I’m not even sure why you’re a threat to me. I listened to my brother, is what. And lately, that don’t seem such a good idea.”
“I’m sorry you’re having problems,” Bob said dryly.
“Sure, sure. Here’s what I’m going to propose, rather than keep chasing you around Padova: first, you fuck off back to Brooklyn, or Chicago, or wherever it is in your shitty country you came from, without whatever you’re owed.”
“A hundred grand,” Bob interjected casually. “And it’s not for me, it’s to cover two-thirds of someone else’s debt. So it’s not really negotiable.”
“Okay, whatever. A hundred. So you figure that shit out for yourself, and you fuck off back to America, and I take care of my business here. Everybody wins.”
“Except Alessandra and Johnny, and my friend.”
Caruso shrugged again. “So… like you give a shit. Really. Be honest.”
“Brutally honest? Not really, no. But I already cut a deal with her. If I go back on that,” Bob said, “people will start thinking I might be untrustworthy. And besides… I have a friend in trouble.”
Caruso paced, chin in hand, contemplating the possibilities. He stopped. A thought occurred. “You said they’d forgive two-thirds of the debt? So… what if I hire you instead, and I cover the whole thing. But you earn it. You do a job for me.”
“What job?”
“Blow up the church. You get what you want – there is no debt, and you don’t owe the Cosa Nostra shit – and I get what I want. Take the whole bunch of them out, for their controlling arrogance. And don’t worry about me asking. We swept the room twice before you got back.”
Now that’s an interesting turn of events. Morally, it was even more repugnant than working for Alessandra. That was just protection work, at heart. This was a betrayal and a murder for hire.
But… he was right about one thing: they were all completely loathsome. That much was true. The world would be better off without any of them.
Alessandra had blackmailed him to be there, and he still had Carl’s warning ringing in his ears, that after all was said and done, they might ask him to go for a special ride in the country instead of paying off Errol’s debt.
“I can see you’ll consider the possibilities,” Caruso said. He chucked the wallet onto the coffee table. Then he got up, walked over to his pull-on trainers and stepped into them. “I’ll make you a deal: I’ll throw in another hundred thousand, for an even quarter million. I bet your friend could get all kinds of new starts in life from that, eh?”
Dude isn’t playing around.
“I’m going to leave you to work things out,” Caruso said. “When you realize what you need to do, you give me a call.”
He walked to the door. “You go the wrong way on this, I can’t help you. Doesn’t matter how much you like joking around. Business is still business, right?”
The henchman opened the door, and Corrado Caruso disappeared through it. They slammed it behind them.
Bob walked over to the couch and slumped down. Well now, this could change everything. He had no doubt Caruso was no more trustworthy than the old dons. Or that Alessandra seemed more engaged with her role as fiancé to a future don than worried about the dude she’d blackmailed to be there.
But… The notion of breaking his word and killing someone for money was repugnant.
But… if you did this, maybe those two families collapse or are crippled. Maybe you save hundreds – thousands of people, even – from becoming their victims down the road.
Interesting dilemma.
I wonder… He checked the time. Yeah, it’s only five fifteen back home.
He crossed the room to the luggage holder and canvas rucksack that Dexter Waptasyi had given him in Washington State. The Renton-encrypted burners he used exclusively for Dawn and Marcus were in one of the side pockets.
The call rang through.
“Bob! You called!”
“Hey! I figured I needed to crow about getting a free vacation to Italy.”
“Is it lovely? I bet it’s lovely.” She had that glowing sound people got when lost in a vacation memory.
“Stunning. I mean… I’m working, too. But so far so generally good. Look… I’ve come across a bit of a moral quandary.”
“Uh-oh. Okay… lay it on me.”
“I’ve been offered a quarter million to eliminate my hosts. They’re murderous criminals, and getting rid of them would, in the long run, be doing society nothing but favors.”
There was a pronounced silence. Eventually, Dawn said, “Uh. Okay. So what’s the dilemma? I mean… it’s not that, right? You’re not actually considering taking a payoff to hit two Mafia families?”
Bob hadn’t really thought about it in those terms. “I mean… not seriously,” he said. “But it did occur that—”
“Uh-uh! Ohhh, no, Bob. Don’t you even go there! No, sir! You are not a professional killer anymore. And even if you were, this is not your country asking you to do a job! I know how you think because we’ve been family for years. And I know you’re thinking about this dispassionately, weighing potential long-term death tolls, that kind of thing. I know you want the most practical outcome for everyone.”
She really did understand him, Bob realized. Ultimately, most things boiled down to an either/or choice. “Uh-huh.”
“Okay… now turn all that off. Is there anything you like about this woman, Alessandra, at all? Any element of her that sticks in your mind and reminds you of her humanity? Something that triggers a positive emotion?”
Bob remembered the young woman’s glee at driving around the winding hill road, the Fiat’s top down, her real-world role removed from her fantasies of living in a 1950s romance. “Yeah. Yeah, sure.”
“Now… ask yourself the question again.”
Bob felt a swell of guilt that he’d even considered it. “Sometimes I sort of forget myself? You know?”
“I do. I know what’s in your heart, though,” Dawn said. “We just have to tap into it sometimes. It always seems like life can just be reduced to numbers when people are trying to be pragmatic. But it’s never the reality. Acceptable losses is a dirty, dirty term that people should be ashamed to use.”
“It’s just as well. They wanted me to blow up the church, and it’s a medieval landmark.”
“Blow… up? With the guests in it, also?”
Bob shrugged reflexively, even though she couldn’t see him. “I guess the argument is that anyone who breaks bread with a pair of Mafia families…”
“And did that come into your casualty count? I assume there would be a priest officiating, an organist. Maybe some kids in a choir…”
“OKAY! Okay, point made, geez!” Bob said. “Still… if I don’t take the guy’s deal, it means I’ll have to deal with him.”
“And that’s a euphemism for—”
“Yep, probably. But… maybe not. He had a shrewd sort of normalcy to him. Maybe it’s because he’s on his own turf and seems too stoic to shake. Maybe I can talk him down.”
She was silent again for a moment, and he could feel her worrying. “Just… come home safe on Saturday night. Okay?”
“Okay. I’m going to hit the hay. It’s late here,” Bob said.
“You have a good night, sweetie. I’ll be praying for you.”
Dawn ended the call.
Bob returned the phone to the rucksack. There had to be more to Caruso’s involvement than mere offense at their presence in Padova.
So who else stands to benefit if I fail and the dons are killed? The deal between the two families would be off. Johnny and Roberto, presumably, would ascend to their respective thrones.
Johnny had been at the estate all day, according to his tracker. Roberto had come into town for his father’s dinner.
Or…
Bob had presumed that was the case. But he hadn’t actually run back the data from Roberto’s tracking tag, attached to the long coat he usually wore when going into town. He’d handed it to the attendant at the restaurant.
He moved to the circular breakfast table and fired up the laptop again. The app let him isolate the tag and replay its movements, going back twenty-four hours.
Well now… isn’t that interesting.
He’d gone into town an hour earlier than the rest.
And he’d gone directly to Corrado Caruso’s townhouse.
Roberto was a hothead, the least likely among the kids to reign over a powerful family, not for any length of time. He wouldn’t survive, Bob knew.
Caruso probably knows that, too. It would make sense to humor the intemperate cokehead, though, take control over him to ensure he could take advantage of any eventual collapse. There was opportunity in making a puppet of a Mafia don, Bob had to figure. And Roberto was weak enough that having Caruso’s strength behind him might seem irresistible.
Scorpions, the lot of them.
He needed to turn Caruso’s head a little, get him thinking about other possible outcomes involving significantly less bloodshed.
Bob opened his encrypted chat and tapped a message out to Renton. Some research on Corrado Caruso was required.
And then he had to see a woman about her daughter.
29
The woman who answered the townhouse door looked as haggard and tired in the early morning light as she had at midnight. The expression seemed designed especially to let door-to-door peddlers know what she thought of them.
“Signora Miccoli? My name is Bob. I’m an associate of your daughter,” he said. “I’m supposed to protect her at the church.”
She tilted her head back knowingly. “The American. She mentioned you last night. I can tell from your accent. It’s…” She squinted again, attempting a supportive smile that instead looked a little like pity.
“Exotic, I know,” Bob joked. “Do you have a few minutes to talk about the wedding?” Bob had calculated that like most mothers on the week their daughter was to wed, she’d like little more.
“Please!” She held out a hand and gave his hand a firm pump when he reciprocated. “Grazia Miccoli.” She swung the door wide and invited him in. “There is a hook for your coat behind the door, or if you prefer to keep it on, it is quite chilly this morning.”
Bob noticed the iron radiators along the first-floor hallway. She clearly didn’t believe in firing them up unless absolutely necessary. “I’ll just keep it on,” he said.
She led him down the hall and through a beaded curtain, into the kitchen. It was old-fashioned, with wood-and-tile counters and a tiny four-burner gas stove and oven. The table was square, big enough for six people even though it appeared she lived alone. Above it on the wall, an old oil painting of the Virgin Mary sat in a dark-stained wooden frame, a pink pearl rosary and crucifix hanging from the same nail.
Grazia saw him study it. She looked up at the ceiling and mouthed something silent. Then she added, aloud, “Thank you, Lord Jesus, for the grace of my daughter’s friend’s company.”
She glanced over to see if Bob was mouthing thanks. He felt a profound sense of discomfort, her expression suggesting it was expected. “Amen…?” he said unsurely.
She closed her eyes and crossed herself again. “Please…” She gestured to the table. “Sit.”
Bob did as ordered. She sat next to him, at the table’s head. “Now… Tell me, Mr. Bob, why she needs you there. Is my daughter in danger? I mean… any more than she may face in the first place for spending her time with those people.”
Wow, straight to the point, I guess. “Perhaps,” Bob said. “But my sense is that she is genuinely trying to protect the two dons.”
She looked sideways and spat theatrically on the floor. “Ptth! Giacomo Guidotti, a piece of filth. And also… my ex-husband.”
“You divorced? I thought the church somewhat frowned on that.”
“He had the marriage annulled, using his contacts. Not that it mattered. By that point, I was just glad to be free of him. But… he took my daughter, as well. He took Alessandra. And for that, I will never forgive him. He is a pig.”
“He does seem happy to hurl threats around.”
“Alessandra asked me to stay away from the service because of him,” she said. “Because she fears that he might attack me, so strong is our hatred for one another. I hate him, I swear, almost as much as I love the Lord.”
“Because of how he treated you.”
“Because of how he treats everybody. I am proud that my daughter is able to be so strong around so many bad men.” She frowned. “I am surprised, as I have told her, that she agreed to the union. She could not stand Giovanni Grasso growing up, thought him a spoiled brat. But… it is like something softened in the last year. She talks about ‘the project’ and how much bloodshed will be spared by the families burying the past.”
“But you still don’t get to go to the wedding.”
She sniffed a little. “Because I am part of that past, it seems. But… at least she came to visit.” She looked up, her expression brightening somewhat. “The convent next to the church… I was born there, you know. She honored me by having the ceremony here. At least I have that.”
She rose suddenly. “I have been a poor host. Coffee? Something to drink?”
The truth was, Bob knew she probably didn’t have much else to tell him. She was probably lonely. But the last thing he needed was Alessandra mistrusting him, and staying any longer than necessary would only prompt questions.
He rose as well. “I should probably get back to the estate,” he said. “Alessandra will want an update on how my security checks are going.”
“Oh.” She seemed disappointed. “Well… you do this for me, Mr. Bob, you promise me that you will protect my daughter. Alessandra… she is all that has ever mattered to me.”
He drove the Vespa a half-block before pulling over again and calling Alessandra. He had a decent premise for meeting with her mother, and it was better to get it out of the way quickly. They needed to talk anyway, about Corrado Caruso and how to handle him.
“Bob! You slept well?”
“I had another interesting night,” he said. Given his arrest, she’d understand the implication. “Can you meet for breakfast?”
The café in question was on Via Vill Febbraio. It had nearby parking, rare in the city. Judging by the array of Porsches, Ferraris, Lamborghinis and other high-performance cars along the adjacent street, Bob got the sense the menu wasn’t going to include a cheap egg-scrambler breakfast special.
