Simultaneously, as if it were choreographed, two men got out of the front and rear passenger seats. With their heads down, they walked to the portico and disappeared from my line of sight.
Glancing up toward my window, the muscled man closed the SUV’s doors.
Then he followed his passengers.
I did not know who looked more sinister, the Mercedes or its driver.
Erico
Scanning the courtyard, wondering who the fuck lived here, irritated as hell Giancarlo hadn’t given me time to change at the estate, I took my shirt off and tossed it in the back seat.
A scraping sound faintly echoed, and I looked up.
Open window, dark room, the silhouette of a woman with long hair. I didn’t know if I was looking at a ghost or an angel.
Either way, she didn’t move, and darkened, open windows were perfect sniper positions.
Giancarlo glanced at me from the front passenger seat. “Problem?”
Not answering him, my reflexes primed, I stared another moment at the open window, waiting.
The woman still didn’t move.
Shaking out the clean shirt and shoving my arms through it, I kicked the driver’s door shut. Scanning the courtyard again, I strode to the passenger side and opened first Ademaro’s then Giancarlo’s door.
“Whose villa is this?” I demanded of Giancarlo.
“No one you need to concern yourself with.” Not making eye contact, he straightened his tie. “Clear?”
“Yeah.” Except for some woman in a window, no fucking security anywhere, an unmanned gate at the bottom of the driveway, and the fact that we were in the middle of nowhere. I tipped my chin. “Let’s move.”
“Ademaro, come,” Giancarlo ordered.
I glanced at my other brother as he got out of the back seat. Three years younger than Giancarlo and eight years older than me, Ademaro was never a talker, but he’d been especially quiet tonight.
Closing both passenger doors of the G-Wagon after Giancarlo and Ademaro got out, I glanced again at the open second-story window.
Nothing.
Catching up to my brothers under the protection of the covered front entrance, I glanced at Ademaro. “You haven’t said two fucking words since we got in the car,” I accused. “What’s going on?”
His voice quieter than both mine and Giancarlo’s, his expression unreadable, he looked at me, and for a split second, I thought I saw the same damn resignation I felt every day. “When have you ever known me to be talkative?”
The past few months, the fucker had been plenty talkative, just not to us. When he thought Giancarlo wasn’t watching, he took calls out back by the pool. “You really want me to answer that?”
“You really want me to ask why Consigliere had to bring you a clean shirt?” he countered.
Fucker. “If you think you can do my job better, have at it.” I’d like to see him try.
“Have at mine,” Ademaro replied dryly, not missing a beat.
“I can hit a target at twenty-three-hundred meters. How fucking hard can writing numbers in a column be?”
Turning on us, Giancarlo issued an irate command under his breath. “Silenzio!” His glare fell on me. “Do your job. Patrol, guard, make sure we are not interrupted.” He looked at Ademaro. “Ready?”
“Si.”
“Andiamo.” Giancarlo glanced back at me. “Secure the courtyard, then wait in the foyer.” Opening the front door, he walked into the villa like he owned the place.
Ademaro followed.
Cursing under my breath, I stepped back from the portico to look up at the open window.
No ghost. No angel.
Dusk gone, only half a moon, the night was dark as shit. For a second, I wondered if I’d actually seen a woman or if paranoia and too many years of pulling the trigger were finally catching up to me. Maybe it was this place. It was so damn quiet, it was fucking unnatural.
Dismissing my thoughts, I walked the perimeter of the courtyard and circled the garage, taking note of the single vehicle—a late-model Maserati Quattroporte. Expensive when it was new, well kept, but nothing worthy of Giancarlo’s level of secrecy.
Heading back to the front of the villa, I glanced up again at the window.
The curtains had moved.
Now partially closed, they obscured half the view into the room.
Pulling out my cell, I sent Giancarlo a text.
Me: Location?
Giancarlo: Why?
Me: You want me to do my job or scratch my ass?
Giancarlo: Downstairs dining room. Busy.
I didn’t give a damn if he was meeting with the Pope.
Me: Who’s on premises?
Giancarlo: I said I was busy.
Asshole.
Me: Headcount?
Giancarlo: Everyone is accounted for.
Me: Not an answer.
Giancarlo: Fine. Shoot anyone armed who comes through the gate or front door. I am conducting business. Do not disrupt me again unless we need to evacuate.
Not leave. Evacuate.
Cristo.
Mentally shaking my head, I eyed the two sidelight windows flanking the front door and checked the line of sight to the driveway and gate. Then I looked back up at the open window and thought about it.
Enter the villa, go upstairs, find out who the fuck was there.
Find the woman.
Then ask her why the hell she was hiding in the dark. Except those weren’t my orders, and no matter how off shit felt about this whole setup, I wasn’t here to investigate. I was reinforcement.
Glorified guard duty.
Fucking Giancarlo. Any asshole soldier we had could’ve done this bullshit. Unless….
I looked up at the window again.
Two things made Giancarlo cagey. Money and women.
This villa wasn’t small, but it wasn’t old money. Not the kind that would make Giancarlo salivate.
Staring at the open window, I waited.
A breeze hit the curtains, but nothing else inside the room moved.
I gave it another thirty seconds.
Then I told myself to drop it because I didn’t need the complication. Except something about that single glimpse of the woman, and knowing Giancarlo’s predilections, wasn’t sitting right with me. In fact, it was starting to piss me off, and I didn’t get pissed.
I wasn’t the fucking emotional quotient of this famiglia.
I was the trigger.
“Just the goddamn trigger,” I muttered, forcing myself to look away from the window before doing one more perimeter check of the courtyard. Then, using a closed fist so I didn’t leave prints, I pushed open the front door and walked in.
Double-height entry hall, marble floors, library to my left, hallway and stairs straight ahead, reception room to my right. Sparse furniture, old-looking art, rich but not opulent. Everything I saw reconfirmed my previous assessment—money, but not the kind that would make Giancarlo nut himself.
Fuck.
Leaving the front door cracked for both the barrel of my Glock and a quick exit, I moved to the wall just right of the south sidelight. Angling so I could see the courtyard, the interior stairs and the hallway I presumed led to a dining room, by the sounds of it, I took up a watch position.
Leaning a shoulder against the window frame, I drew my Glock and sighted down the driveway.
Then I glanced up the stairs.
Cursing under my breath and lowering my arm but not holstering my piece, I settled in to wait for whatever bad shit was about to go down.