“We have to be in the same room?”
“There is no way I’m bringing a woman here and sleeping alone. I have a reputation and you’re no exception.”
She gulps but stays focused on the task at hand. Maybe she’s liking the intrigue and the way I held her during the turbulence. I hate to admit it, but I’m a sucker when it comes to protecting women. Thanks, Mama, for teaching me chivalry and good family values.
“Let’s head downstairs and have a look at the registrar, everyone needs to sign in or have a record somewhere,” I open the door.
“Sure.” She follows me down to the lobby. The last time she was in this resort, her father took his last breath. I haven’t forgotten women, like men who make their first kill, might experience trauma at some point in time. I vow to keep my eye on her as there’s no need for her to be further scared by past events.
Why do I care? Well, she might have flashbacks or suddenly remember something that may help us prove my brother’s innocence and I’d rather head that off at the pass long before the situation reaches that point.
The man at check-in refuses to provide any names, citing guest confidentiality and a zillion protocols.
Protocols my ass. I tip my wallet enough for him to see it’s full of euros. Without saying anything, his fingers are back on the keyboard looking up the dates I requested a minute ago.
He glances up to the camera behind us that must survey the entire foyer, but I hear the sounds of an ancient dot matrix printer as I can’t mistake that sound from my early pre-school days. It goes back and forth, and I pray it has ink.
He excuses himself and disappears into the back, returning with four towels stacked in his hands. He tears the paper off the printer, skillfully makes sure he’s left no trace to be seen on video and with a sleight of hand he slips the information between the towels.
I turn towards Prende, pull euros out of my wallet and discreetly place them in the folds of one towel that I give back to him. “We don’t need this one.”
“Thank you, sir.”
I fold the paper and shove it into the pocket of my trousers. “Grazie.”
“Let’s go.” We turn to leave, as my two lackeys try to look inconspicuous. Thankfully, with their winter coats on, it’s easier for them to blend in and hide what they’re packing.
I chuck the remaining towels on a room service cart in the hallway, and we leave the establishment, guards on our heels.
“Let’s get an espresso,” I say and I veer to the right as soon as we exit the hotel like I’ve been here a hundred times.
But I haven’t. I just have a sixth sense with directions.
“This is really pretty,” Prende finally speaks as she looks around at her surroundings. Christmas lights are strung on the trees. The lamp posts are made to look like candy canes with evergreens spiraling up them. Wreaths hang on every door of every establishment we pass.
Each boutique, restaurant and hotel looks like a home that was converted to preserve the small-town vibe. Even well-known international conglomerates have given up their usual branding in order to comply with the town ordinances to keep the place looking like an authentic village in the Swiss alps.
Christmas is coming and so is the wedding. Mama won’t be happy if we’re not all there, but I need to make sure we’re not blamed for a murder we didn’t commit. And even if we did commit it, we’d never admit it. It’s just less complicated if it doesn’t surface at all.
Argon had to go, and we wanted him dead, but someone else took him out first. Now it’s in our best interest to know why, and who. We can’t be in the dark on an event that has bigger implications and can cause more problems for us.
It could be Dante, Sal or even me who will be set up as the fall guy. We currently don’t have any big beefs going on, but most dons and bosses are maladjusted people who lack empathy and restraint. That’s why they rise to the top of the hierarchy, which is enforcing the organizations’ rules and making the goals.
We slip into a café and take a seat as my men grab their own table. I make idle conversation about Christmas so anyone listening will think we are tourists.
I pull out the piece of paper from my pocket.
“Well?”
“I’m getting there.” I smile at her impatience as I unfold the paper. I see the name Federico Gambino, who is a known associate and acts as an enforcer for the Costa Nostra in Sicily. It seems, even they get vacations. I see no reason to share this information with Prende as I hand her the paper. After all, she’s technically still part of the enemy’s camp.
And I doubt the Sicilians would so sly in killing someone. They would just shoot him dead in daylight and not blink.
“Do any of these names mean anything to you? These people checked into the hotel the day before, and the day of your father’s death.”
She scans the list, pausing at a few of the names.
“I recognize a few names, like Lirim, but there’s no way anyone I see here killed my father. They loved my father. The rest of the names I don’t know.” She’s noticeably disappointed with her head bent and stares at her hands wrapped around her cup.