Page 90 of Code Name: Michelangelo

“Now, there’s Penelope.”

“Not just her. I spent four years in prison, figuring out my shit. Growing up. Realizing I want a different kind of life. Yeah, one that includes love, but more than that. I want a sense of purpose.”

“Doc Butler gave it to you.”

“That’s right. And where am I? About to walk straight back into my old way of living. Except now, as I said, the stakes are higher. If Battaglia gets wind of who I am, I’m a dead man.”

“I won’t allow that to happen. Why do you think I stepped in?”

I cocked my head. “I have no bloody idea.”

“There is a fuck of a lot at stake here, Ripa. Your role amounts to a flea on a dog. If that flea messes up, the ramifications are farther reaching than you can imagine. I will not let you fail. I will not allow it.”

“Why risk it?” I asked.

“Time. You can get what we need to escalate the war between the syndicates more quickly than anyone else. Once their focus is on each other, we move in and finish them. Now, I ask you, can you come through for us?”

I thought about my answer before I gave it. It was Sundance’s voice I heard inside my head more than my own. “You did it before. Then it didn’t matter. Now, it does,” he’d say on days when he pushed me further than I thought I could go. “You can do this, Ripa,” he’d shout, and every time, I did.

“Yes. I can.”

He nodded. “I knew it. I just needed you to.”

When we departed the plane and walked across the tarmac to a waiting SUV, I was surprised to see a man I knew. Although I shouldn’t have been. I’d heard Maximo De Rossi was promoted to the head of the Italian Civil Aviation Authority. He probably had access to private plane passenger manifests.

“Welcome home,” he said, meeting Typhon and me midway.

“Maximo, it’s great to see you. This is an associate of mine, Benito Carpinelli.”

“Ciao,” Typhon said in a perfect Italian accent.

Max’s eyes scrunched as they shook hands as though he was trying to place him. “You’re back for good?” he turned to me and asked.

“I am,” I said, bowing slightly. “Although I expected to run into you in Florence or Milan. Not Tropea.”

“I get around, you know?” He put his hand on my shoulder. “Brand and I spent many nights out—how do you say—carousing?”

I chuckled.

“I look forward to continuing our escapades. Perhaps Benito would like to join us?”

“Perhaps,” Typhon responded, looking beyond Maximo to a black SUV pulling up on the tarmac. “Our ride has arrived.”

“Off so soon? What a shame.”

“See you, Max.” I waved behind me as we walked to the waiting vehicle. Tank, who looked every bit the part of a bodyguard, got out and opened the back passenger door. I went around to the opposite side, and Blackjack did the same for me.

“Interesting guy,” Typhon commented as we drove out the gates of the airfield. He was studying something on his phone. “Is he connected to the Sicilians?”

“Not that I’m aware of. I met him in Florence one day when I was sitting at an outdoor table, sketching.”

“Purely coincidental?”

“That’s right,” I responded, wondering if it actually had been. “He didn’t give me the impression he was connected to any of the families.”

“A person doesn’t get a job like the one he has without mob connections.”

He made a good point.

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