Page 69 of The Don

I want blood.

Nineteen men around the table. Twenty, including Salvo. Aldo to my right. I don’t know how many men are in the building, but I took three out temporarily and one permanently getting into this room. So however many arrived, minus four. Minus Pedro. Minus whoever Alfonso knocked unconscious just because I didn’t tell him to be careful.

I need more information to take stock of the situation as quickly as I can. I can kill half the men in this room on my own right now, but the other half is a mystery. How many are armed? How many are good shots? How long before someone hears the gunshots and comes running? Is Tommaso good with a gun or better with his hands like Alfonso? If Alfonso was here, I’d know our odds — they wouldn’t be good, but I’d know them.

“What the fuck is going on?” Tuscany spits. He’s aiming the question at Salvo, though, not me.

Good. I need to keep my eyes on Aldo. I know better than most that he doesn’t have a problem stabbing a man in the back. It would be my pleasure to put him down.

“Giulio,” Salvatore calls. “It is good to see you.”

I nod. “I hope I’m not late.”

Tuscany slams his fist against the table. “Answer me.”

Salvo nods in my direction.

“After the last attempt on your life, I flipped a former poliziotta who says the carabinieri seem to be working with someone to target Salvatore.”

“That makes sense,” Salvo says, nodding sagely.

“Is that a revelation?” Puglia asks, bored. “When are the carabinieri not aiming for us?”

“Yes, but whoever her boss was working for wasn’t interested in bringing down the entire operation. Just Salvo.”

The men around the table are quiet as those words sink in. Aldo, however, seems nervous.

“That doesn’t mean anything,” he says, wiping at his wet forehead.

I glance at Salvo to find him smiling.

“Who’s your contact?” Molise asks. Or maybe it’s Abruzzo; those two are thick as thieves.

“She was a waitress sent to spy on us. But her boss was named Gallo.”

The men around the table grumble in consternation.

“This is pointless,” someone says.

“He’s just trying to weasel his way out of here,” Aldo spits.

“Gallo?” Tommaso asks, so quiet no one but me hears.

Well, no one but me and Carlo.

I step to the side as Carlo turns to Tommaso, shaking his head. “It’s not what you think.”

“Your family name is Gallo. Your brother works for the carabinieri. Tell me where I’m wrong.”

I glance quickly at Salvatore. Some men would gloat at being right. This was the possibility that he’d written in his letter to me. The traitor had to be Tommaso or Carlo; there were no other options, and if he didn’t survive this, he told me to kill them both just in case.

“So, it was your brother, Carlo?” Salvatore’s voice is uncharacteristically loud, but he needs to cut through the man’s sniveling pleas for mercy and remind Tommaso, shocked into silence, that there is still work to be done.

“S-s-si,” he says.

“You told him about Flavia?”

Carlo nods.

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