Page 7 of The Thief

I head up her mafia, run her casinos, and rule her underworld. I know every dark alley and every narrow canal. All her secrets are mine. I started life with nothing, and I’ve fought my way to the top. Everything I’ve ever wanted is in my grasp.

And still, lately, I’ve been so fucking bored with it all.

I glance at my watch. Quarter past eight. My calendar is packed with meetings all day, starting with the first one at nine. I should go to my office and try to get some work done before that, but then I take another look outside and thinkfuck work.

I can’t remember when I last had some unscheduled time just to myself. There’s always something. Some emergency, some crisis that only I can handle. But I have forty-five minutes today before the demands on my time begin, and I’m going to take advantage. Hopefully, some fresh air will knock me out of this mood I’m in.

I get dressed and step out of my palazzo. Two guards immediately approach me. “Good morning, Padrino,” Goran says with a respectful nod of his head. “Heading to the office?”

“Not yet. I’m going for a walk.”

“Of course,” he replies, tapping his earpiece. “I’ll have a security detail ready in a minute.”

“No security. I’m going alone.”

Stefano, the other guard, winces. “But Padrino,” he says unwisely. “That’s not advisable. If Signor Cesari hears that we let you?—”

Leo Cesari is my head of security. Stefano’s right—Leo is going to chew them out for letting me set off without an escort, and once he’s done yelling at them, it’ll be my turn for a lecture. He’s too respectful to yell at me, but he’ll point out that he can’t do his job if I don’t let him, and if I don’t trust him, then he’ll be happy to offer his resignation, blah blah blah.

Don’t care. This morning, I just want to be alone.

I cut Stefano off before he can finish his sentence. “Do you work for me,” I ask pointedly, “Or do you work for Leo?”

He grows pale and takes a step back. “You, Padrino.”

On a whim, I set off toward the docks on the southern side of the island. It was here ten years ago that Lucia Petrucci almost got herself killed, precipitating a series of events that led to me killing the then-Padrino, Domenico Cartozzi, and taking over the Venice Mafia. This area has historically been the most dangerous part of the city, but we’re doing some construction to revitalize this neighborhood, and it’s much safer now.

My mood lifts as I walk. The view in front of me is spectacular. The brilliant blue canal, the distinctive gray domed spire of the La Salute, the white and terracotta palazzos at the water’s edge—my city in all her morning glory. It’s early enough in the day that only a few tourists are up and about. Nobody recognizes me, and I revel in my relative anonymity.

Even the girl at the neighborhood coffee shop I stop at has no idea who I am. I order an espresso and take my cup to the benches outside. The sun is out, the wind brings a welcome coolness to my face, and the coffee is surprisingly good.

“No, I can’t give you a raise.” A harried male voice cuts into my reverie. A man in his sixties is inside the coffee shop, talking to the girl who just served me. The door is open, and their conversation drifts out. “I’m barely making ends meet as it is. What with inflation being the way it is, and the protection money I have to pay?—”

Protection money?What the hell? Nobody pays for protection in Venice—I put a stop to the practice years ago.

I get to my feet abruptly and go inside. “Are you lying to get out of giving her a raise, or is someone really extorting you?”

The proprietor takes a look at my face, recognizes me, and pales. “Signor Moretti,” he stammers. “What a surprise to see you here.”

I ignore the niceties. “The protection money,” I say, my voice hard.“Tell me about it.”

He swallows convulsively. “Two men from the construction crews came around last month. We tried to resist, but then. . .” His voice trails off.

“Then what?”

He takes a shaking breath. “They burned down Giuseppe’s bar.”

“And where is Giuseppe now?”

“The hospital. He had a nasty fall. Broke an arm and both legs. At his age too. . .”

They beat the crap out of Giuseppe to make an example of him. “Can you identify the men that came around asking for money?”

His eyes slide away from me. “I’m sorry, Signor Moretti,” he says nervously. “I didn’t get a good look at them.”

He’s too afraid to talk. Fury builds in my blood. Venice ismycity. Nobody burns down bars withoutmypermission. As for beating civilians and breaking their bones? Everyone involved with this little protection racket is going to regret the day they made the decision to cross me.

“The next time those guys come around,tell them this.Tell them I found out what they did, and I will make them pay.”

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