Page 68 of One of Them

As I dug my toes into the sand, I pictured little Enzo picking olives. I burst out laughing. He definitely wasn’t wearing a suit back then, though with Italians, you never really knew. Everything was an excuse to dress up. It was something I teased them about but secretly admired.

Peak summer season packed the beaches with tourists and locals alike. Swimmers splashed in the waves, while stylish grandmas strolled the promenade, tiny dogs in tow.

In a long sundress and the high heels I’d snagged from a tiny boutique after dinner, I fit right in. For a fleeting moment, I wanted to belong. To be a part of the culture. A part of this community.

It was a far cry from the constant hustle of NYC I’d grown used to. Back there, people looked over their shoulders so many times, their heads were no longer screwed on right. Here, the only thing you saw behind you was the sea. Everyone seemed so calm. No rush, nowhere to be. While it was admirable, this lifestyle wasn’t for me. Not long-term. That didn’t stop me from enjoying it while I could.

But this wasn’t a vacation. I was here to meet with Don, the Italians’ highest-placed man.

Enzo might’ve been on board with my movement, but he didn’t call the shots. A one-on-one with Don was either a last call or an honor reserved for only a few. Somehow, Enzo arranged the meeting, though I didn’t doubtthey had their own agenda. Everything came with a cost, and I was just desperate enough to pay.

When the church bells tolled fifteen times, I dusted off the sand from my feet and hopped on the vespa. The twists and turns of the road led me to a property perched atop a cliff. I gripped the handlebars tighter, settling into the familiar head space.

Greeted by a thorough pat-down, the guards confiscated the few weapons I carried on me. While polite, they made it clear: I shouldn’t try anything.

And I wasn’t going to.

A table sat at the edge of the property, overlooking the coastline.

Afternoon coffee with a view worth the hefty price. The smell of tangerines hung in the air as I walked down the stairs toward the man I was meeting.

Don sat in the patio chair, his eyes fixed on the horizon. His reading glasses rested on the table next to his daily newspaper and a steaming shot of espresso. A matching one waited for me on the opposite side.

Dario Motta, the Don of the Cosa Nostra.

He was nearly twice my age, though it wasn’t immediately apparent. The gray strands of time appeared only in the sunlight, his sole indication of aging. His dark hair was short but professionally styled.

Often described as the perfect gentleman with his impeccable style, mature looks, and heated glances, Dario was a charmer. I’d often mock Enzo for his obsession with looking his best, but this man was on a whole different level.

Though among members, it wasn’t his looks that he was known for.

Despite the pristine clothes, Dario loved to get his hands dirty. Whispers circulated about the latest torture method he’d introduced. About how he’d flown people in from all over the world just so he could get to work. A master at extracting information, theycalled him.

I’d studied his methods ever since I entered the game. In a way, this felt like meeting a celebrity I’d been crushing on.

Public appearances, on the other hand, were Don’s downfall. He stayed hidden in Italy, appointing a trusted few to represent him. Enzo was somewhat of his protégé. Whenever we talked about his childhood, Dario’s name always came up.

Wary of each other, he made the first move, raising my hand to his lips for a kiss.

I stared into his dark eyes, just shy of black. They looked tired, restless.

“Ms. Taya, we meet at last,” he greeted, motioning to the empty chair at his right.

I sat, smoothing my sundress beneath me, trying to play the part of the lady I rarely was. “We do. I wish the circumstances were different.”

With a quick glance at the guards surrounding us, he dismissed them, granting us some privacy.

“Lorenzo gave me the rundown of your situation. Though I’d rather hear it from you,” Dario opened a window of opportunity.

Not shying away from his intense gaze, I explained the reason behind the meeting.

“It’s simple. I’m here to offer you a deal. A one-of-a-kind opportunity, if you ask me.”

With a cool expression, he responded, “What could you offer me that I don’t already have?”

Don reached for his tiny cup of coffee, letting the words sink in before he continued, “Besides, you don’t hold a position of power with the Russians, last I checked. Or with others, for that matter.”

His eyes dissected me. Every breath measured. Every movement logged.

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