Page 56 of His Vow
Antonio
Naples, Italy
Dark and dingy is the only way to describe the bar located down a narrow side street from Centrale.
If I didn’t already have a bad feeling about meeting this guy, I do now. Giving my eyes a few minutes to adjust to the interior, I stop right inside the door. It’s still early evening, but no light penetrates beyond the first few feet of the worn and chipped terracotta-tiled floor. The place is deserted, a row of empty stools pushed up against a wooden bar the only seating.
Pulling back my shoulders, I stride up to the counter. On the other side, the bartender strikes a threatening pose, meaty fists planted on his hips, feet shoulder-width apart, and a glare that brings his thick dark eyebrows to nearly touch in the middle. I’m definitely not welcome here, and I don’t care because I’ve got no intention of staying beyond the arranged meeting.
“Lacryma Christi Rosso, grazie.” Ordering the local red wine is hopefully a safe bet. It’s hard to tell when all the response I get is a grunt before the bartender wipes his hands down the sides of the apron tied beneath his protruding belly. The fabric wasprobably once white but is now a murky beige color with various streaks of indistinguishable stains marking it.
While I wait to be served, I peer into the darker recesses of the long, narrow space. At the far end sits a figure who I hadn’t noticed when I walked in. He’s dressed in dark clothing and is leaning so far over the bar that it’s difficult to make out much more than it’s a man.
When the glass of wine is placed in front of me on the sticky wooden surface, I pick it up and stroll toward the hunched figure. My gait is measured and deliberately casual, nothing like the gut-wrenching churn in my stomach. It has to be the whistleblower I’m meeting; he’s the only other person here. My brain is screamingsetup,and every one of my senses is on high alert.
Fuck, it feels like I’ve stepped into a thriller, and I hate those movies. “Sal?” I ask, scanning the thin frame of the stranger.
Lanky black hair falls forward, blocking a full view of his face, not that I know what Sal looks like. The guy shifts on his stool from side to side, and his black crumpled shirt swims around him. It looks like it belongs to a much larger man and wreaks of sweat—a disgusting smell. Schooling my features, I wait for him to acknowledge me.
“Sit,” he grunts, and I don’t question the command, dropping instantly onto the stool beside him. I want to get the information and then get the hell out of here. He raises his head slightly, like he’s afraid to look at me or, more likely, doesn’t want me to get a good look at him.
Fuck, he asked me to come, yet he’s acting as creepy as a hitman. I’m not sure why my mind jumps to that; it’s probably those fucking thriller-movie vibes messing with my head again.
His eyes dart around the bar, which is just as empty as it was when I walked in.
“I’ll AirDrop the file.”
Below the counter level, he points his cell in my direction, and I take mine out of the inside pocket of my suit jacket. We wait a few moments for the file transfer to complete, and then he jumps up without a word. The stool scratching angrily against the wooden floor the only sound as he turns and bolts out the back of the bar.
“Fucking nice meeting you too, dude,” I mumble to myself before opening the file for a quick look.
This is exactly what we were hoping for, the missing shipping logs and invoice details. Not wanting to stay in this dingy dive longer than I need to, I email the file to myself and gulp down the remainder of my wine. I’m the only person here, and even though Sal has gone and I’ve got the information I needed, something still feels fucking off. It’s probably just tiredness, and I rub my palm along the back of my neck.
Hopefully now that we have the final piece of the puzzle, we can trace the money to the person or persons who’ve been stealing from the company. I walk back to the entrance, keeping my head down, and step out onto the sidewalk. A shudder runs up my spine. Brushing it off with a shake of my head, I stride off toward the station, where the lighting is much better than in this dark side street.
Halfway there, a shadowy figure blocks my path. This sure as hell isn’t Sal. The dude is fucking huge; I’d guess he’s over six-five, based on my own height, but with the bulk of a WWE fighter. This kind of thing wouldn’t normally bother me. I grew up in New York and can handle myself, but there’s something about the way this guy’s standing with his feet shoulder-width apart that has beads of sweat popping out on my forehead.
My heart races, and my chest tightens around it like it’s a vise. The hair lifts on the nape of my neck as I stop, mirroring the guy’s stance. I’m prepared to fight, but I’d rather run. There’s nobravery in taking a beating from an adversary who looks more than capable of giving me one.
The scuff of heavy boots on the sidewalk behind me has me dropping a shoulder to dart a quick glance toward the sound. And all hope of getting out of this without a fight sinks to my boots.
Oh fuck, he brought a friend. And the friend looks even bigger in the dim light.
Running is no longer an option. “What’s up, boys?” I ask, like we’ve just met in much more friendly circumstances. Maybe they’re a couple of opportunistic thugs and I can bargain my way out of this.
They don’t respond. Instead, they continue to edge closer, like a couple of lions stalking their prey.
“Come on, let’s talk about this. Before you do something we’ll all regret.”
But again, my attempt at bravado falls on deaf ears. And they step closer. Okay, this is no longer some random coincidence. I’m their target, and these guys mean business. I need a plan.
Dropping my shoulder, I charge at the smaller of the two, just like I trained to do when I played football in college. And when I connect, it’s like I’ve run into a brick wall. Sharp pain shoots through my shoulder as it dislocates; I’ve done that enough times in the past to know that’s a fact. At least the brick wall grunts and bends enough for me to dodge past, and I take off sprinting. The shoulder is no impediment to running.
And I might have made it, too, if there had only been two of them. But out of nowhere comes a third attacker.
Why is it always the third man who’s meaner and more fucked up than the first and second?
He tackles me with surprising agility, and we tumble to the concrete. While I can throw a hell of a punch, and I manage toland a couple, close-quarters grappling was never my strength. That was more Gio’s form of fighting.
