Page 105 of Mafia King: Matteo
“You are driving me nuts, Matteo,” he exclaims.
“I’m standing with my hands tied. There has to be something we’re missing.” I move my hand over my chin and tap my lip with my finger as I think. I move to my desk and pull the paper out of the drawer. “I found this in Dad’s papers. Do you recognize the handwriting?”
“No, probably a woman’s,” he says. “Was your father seeing someone?”
“Not that I know of, but the old man was cagey. How can we find one Italian woman in New York City who might have crossed paths with my father?”
“True.”
I received a text from Vito that the women were at the spa. My chest is consumed with tightness—and anxiety. This is something new to me. I pray today goes without an incident.
I checked in with Niccoló for an update, and even though they have hacked into hospital records, he can’t find any records of Santino’s wife, Gabriela, being admitted anywhere in the city.
I ordered him to continue digging and hang up. This task will keep him occupied, and keeping his mind busy is important. I’m worried he’s on a path to self-destruction. I’m hoping the allure of finding the villain will give him a reason to live. We always deliver justice. An eye for an eye. It’s the law of our world and the oath we all swear to uphold. I feel the anger in my chest. Vengeance will be mine. I know we’re getting closer. I need a few chips to fall into place, and revenge will be mine.
“That’s odd. Why would a woman be medicated if she doesn’t need it?” Gio asks. “She has kids. How could that go on?”
“Is Santino just being cruel, or is there a reason his wife is a prisoner in their home? And the kids are all raised and out of the house. He is in control of what happens in his house.”
“I hope we’re wrong. Either way, he’s an asshole.”
I’m too restless to sit here without Alena. We head into the city and take a guard to drive us. We check on shipments and make sure things are locked down at the warehouses. I need to keep my shit together now more than ever, but the circle of death appears to be moving closer.
Gio and I stop for lunch at a pub in our territory. It was probably not the best decision, considering we don’t know what the Murphys, the Irish mob, own. They have a stronghold in Boston and are carving out their territory with underground boxing and gambling.
We’re at the end of an incredible shepherd’s pie when men enter. Their Celtic crosses and tattoos on their necks show they are part of an Irish clan.
I leave cash at the table, and we walk to the door. On the way to the door, one of the men hollers at me.
“You bloody well don’t belong here, Borrelli. Stick to your side of town.”
“Leave it,” Gio mutters so only I can hear him.
“I didn’t know you owned this joint,” I reply.
“Get a map.” The tall Irishman pushes his sweater up his arms. “And you best take care of your women. Cillian O’Donnell isn’t happy about his son. You’d best be careful. When he’s mad, it rains more here than in Ireland.”
Rain? A metaphor for bullets? He’s threatening me.
“Well, if he’s unhappy, he should go to therapy.”
He stands, causing the wooden chair to scrape as it refuses to slide over the old tile. My God! He’s over six feet tall, and his chest could pull a hand-truck full of milk.
“Get out and don’t come back,” he says with an accent that makes him difficult to understand.
He raises an arm and curls his fingers as if he has a gun in his hand and is ready to pull the trigger. He pulls his fingers back and pretends to shoot.
We leave. I texted Antonio to send more men to the girls, hoping the threat was for me and not them.
“The Irish are stirred up over you.” Gio quickly calls for the G-wagon, which rolls around, and we slide inside, contemplating the situation.
“Call your contact with Cillian. We need a sit-down. Something is about to go down. Is every mob family in a state of rebellion?”
Gio is on his phone and makes the call.
“How do you see this meeting going?” he asks after he’s hung up.
“No clue. One never knows. I assume he wants something from me, and this is his way of communicating.”
