Page 55 of Mafia King: Matteo
“I’ll send more details when I have them. Is everything going okay there?”
“Yes, fine,” Niccoló sighs.
“I have to go. Talk soon,” I reply as we hang up.
“What’s the word, Gio?”
“The matter with our Irishman has been handled.”
“Great. As we discussed?”
“Yes, his last name is O’Donnell, but a million of them exist. He is a low-level person. I doubt he’ll be missed.”
“There is a Cillian O’Donnell who heads the Irish in the United Kingdom. Any relation?”
“He moves drugs for the Irish in Ireland, in Dublin and small-town areas. He has quite a record with law enforcement. He comes up illegitimate. The last name is coincidental.”
“What are the odds of that happening? Maybe I should play the lottery.”
Gio chuckles. “Let me know if you win.” He sits and pours himself a cup of coffee from the decanter.
“Great. Let’s eat,” I say as I observe Federico entering with a tray of breakfast foods and placing the plates on the table.
“Thank you, Federico,” I say before I dig into my Eggs Benedict. Two perfectly poached eggs are resting on spinach and Italian toast. He delivers us both fresh espressos, one of which is a double for me.
I waste no time tossing it back.
“I’ll peruse through Dad’s papers that were left in his house. I doubt I’ll find anything. What was on the SIM card?”
“Not much. The advisor called his kids, and there was a number used numerous times, but it’s going to a burner phone that must be burned. I was hoping we’d get a lead. There’s no way to track who it could have been.”
“Thank you for trying. Quick thinking on your part.”
“That’s why you have me,” he says as he cuts his omelet into bite-sized pieces.
“Are the papers for the building in order?”
“Yes, all taken care of. The gala event for Councilman Addler is next month. You need tickets. I haven’t been able to get you on the list. Money isn’t his only agenda,” he murmurs in frustration. “He can’t be bought easily.”
I worked out in my home gym before Gio arrived. I finish wolfing down my food.
I push my chair back and stand. “Interesting. Maybe Alena will have connections. I’ll work on it as well.”
Gio stands to follow me.
“Eat. I have to go through my father’s dusty papers. I’ll be in my study. And get someone on Addler. There has to be dirt somewhere. I need leverage. I have to get his vote.”
“Very well,” he replies as he sits again and continues eating his sausage patty.
I walk to my study and pull papers out of a drawer. There are boxes in the corner of the room. Dad was a pack rat, and I’m afraid I’ll burn my time and not find a damn thing.
“What were you up to, old man?” I mutter.
I pick up papers, straighten them, and glance over them one by one before moving them to another stack. I’ve been here for hours, and my calves hurt from sitting. I briefly considered using the indoor pool and sauna this morning. It’s the only way to enjoy winter, I surmise.
I stand, contemplating my next move, and pick up the stack of papers to put back in a box when something falls to the antique rug under my feet.
I clutch the papers to my chest before bending to retrieve the one on the floor. It’s folded. I open it with curiosity. I read the Italian words—I’ll meet you tomorrow. Well, that’s a clue. It’s written in Italian and doesn’t appear to be my father’s penmanship.
