Page 93 of Mafia King: Matteo
Poison is a woman’s way of killing. It fits that she would have access to the house and could easily slip it into something my father’s drink or food.
Alena is right. The evidence points to Chiara, but why would she kill my father? She’d been to all our family functions and knew our routines. She remained undetected after the funeral. It never dawned on me that the enemy was from within, but it is a diabolical and ingenious plan. I’ll remember this. The Trojan Horse is an infallible technique that is as old as time.
My adversary is cunning. However, the fact that Dad was murdered and that we may never find the man responsible for Chiara’s death will leave a festering wound in my brother’s heart.
I need answers.
As we travel to my office at the warehouse, we pass the hotel where Finn was staying.
“The Irish are here,” Gio states as he recognizes the G-wagons and a few faces of goons who walked in the street.
“Fuck. Did you speak to Antonio?”
“Yes. And there is nothing that implicates us. The needle was in the arm he used. The fact that they are giving this so much attention means they are looking to pin this on someone. He was a junkie and a dealer. I’m sure the Irish are not surprised he’s dead.”
“They want to flex their muscle and see if they can scare up a witness,” I murmur.
Gio’s phone rings. He speaks in Italian.
“What’s happening at the hotel?”
“The Irish are at The Plazza Romano. They grabbed men who were taking out the garbage.”
“Send men, and make sure they are run off with a few broken bones. They are on our turf. We need more security to walk the grounds at night. I want our warehouses patrolled as well. There is a shortage of building supplies. We have aluminum and copper that are worth a fortune. When the price is right, we’ll sell them. However, the Irish might use the distraction of roughing up our men to divert manpower there. It would provide the diversion necessary for them to hit our warehouses.”
“I’m on it,” Gio says. He calls Antonio, who is in charge of security, and is still speaking when we arrive at my office.
Gio clears the building before I enter. The other guard in the limo heads to the gated entrance and will check anyone wishing to enter the area.
We’re in a high-alert phase.
I texted Alena. I felt better telling her what happened in Sicily, and I could see the wheels in her head spinning.
Today, she’s organizing the staff and creating a design to set us apart from the other luxury hotels. The Ruse Luxe is Volkov’s International hotel chain, and I intend to follow in their footsteps. I have family money to invest, and property values never decline. I want to propose to Alexsei that we buy out a Vegas hotel. It has to be on the strip, and one will soon go into bankruptcy. Together, we could offer them a deal that they can’t refuse.
I sit in my leather chair, and Niccoló calls. Tomorrow is Chiara’s funeral. I wonder if the Borrellis are cursed. Mom died, Chiara wasn’t even married to Niccoló, and yet, she’s dead.
“How are you, brother?”
“I’m not well. However, I have something important to discuss. I’ll fly to New York tomorrow. I can’t wait to see you.”
“I look forward to it. Let Gio know when you’re arriving. We’ll have someone meet you at the airport. I must attend the gala tomorrow.”
“It’s business, I understand,” he replies.
I wonder what is so urgent, and the fact that he’s not comfortable speaking of it over the phone makes it imperative that he arrives in one piece. What has he learned? Will it bring us closer to catching the person behind Chiara’s death?
I can’t focus on fear. Its presence is a spiral into darkness and despair. Fear consumes happiness like a fire eats oxygen. Nothing good is left in its wake because it leads to depression and, at its worst—death.
I feared my father at first. Until I discovered that he was a weak man who got off on watching others’ reactions to his violence and machinations to feed his sickness. Father pushed buttons and was a good psychopath. He constantly needed validation that he was the smartest one in the room.
I learned that the person who knew the most was the one who said the least. I’ve attended many meetings among high-ranking members of our syndicate. I’ve watched the men who remained silent, thinking they needed to speak.
I later discovered that they were absorbing information like sea sponges in a bathtub. They were learning how to read the others in the room. They knew the character of the men who surrounded them and the men under them. They understood what motivated people, making them respected leaders because the ranks had no bickering.
For some, it was money. For others—power, and some, recognition of a job well done. When men lose faith in their leaders, discontent festers.
I’m curious if the Irish are having internal issues. Is this why there is a sudden interest in Finn? Is it a diversion? And if it is, what is the underlying issue? I conclude it’s a problem for another day.
