Page 17 of Don't Bite The Boss
“The boss wants this done right,” another, third voice says, violence evident in the subtext.
Straightening, I take a deep breath and listen harder.
Yes, three heartbeats, all male.
I could run, I could be all the way to Naples before they even got close enough to say ‘hello’ but I don’t. My curiosity is getting the better of me, and, I have to admit, I’m starving and spoiling for a fight. They just might, if their intimations are what I suspect, save me a trip to the city to hunt, and help release a little tension.
“That’s her,” the biggest of the three says, as I jump up from the deep pool to where they can see me.
I stand silently, hands limp by my sides, aware my hair is all around my face, my skin dusty from my super-paced digging, my clothes dirty. To them, I must look like a filthy little urchin.
“Hi,” I say loudly as they approach.
“You the landscaper? You work for Tristan Berrington?” the man I had first heard speak in the car asks. He is the biggest, muscle-bound and looks like the classic Italian thug. He’s wearing a tight black shirt, black leather jacket, cream coloured slacks and sporting pointy-toed shoes, slicked-back hair and a heavy gold chain. I take it all in at a glance and almost burst out laughing.
The other two are dressed similarly, but one is a great deal stockier and shorter than his companions, and one, dressed all in black, looks way more dangerous than his friends – his nose giving him a rodent-like appearance. I notice, without even trying, that all three have guns under their jackets. I like guns, I’m a pretty good shot. I hadn’t been able to bring any of my weapons into this country with me, so I’m kind of excited that I might get the opportunity to misappropriate these ones. But I try not to get carried away thinking about what types they might be, I need to focus on what these men want.
“Who’s asking?” I give a friendly smile.
“That’s her,” the smallest of the three nods, and I realise I have seen him before. He had accompanied one of the councillors the night of the dinner on board Tristan’s boat.
“We’ve got a message for your boss,” the muscle says, as he steps towards me, drawing a knife.
“Huh,” I nod, and screw up my nose, “you want me to give him a knife?”
“The message is going to be carved into your skin,” the rat-man laughs, a sinister chuckle.
“After we finish with you,” the short one says, unbuckling his pants.
“Huh,” I nod again, my friendly demeanour not slipping, “and do you mind telling me who I have to thank for the wonderous bounty I am about to receive?”
“Bruno Serevino,” the muscle says before he is punched hard in the back by the rat.
“You don’t need to know,” the rat spits to me, “she don’t need to know,” he adds to his accomplice.
My mind is racing. Solomon wouldn’t use thugs like this to kidnap me, he’d know I could snap them like twigs. This made no sense. Who is this Bruno?
“She won’t exactly be sharing the information after tonight,” his companion complains, rubbing the back of his shoulder where he was thumped.
“Ah, Bruno,” I nod as though I know him, “I might have a little message of my own for this Bruno, tell me, does he live far from here?”
“Shut up,” the short one says, taking a step towards me, his pants around his ankles and his penis pointing to attention.
“Ok,” I shrug, as I lunge forward and snap his neck with one hand, spinning him around to face his friend like a marionette, his sad little dick still standing like a tiny soldier on parade.
The other two stand incredulous for one long second, their eyes flicking from their dead friend to me, back to him, to me again, as I allow my fangs to run out, raise my chin and address the muscle.
“Tell me, boys, which one of you would like to take me to Bruno?”
I grimace as I wipe the blood from my chin and push Rat’s body away from where I sit on the back of Mr Muscle.
“Fucking Italians eat too much garlic,” I groan, wiping my hand on my pants and realising I will have to hand-wash them to avoid any questions from the maid who does the laundry.
It had been easy, too easy, to kill them both. But I’d taken my time once I’d snapped their arms and legs – I want to know who wants me dead, and why. I’d been sure the answer would have been something to do with Solomon, but no. They had stuck to their Bruno guy right to the bitter end and wouldn’t say a word about vampires, no matter how persuasive I had become, and I can beverypersuasive. After all, I’d learned from the master.
Rising and stretching, my stomach full, I slip two of their three guns, the third was a cheap knock-off, into the belt at the back of my trousers and pat my pocket, making sure my phone hadn’t been damaged during my short altercation. I need to call Charlotte to warn her that violence has followed us to Italy. In the months we’ve been here I think we’ve become a little complacent, I know I have. This visit by the three stooges has been a salient reminder that we can never rest on our laurels, anywhere, anytime.
I wipe my hands on my pants again, take one last look around and a calming, deep breath before calling her. The site is crowded now with pot plants of various shapes and sizes, all in preparation for when they will be placed in precise locations around the villa grounds. The smell of the lemons and rosemary, even the figs, gives a sweet, heady scent to the night air.
