Page 107 of Owned By the Italian Mafia Don

“Make it vodka,” he corrects. “Whiskey is for pussies.”

I grin. “Vodka it is.”

The car lurches forward and a line of black SUVs follows us out of the gate. The tires hum and the engine purrs as we speed down the street. No one speaks but the longer the car ride goes on for, the more I wonder if I made the wrong deal. What other choice did I have?

We drive an hour outside of the city and I begin to question where we are going when Zander speaks.

“When we get there, you notice the property is older, but it is nice. It has been in the Bianchi family for a hundred years. He doesn’t stay there but he likes to go there when he is troubled. The gem was actually harvested here. Another hasn’t been mined here since. This diamond is one of a kind.”

“There are other diamonds. I’ve seen black diamonds.”

“Not like this. Not this size and not in this area.”

“Ah, so that’s what makes it special.”

He nods. “I can make millions off that diamond. I bought it from Bianchi. He said he was in a pinch. He must have been really desperate, but then he didn’t deliver. I don’t like it when people don’t deliver.”

The threat is hidden in his statement. I hear it.

“Me either,” I say. “No wonder I couldn’t find her. She wasn’t even in town. I didn’t fucking think to look out here. We did a background check on Bianchi. This property didn’t show up as addresses listed.”

“Of course not. He made sure of that.”

I wanted to kick myself. I wanted to punish myself for not thinking smarter. Carmine would have thought of that. How long would it have been since I found her if Zander didn’t come find me? What if I never found her?

“Don’t kick yourself,” Zander says, lighting yet another cigarette. “You can’t find what isn’t there. He only shares this address with those he trusts. Not many know about this. I’m risking my reputation bringing you here if you fuck me over.”

“I don’t give a fuck about your reputation. I want my wife and then you can have your goddamn gem.” I’m about sick of the damn thing being in my life.

“Excellent. Perhaps this is the start of a beautiful business relationship. Don’t you think, Mr. Milazzo?”

“I’m not in the market for exotic gems,” I reply, my eyes set on the road ahead. I’m waiting for the driveway to come to view. I want my fucking wife.

“I have my hands in many cookie jars. Isn’t that what you Americans say?” he chuckles at the ridiculous phrase. “You Americans. I don’t get it.”

“To answer your question, I am not interested in gems. After today, I’m not sure how we could work together.”

“I can get you anything you want. Whatever you want pushed in your city, I can be your supplier. As for gems, perhaps you’d make money selling to your other…suppliers. Wouldn’t they love to get their hands on rare gems that aren’t available in stores?”

He’s got a point.

“I’ll think about it,” I say, sitting forward as a driveway comes to view.

“Excellent. I look forward to us doing business together. I believe it will beneficial.”

Luckily, I don’t have to reply because we turn left down a paved driveway with large green rolling fields that seem to go on forever. The house itself is old and hasn’t been maintained. It’s a shame because the old worn beige stone is gorgeous. Dead vines creep along the outside, framing the arch on the windows.

There are a few cars parked on the lawn. We park right outside the grand entrance of the front door.

I wait for no one else. I don’t wait for the car to stop. I open the car door and surge forward. My gun is out, and I aim at the wooden door with iron hinges.

And I don’t fucking wait.

I unload the clip in the door, release it when it’s empty, and fill it with another. I run forward, not giving a fuck if I don’t have backup, then kick the door down. Two men are lying dead on the cracked wooden floors, blood running from their bodies and pooling under them. Their eyes are open and not blinking.

“I like your way of doing things, Mr. Milazzo. Fuck, talking, am I right?” Zander asks, tossing his cigarette on the dead bodies. “I never like negotiating and telling a story. You know? Like the people in the movies that hold a gun to someone’s head and just talk about their reasoning or spew their life story when they always get stopped. They wouldn’t have been stopped if they just shot who they intended to shoot, you know? You have to know.”

“You talk a lot too,” I say to him, not holding back as I aim my gun down the hallway.

---