Page 91 of Mafia Virgin (The Kings of Italy)

“You don’t have to leave now. You can stay and we’ll watch a movie. Do you like gelato?”

Grabbing my phone and keys, I walked toward the back door. “I like pistachio, but Sal never buys it. And if I stay for a movie I’ll fuck you, period or not.”

“So where are you going?”

“To sleep at Zani’s. See you in two days, wife.”

* * *

“Minchia!” I slammed the phone down on the desk, frustration roiling inside me. We were in the back of Nino’s auto dealership, trying to find Virga. The latest report of a sighting turned out to be another false lead.

Zani sat across from me. “Quit moping. We can still get him, but it’ll take time.”

Time was the one thing I didn’t have. I stared at my hands, hating the powerlessness I felt. First my father, now Virga. Both had taken my choices away from me and I resented it.

I had to think of something different, something we’ve yet to try. Maybe it was time to use brains, not brawn.

“You’re too dumb to be my consigliere,”my brother had said.“Just use your fists, Mo. That’s what you’re good for.”

Stronzo.

I might not be smart, but I knew how to keep fighting. And there was one avenue we hadn’t tried yet. It was risky, possibly stupid, but I was desperate.

I focused on Zani. “What are the odds that Ravazzani told D’Agostino what happened in that meeting with Borghese and Virga?”

Zani’s answer was instant. “Zero percent. The two hate each other. And D’Agostino would have told Gia Mancini. Didn’t Emma say her sisters had no idea? No way her twin knew about the possibility of an arranged marriage and didn’t warn Emma.”

That was my assessment, as well. “Good. Let’s ring D’Agostino. We’ll ask for the help of his hackers.”

To his credit, Zani didn’t flinch. As a rule we didn’t like working with the ’Ndrangheta. “You will owe him a favor in exchange. Are you sure you want to do this?”

“If anyone can locate Virga’s yacht, it’s him. There’s no one we work with who has that kind of skill or resources. I’ll gladly trade a favor for that. Place the call.”

Zani took out one of our many burner phones. He looked up the contact for D’Agostino and dialed. A voice answered after the third ring. “Pronto.”

“I am calling on behalf of Don Buscetta in Palermo,” Zani said. “We need to speak with Don D’Agostino.”

Silence.

Finally, a man said, “This is Vito D’Agostino. You can speak to me.”

The oldest brother. But I didn’t want the second-in-command. “Cut the shit and give me your brother,” I snapped.

“Don Buscetta,” a different voice said, a touch of amusement coloring the Neapolitan accent. “You are every bit as blunt as I’ve heard.”

“Don D’Agostino, I assume?”

“You assume correctly. Now tell me why you are calling.”

“I need someone found.”

“Oh? And what does this have to do with me?”

“I would like to use your resources to do it.”

“I see. Who is this person?”

Did he think I was so stupid? “I will tell you after you agree.”

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