removing his gun from the waistband of his pants and pointing it and my gun at two of the three remaining security details. I subdue the third man by keeping my expression neutral and without panic. If he believes I have the skills to kill two of his associates before his bullet makes it halfway across the room, I’ll come out of this alive. Considering the fact he didn’t immediately fire at me, I have faith in my plan.
Our demented square standoff lasts for approximately thirty seconds before a deep voice at the side advises the men to stand down. Although his tone is enriched with the Italian heritage I’m seeking, it’s not gruff enough to belong to Col. It’s younger and more Americanized.
I discover why when I shift my eyes in the direction the voice came from. Dimitri Petretti, middle child of Col Petretti, is standing in the doorway of the kitchen. He has a tomato paste-stained napkin in his hand. Even with it only being an hour away from the lunch rush, the industrial-size kitchen is barren of any food bar a half-eaten serve of Malloreddus. Clearly, I’m not the only one who wakes early. Dimitri is eating lunch at a time most mobsters are waking for breakfast.
When the goons ignore Dimitri’s English demand to leave, the wrath for their ignorance is recited in Italian. I’m not overly skilled in other languages, but I’m reasonably sure Dimitri’s warning this time around came with a death sentence, because not only do the three men immediately lower their guns, they also assist the still-passed-out man off the floor before dragging him to the parking lot at the back of the restaurant.
Under Dimitri’s watchful eyes, I remove the magazine from my borrowed gun, dump the ammo onto the floor, clean the barrel and the chamber with my shirt to remove my fingerprints, then place the dismantled weapon onto the hostess’s podium.
Dimitri peers down at the gun, looks up at the frozen-in-fear blonde, then nudges his head to the parking lot his goons just raced through. “Go.”
He doesn’t need to tell her twice. She’s out the door faster than a vulture on a dead carcass, and I’m crossing the room even faster than that.
Once were alone, Dimitri shifts his bright blue eyes to me. “You’re an idiot showing up like this unannounced. You could have gotten yourself killed.”
“By whom?” I ask Dimitri, following him into the kitchen. “By you? Or the man you’re sheltering after sending every one of your siblings to their deaths?”
Growling, he shovels a generous serving of the Malloreddus on the stovetop into a bowl before gesturing for me to sit across from him. “I don’t protect my father. You’re well aware of that.”
It kills me to do, but I dip my chin. Dimitri was turned by Tobias years ago. Don’t misconstrue. He’s still a gangster in every meaning of the word, he just works against his father instead of the authorities. I don’t see that being the case once he takes over his father’s reign, but for now, it works in the Bureau’s favor.
“Have you been back long?” Dimitri was transferred to the international side of his father’s operation a little over seven months ago. Although confident it was a short-term exchange, no one really knew if he’d ever return stateside again.
He places a bowl of tomatoey goodness in front of me. “I flew in early last month. The Bureau is unaware of my return.” He slants his head to the side before viewing me through the eyes of a cold-blooded murderer. “I’d like to keep it that way.”
Do you recall me telling you how it’s okay to tiptoe on the wrong side of the law as long as you always find your way back? Today is one of those incidences. Mutual respect is a rare thing for an agent to have with a known mafia entity, but when the relationship is for the greater good, I’m not opposed to it.
“Your secret is safe with me, although I have a few questions I’d like to ask.” Dimitri jerks up his chin before making his way to a stack of drawers at the side of the kitchen. His hand freezes halfway into a cutlery drawer when I ask, “Were you aware CJ was participating in your father’s underground fighting circuit?”
He shoves the fork into my meal with aggression before replying, “I had a feeling a few months before I discovered it the hard way. CJ was a good fighter.