“Where the fuck were the soldiers he’s supposed to have with him at all times?”
Antonio ducks his head to look out onto the water as we near our landing spot.
“He doesn’t take them with him. Hasn’t in a while.”
“What?”
“As soon as he gets to the mainland, he drops them.”
“What do you mean he drops them?”
Antonio takes a deep breath in as the chopper lands then turns to me. “He’s doing something, and I can’t figure out what it is. I have the men tail him but there have been a few times we’ve lost him.”
“And you haven’t thought to mention this to me?”
“You’ve got a pretty full plate, Cristiano.”
“My brother takes priority.” We climb out of the chopper and walk across the lot to the waiting SUV. “What’s he doing?”
“He’s looking for someone. I don’t know who but it’s a girl.”
I look at Antonio. “A girl?”
He shrugs a shoulder. “He puts on a good face for you, but your brother’s got demons. And he’s self-destructive.”
Family trait.
“I know about the demons.” I hear him at night. The nights he sleeps at the house that is. The nights he sleeps. “I don’t care what happens but from now on, you double the men on him. Give him space but you can’t lose him. Period.” I can’t lose him.
Antonio nods and we ride in silence the rest of the way to a small, non-descript house along the outskirts of the city. Soldiers secure the perimeter as Antonio and I make our way to the front door. We don’t have to ring the bell. The woman who lives here, I’d guess the wife of the man who kept my brother out of jail, opens the door, her expression one of worry.
She meets my eyes for a split second, mutters something under her breath and makes the sign of the cross before stepping aside, almost disappearing behind the door.
“Christ,” a man’s voice says as I look around the small living room with its low ceiling, the tiny kitchen with a kettle on the stove that’s whistling. I watch the man walk into the kitchen to switch off the burner and move the kettle. He gives his wife an irritated look before turning to me and Antonio.
He’s middle-aged with a slight paunch to his belly. He’s still wearing his police uniform.
“Antonio,” he says, shaking hands with him before turning to me, giving me a nod.
I extend my hand to shake his and he smiles, puts his hand in it.
“Cristiano,” I say.
“Emil. Emil Giordano. Pardon my wife.” He has an accent, like he comes from a rougher part of the town.
“No, nothing to pardon,” I say as we watch her close the door then disappear into the kitchen. “It’s early and we come unannounced.”
He half-shrugs his shoulder. “This way,” he says, gesturing for us to follow him through the living room and down a hallway to the last door.
“Can you tell us what happened?” I ask.
“He got into it with a couple of guys at a bar in town. Not the best place to begin with. There were six of them against your brother. I gotta say, he held his own for a time but six against one aren’t good odds. Thing is, he started it and the bar owner knows the others. I recognized Dante. I remember what happened to your family. Terrible thing to go through.”
“Thank you,” I say, trying not to feel any emotion.
“I told my partner I’d take care of it, but we had to make like we were arresting him. Your brother is a little bent out of shape because of it.”
“He’ll get over it. Your partner?”
“Don’t worry about him. I paid him a couple bucks.”
I nod. “Antonio will take care of you. I’d like to see my brother.”
“Sure thing.”
The man opens the door to the little bedroom. It’s about the size of my closet with a single bed pressed to the far corner and a nightstand with a lamp on it.
Dante is just sitting up when I walk inside and close the door behind me.
“You smell like a brewery.”
“Distillery,” he corrects, his voice hoarse and scratchy. “It’s whiskey.”
“My bad.”
He looks up at me from his seat on the edge of the bed. “Can you close that?” he asks, shielding his face. The morning sun coming through the window is a glare in his eyes.
“Hungover?” I ask, pulling the ropes to close the broken blinds. “Or are you still drunk?” I turn back to him.
He looks up at me and I see the bruise forming along his jaw, see the cut on his lip and the blood on his knuckles.
“The latter,” I guess. “How do the six men you picked a fight with look?”
He grins but winces, touches a cut high on his cheekbone. “Like shit.”
I sit down beside him. “What the fuck, Dante? You have soldiers. Why were you alone?”