Alessandro DeLuca

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR – ALESSANDRO

There was nothing on the cameras; the wires had been cut. How the fuck did the security detail not see this? This had to be an inside job, taking me back to my reason for trusting no one. Someone knew Marco wouldn’t be home and had access to the grounds to cut the security camera wire.

The police came and went through Marco’s place with a fine-tooth comb. They treated my brother like a criminal, questioning him for hours. I had called his team of attorneys after calling the police.

Though the police are on our payroll, a few investigators would love nothing more than to see the DeLucas burned at the stake.

They have been at it for more than five hours now, and I know Marco’s tired. It’s only because of our connections that my brother has not been taken to the station. He has been allowed to remain in the comfort of his home to answer their intrusive questions.

We constantly remind them that he’s grieving his wife's passing, and the assholes had better act like it, or there will be consequences to pay. There’s one investigator who seems to have something to prove.

Franco Greco is about to learn a valuable lesson about the DeLucas if he keeps fucking with my brother.

I step out onto the patio after almost six hours. Looking out onto the garden, I think about the hardships my brother has unknowingly created for himself.

After a couple of sips of the liquor in my glass, I pull my phone from my trousers and make a long-distance call.

“Gilberto.”

“Alessandro. Long time. Are you back in America?”

“Actually, just returned from there yesterday.”

“You did not stop in Miami to see me?”

“It was all work, old friend. No time for play and pleasure.”

“Tsk…tsk. I assume this is a work call?”

“Yes. I need a favor.”

“I owe you three.”

“I need to know if any Colombos or their men traveled to Cagliari recently.”

“Since that brutal ass-kicking you dished out?” he chuckles. “Sure. What’s going on?”

“The less you know, the better.”

“Okay, I’ll get back to you in forty-eight hours.”

“Make it twenty-four.”

“Damn. Okay, DeLuca.”

I click off the phone and make another one.

“Oreste,” I greet an old childhood friend turned private investigator.

“Alessandro. To what pleasure do I owe this call?”

“Franco Greco.”

“Hmm…should I know him?”

“Yes, and if you don’t, I need you to become very familiar with him. I need to know everything there is to know about this guy. Whatever isn’t available, I need to know that, as well.”

“Who is he? An enemy or business rival?”