Mafia Kings: Roberto: Dark Mafia Romance Series #5

On the way to the meeting, I texted Niccolo.

About to meet with Lau and the other partners. Wish me luck.

He texted back the Italian phrase, In culo alla balena.

Which literally translates as, In the ass of the whale.

It’s an Italian way of saying ‘good luck’ – similar to ‘break a leg.’

I smiled and texted back the traditional reply:

Speriamo non caghi.

Which means I hope it doesn’t shit.

We Italians love our dark humor.

Then I texted, Anything from Venice?

Not yet. I’ll let you know.

I rapidly typed my reply:

Text me even if you don’t hear from me. I’ll probably be in the meeting for a while.

He texted back a thumbs-up.

Then I called Mei-ling. She didn’t answer, so I left another message.

“I haven’t heard back from you yet, and I need to confirm you’re okay to leave with me tomorrow morning. I won’t be able to answer your call for the next hour, so text me your answer, okay? Alright – I’ll talk to you soon.” I paused, then added, “I love you.”

I texted her the exact same thing.

I waited, hoping to see the three dots that would let me know she was reading and responding –

But nothing appeared besides Message delivered.

I reluctantly put away my phone and mentally prepared for what lay ahead.

The town car dropped me off at the Syndicate building at 4:22.

I immediately made my way to the express elevator.

Han was there to greet me when the door opened on the 70th floor.

His face was as expressionless as always –

At least the times when he was sober.

There were no pleasantries or greetings. Instead, it was straight down to business.

“I have to frisk you,” he informed me.

I frowned. “Why?”

“Xi and Gota requested it.”

That made sense. Niccolo and Lars would never allow a stranger into a room with Dario until they’d been searched for weapons.

I consented to the pat-down by raising my arms.

Han quickly and expertly checked my jacket, pockets, and legs for weapons.

Thank God I hadn’t brought my luggage with me.

After Han was through, he led me through the doorway into the maze of offices – and finally to the boardroom, which I’d never seen before.

It was big enough to accommodate a mahogany table for 20 people – ten to a side, with plenty of room to spare.

Strangely enough, though, there were only four chairs:

One on my side and three on the other.

Sitting on the table was a black office phone with a panel of buttons.

Behind the table, one entire wall of the boardroom was glass. Beyond it was a stunning view of Hong Kong Harbor.

But the table and the window were not the only imposing things in the room.

A dozen men were standing around in groups.

Most of them were in their mid-20s or early 30s. All of them wore black suits with white shirts and black ties.

I immediately realized that they weren’t investors.

They were Xi and Gota’s men.

Gangsters.

My stomach twisted.

I immediately wished I had granted Giorgio’s request and brought him and our other foot soldiers to Hong Kong.

Not because of their guns –

But to balance out my disadvantage in numbers.

One against twelve was intimidating. Even if everything remained civil and aboveboard, the psychological advantage was firmly in the other side’s favor.

When Han and I entered the room, Lau – who was speaking with Gota and Li – saw me.

“Ah, good – the guest of honor is here. Let’s begin. Mr. Rosolini, if you’ll sit there, please.”

Lau gestured to the lone seat on my side of the table.

I pulled back the chair and uneasily sat down.

Lau sat directly opposite me, with Gota to his left and Xi to his right.

The other men in the room – including Han – stood in a row behind the three principal investors, stretching from one end of the conference table to the other.

I felt like a condemned man facing judge, jury, and multiple executioners all at the same time.

“Mr. Rosolini,” Lau said, flashing his grandfatherly smile. “You know Mr. Gota and Mr. Xi.”

Gota, the Yakuza boss, was about 50. He looked like a cadaverous wax museum statue with slightly bulging eyes. Unlike his underlings, he was dressed in a grey three-piece suit.

Xi was triad. About 65, he had a fleshy, dour face. He, too, dressed differently from his underlings in a navy blue suit.

Gota gave me an unpleasant smile – like a crocodile sizing up a monkey he wanted to eat.

Xi just gazed at me with dead, emotionless eyes.

“Gentlemen, thank you for coming.” I looked at Lau and tried to keep an accusatory tone out of my voice. “Did you not invite any other investors?”

I knew at least half a dozen other people had given the Syndicate as much money as I had.

Lau smiled. “You said that you thought Mr. Xi and Mr. Gota would understand your situation better, seeing as you are all in the same ‘line of business.’ So that we might speak freely, I decided it best to limit the meeting to just you and them.”

I didn’t like it – fewer investors meant Xi and Gota had outsized power in how they voted – but I had to admit it was sound logic.

“Good,” I lied. “Gentlemen, I asked Mr. Lau to invite you here because – ”

“He informed us of your request,” Xi interrupted in a monotone voice. His English was impeccable. “You want your money back.”

I tried to hide my irritation. “And did he communicate why I need it back?”

“Something about family problems.”

I looked at Lau. “That’s certainly one way of putting it.”

Lau smiled. “I decided to be delicate in case anyone was listening in.”

I assumed by ‘anyone’ he meant Hong Kong law enforcement.

I turned back to Xi. “For 25 years, my father headed up our family business. Eight months ago, he died of what my brothers and I thought were natural causes.

“Now we’ve discovered that my uncle – who was my father’s right-hand man for those same 25 years – had him poisoned. We discovered the truth three weeks ago, shortly before my uncle tried to have two of my brothers assassinated.

“My family is at war, gentlemen. You’ve undoubtedly experienced similar situations in your long careers. Perhaps not with family members, but certainly with rivals. As a result, I’m sure you can appreciate one fact: war is expensive.

“Unfortunately, when my uncle moved against us, he also attacked us financially, embezzling over 25 million euros worth of funds. I need the money I invested with the Syndicate so my family can fight my uncle and win.

“I assure you, this is nothing more than a temporary measure. My family and I want to continue our business arrangement with the Syndicate. When we reinvest – if you allow us to – we would be more than willing to accept any new terms that are more advantageous to you.”

The Yakuza boss spoke next. Gota’s English was slightly more accented than Xi’s, but still excellent.

“You are Cosa Nostra, yes?” he asked with that unnerving smile.

“Yes.”

“The Cosa Nostra is from Sicily, an island off the coast of Italy, yes?”

“Correct.”

“It is my understanding that Sicilians are greatly feared in the Italian underworld.”

“They have a certain reputation, yes.”

“Yet you are from Florence.”

“Just outside Florence, in the countryside of Tuscany.”

I had no idea where Gota was going with this, but I needed his vote, so I did my best to humor him.

“How is it that a Sicilian criminal organization is in Tuscany?” Gota asked.

“The Italian government has tried to wipe out the Cosa Nostra for many years. They began a purge starting in the 1980s that continued through the next decade.

“Long before the purge started, certain families in the Cosa Nostra saw the writing on the wall. They knew what was coming, so they spread to other parts of Italy – much the same way the Cosa Nostra went to the United States in the early 20th century – and secretly worked to gain control over the major cities.

“My grandfather came over from Sicily and established a base of operations in Tuscany. From there, he expanded our family’s organization into Florence. When he died, he passed control to my father. My family is just one of many, all originally from Sicily, that control different parts of Italy.”

“So your grandfather was Sicilian,” Gota said.

“Correct.”

“I am assuming your father was Sicilian?”

“Yes.”

“And your uncle – he is Sicilian, as well?”

“He is.”

“Are you Sicilian?”

“I’m half-Sicilian. My mother was from Florence.”

“Florence was the city of the Medicis, was it not? A banking family?”

I was beginning to tire of the history lesson, but I continued to play along. “Yes. The Medicis not only bankrolled popes, they were patrons of the arts. We wouldn’t have Michelangelo’s David or Botticelli’s Birth of Venus without the Medicis.”

“So which are you, Mr. Rosolini? A Medici… or a Sicilian?”

Ah.

I assumed he was concerned whether we would actually have the balls to win against Fausto.

“I can assure you, Mr. Gota, I am Sicilian when I need to be, and a Medici when it is appropriate.”

“So you are, in fact, a half-breed.”

After my initial shock, I narrowed my eyes and glared at him. “Excuse me?”

Gota continued smiling as he insulted me. “What is the English expression? ‘Neither fish nor fowl’? Why would we back a half-breed banker against a full-blooded Sicilian?”

As soon as he said that, my stomach filled with ice water, and I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt –

Niccolo had been right.

I looked at Lau. “You sided with my uncle, didn’t you.”

Lau smiled. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

He punched a button on the phone, and a familiar voice spoke over the speaker.

“Hello, nephew.”