Best Served Cold - A Steamy Mafia Revenge Story

TEN YEARS AGO

HICKMAN

Leone Romano straightens his jacket, then checks in the mirror, adjusting the knot of his tie. “Hickman, Katya and I are going to lunch, at La Dolce Vita. You'll be driving us.”

“Of course, sir. But… is Armando ill?”

He glances toward the door, waits a moment, cocking his ear. “Listen, before Katya joins us, there's something in the wind. I need you…” He aims a finger toward me… “… to keep your eyes open. Stay vigilant.”

“Sir? What are we talking about?”

He palms the back of his neck. “I’m not sure, but something is cooking with the Mancini family. Please don’t ask me for more just now. I don’t have it. Just…” He clicks his tongue, looking frustrated… “Just stay alert.”

“Of course, sir. May I ask your source for this information?”

He taps his nose. “Man on the inside. But keep that to yourself.”

“That goes without saying.”

“I know that, Hickman. If I didn't, I wouldn't have told you. So, keep your eyes open.”

“Naturally. Sir, would you be willing to give me your itinerary for the next few days?”

He blinks. “Should have thought of that myself, shouldn’t I. I'll jot down some notes for you tomorrow…”

I haver. “Mr Romano, under the circumstances, I'd like to send Schmidt ahead of us to check out the restaurant. I can drive you and Miss Masterson taking… um… the scenic route… while he makes sure everything’s as it should be over there.”

Romano nods. A short gesture. “Fine. You want me to warn Emilio he’s coming?”

“No need. Emilio knows what I do. He won't mind. And if there are any surprises at La Dolce Vita, I’d prefer that I am one of them.”

At the sound of approaching footsteps, he raises a finger to his lips. “Shush now. I don’t want Katya distressed.”

As she enters, he slaps me on the arm… “Good man, Hickman. Go talk to Schmidt, then bring the car to the front.” He turns to Katya. “Amore Mio, you look beautiful. Hickman here tells me there is a festival by the park this week, outdoor performances by musicians. Artists’ displays and suchlike. Hickman has suggested we might go see if there’s anything we might want to take a closer look at.”

She tilts her head. Beautiful. Charming. “Won’t that make us late for the table booking?”

“We’ll only take five minutes, a drive-by, just to see if we might like to book tickets, for tomorrow perhaps. Emilio won’t mind. We’re his best customers.” He jerks his chin at me, and I retreat indoors to find Schmidt.

***

It’s a part of the job that’s mundane but safe. Romano’s Merc is beyond comfortable, a custom job, moulded leather seats and all the luxury extras, polish and wax hanging in the air. And if the privacy screen is closed behind me, I can listen to my own choice of music.

As the pair descend the steps, I hop out of the car, buttoning up my jacket to conceal the holstered Glock. Standing by the rear door, I hold it open as, her arm linked into Romano’s, Katya sashays past, trailing that perfume she wears and the whisper of silk.

Objectively, Katya’s not conventionally beautiful. She wouldn’t photograph well because her features are strong for a woman. Her chin is a little too defined. Her nose a touch too pronounced for the fashion gurus. Her beauty is not of the high-cheek-bones-and-perfect-cosmetics kind. Rather, when she speaks, she comes alive, her zest for life written there. Her intelligence. Her…

Get a grip…

She belongs to another man…

Her dress, ankle-length, haltered, is subtle and elegant, displaying her lovely swan neck, the lift of her chin, her upright posture. Naturally tall, more so in the dagger-heeled shoes, she’s elegant as she walks, with a sway to the hips that ripples her dress and long wrap thrown around her shoulders.

What do you see in him?

As though it weren’t obvious.

At her neck, diamonds splinter the sunshine. Matching teardrops flash rainbows from her ears. And something new. On the fourth finger of her left hand, a ring glitters, the glint of the diamond cold against the warmth of the gold.

But Katya outshines any gems she could wear.

As they draw closer, I extend a hand to the seat… “Miss Masterson.”

She ducks down to get inside. “Thank you, Hickman.” The polite, empty gratitude of the privileged for the minor functionary.

My gut tightens.

“My pleasure.” Clicking the door closed, I trot round to open up for Romano.

Back in my seat, I glance back to the rear-view, speaking over the intercom. “The art festival, sir?”

“That’s right. Just take us past slowly to give us the flavour, then on to La Dolce Vita.”

“Yes, sir.”

***

The festival is worth the drive-by. On a wide sidewalk, edged by trees, backed by the park, every ten or twenty yards, bands and solo singers have set up, each giving voice or beat to their own variety of sound. Between them, a mix of artists are manning stalls and demonstrations, displaying paintings and sculptures. Apparent statues come to life, startling passers-by. It’s eclectic but entertaining.

I crawl the car along. Katya angles to see. “Look at that one. The impression style. His use of colour. Almost a touch of Monet in his work. I’d like to come back to see…”

“We can do that tomorrow, my Love.”

My mobile flashes on the hands-free. Schmidt.

All looking good here

I meet Romano’s eyes in the rear-view. He arches brows in question, and I nod.

A tap on the shoulder. “Hickman, we’ve seen enough. We’re running a little late, so you can drop us at the door. Follow us in when you’ve parked up.”

“I’d intended to go in ahead of you, sir.”

“Schmidt’s happy? Yes?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s fine, then. He knows what he’s doing.”

Navigating through traffic, I take a short cut, diverting through back-streets to avoid traffic lights where, normally, driving a car of this sort is an invitation to have your windows cleaned with extreme prejudice. Not that I couldn’t handle it, but I prefer not to have to with Katya present.

At the restaurant, I’d normally park right outside. As it turns out, the spot is blocked, a high-sided van parked where there should be a clear space. Romano rumbles. “Who the fuck’s parked that there?”

“Probably a new supplier, sir. Emilio won’t like them doing that during dining hours. Blocking his frontage. I imagine he’s blistering the ears of the driver.”

He snorts agreement as I mount the kerb to let them out. Technically, it’s illegal, but the restaurant staff well know who Romano is. And that it’s his mistress he entertains here…

… well away from the eyes of the world…

Well away from the eyes of his wife...

Does Angelina know?

She must do… Surely?

Tolerates it?

Or has no option?

And Katya’s wearing Romano’s ring?

***

The car parked up, I make my way into the restaurant, first checking that Romano’s where I expect him to be…

His usual table…

… out of sight of prying eyes, a battalion of waiters serve them, one of them being the owner himself, Emilio.

I show myself long enough for Romano to register my presence, nodding acknowledgment as he sees me, before I go on patrol.

In the kitchen, I cast an eye over the staff. They’re all familiar faces, most of them Emilio’s own family. Most of them have worked there since they were old enough to see over the work counters.

Stefano smiles up from where he’s smashing down on garlic with the flat of a knife. “Good afternoon, Mr Hickman. If you’re eating with us, the lasagna’s pretty good today.”

“Later, maybe. When I’m done for the afternoon.” I stroll on back to the main dining area where I find Schmidt. “Everything okay?”

He shrugs. “Yup, ‘cept Emilio’s blowing his nut that Guiseppe’s not turned in.”

“Who’s Guiseppe?”

“His nephew. Emilio expected him to start today, but he’s not shown up yet. First day and all. Emilio’s pissed.”

“I can imagine. Anyway, if anyone’s looking for me, I’m going to check out front. After that, I’ll be on station.”

***

The parked van has gone, giving me a clear view of the frontage. La Dolce Vita, on a quiet street, is set in a very pleasant spot, doubtless one of the reasons Emilio can charge what he does.

Only a few yards away, as one road merges into another in a vee-shaped junction, some foresighted town planner planted a triangular island of grass and trees. There's even a small fountain, trickling water.

Pigeons flock onto the bowl of the fountain, then descend on some old woman breaking up bread for the birds. The trees flutter dappled shade over the white stuccoed restaurant walls and the wide sidewalk, set out with tables and casual seating. In good weather, the diners often finish their meals with coffee outside. A side alley conceals trash bins and the paraphernalia of business.

Across the street, a parade of stores is topped by a double layer of apartments, roof gardens above. If you want city living, it would be hard to find a nicer spot.

The door swings open, Emilio with his granddaughter, a paper bag in her hands. The old man guides her out. “Now, be careful as you cross the road, Sofia.”

I nod down to the little girl. “Want me to take her across?”

His face creases into a smile. “Grazie. Sì.”

Holding her hand, I accompany her across to the fountain. She’s a pretty little thing. But then most little girls are, aren’t they. While she breaks up bread for the swooping pigeons, I scan for possible trouble. Nothing looks out of kilter.

Does she enjoy being ‘The Mistress’?

Surely, most women would want more than that?

Or is she a professional?

It doesn’t feel like that. Not even in the sense of Katya being a high-level courtesan.

You’re better than that…

Sofia tosses down the last few crumbs.

“All done now?”

“Sì. Tutto finito.”

Accompanying her back to the door, I send her inside.

She gives me a gap-toothed smile. “Grazie, Signor Hickman.”

“My pleasure, Sofia. Now go find your grandfather before he starts to worry.”

Pacing the street, I measure my eye against the restaurant window and any possible line of sight for a marksman. But Romano’s table is chosen for its position toward the rear of the dining room. He and Katya are well out of the view of possible snipers.

Strolling back inside, I patrol the dining area itself, drifting close enough to them to overhear snatches of conversation…

“… but if the Right get in at the election…” she’s saying… “… it could signal the end of freedom for many women. The denial of rights to…”

Romano nods, but it has the look of polite agreement, not real interest.

It’s much warmer inside than outside and Katya has shed the wrap she was wearing. Her hair pinned high, the nape of her neck displays an intricate tattoo; a dragon in shades of bronze, ochre and umber, the tail coiled between her shoulder blades. It’s a lovely piece of work. True body-art…

Must have cost a hefty sum…

As she moves, the canvas of skin and muscle flexing, the dragon moves with her, as alive as she is, eyes of gold and green which follow me as I cross the room.

She could have anyone…

Take her pick…

Perhaps she enjoys the thrill of being the mistress?

Or wants the pros of being a wife without the cons?

So why the ring?