Chapter 2 - The Taste of Salt
Gio didn't turn around. He didn't shout.
He didn't even look toward the alcove where Matteo had been standing three minutes earlier. He simply extended his left hand, his palm flat, and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth—twice, sharp and dry like the cocking of an antique hammer.
From the service door near the pantry, a second shadow detached itself from the walnut paneling. Luca, older than Matteo by a decade, with ears flattened from bare-knuckle bouts in the basement of the Salerno fish market, appeared at Gio’s elbow without a breath of sound.
“The alley,” Gio said.
“Car’s already gone, Don Giovanni,” Luca whispered, his voice like gravel sliding down an iron chute. “Matteo took the secondary Alfa. Left through the lower delivery gate four minutes ago. Heading north toward the Nocero pass.”
Gio didn't curse. Men who cursed when they were betrayed were men who hadn't anticipated that treason was simply the cost of doing business on the coast. He looked down at the table, his fingers still resting on the small scrap of blue carbon paper.
“He took the Nocero route because he knows the coast road has three traffic cameras linked to the port authority,” Gio murmured, half to himself. “He thinks the rain will cover his climb through the mountains.”
He looked up at Isadora. His gaze was no longer the arrogant, bored glare of the boss who had tossed a linen napkin at her chest an hour ago. It was clinical, cold, and stripped of everything except calculation.
“Did you give him the whole sheet?” he asked.
“Do you think I survived ten years in the northern ports by being an idiot?” Isadora took a step back, her hands sinking into the deep pockets of her work apron. “That slip in your hand is the index. The location of the tunnel, the vault coordinates, and the access codes are written on the inside of the leather lining of my grandmother’s prayer book. Which is currently in the bottom of my pack, wedged between two bars of cheap lye soap and three pairs of wool socks.”
“Matteo will tear the lining out within ten miles,” Luca muttered.
“Matteo can’t read cursive Latin, Luca,” Isadora said without looking at him. “And even if he could, the prayer book is locked with an iron hasp that will shear the paper into strips if you force it with a pocketknife. Your cousin is a butcher, not a locksmith.”
Gio looked at her face—really looked at it. He saw the small, white scar running through the arch of her left eyebrow, an old souvenir from an iron stove door, and the hard, unyielding set of her mouth that had replaced the timid, barefoot girl who used to watch him clean his father’s shotguns on the stone patio.
“Luca,” Gio said.
“Boss.”
“The Maserati is parked in the lower grotto. The four-wheel drive. Take the mechanic’s kit and two MP5s from the vault behind the dry-curing cellar. Tell Emilio the restaurant is closed for the season. If any of the councilor’s men come back looking for their coats, shoot their tires and leave them in the mud.”
“And the girl?” Luca asked, his eyes lingering on Isadora with the suspicion of an old soldier who didn't like surprises.
“The girl has my father’s prayer book,” Gio said. He reached down into the goblet of wine, plunged two fingers into the dark alcohol, and fished out the brass station locker key. He didn't dry it. He dropped it onto the table, where it left a wet, crimson ring on the linen. “And she is going to show me how to read it.”
He walked past her toward the service corridor. As his shoulder brushed hers, he didn't slow his stride, but his hand came up, catching her chin with fingers that smelled of iron and cold wine. He tilted her face toward the light, his thumb running once across the shallow cut along her jawline.
The touch was rough, calloused, but it carried an electric, terrible familiarity that made her heart slam against her ribs.
“Next time you throw ice at me, Isadora,” he whispered, his eyes black in the dim light of the hallway, “make sure you kill me. Because if you leave me breathing, you belong to the work.”
He dropped his hand and was gone through the swinging doors before she could draw breath to answer.
Five minutes later, they were in the belly of the mountain.
The grotto beneath La Corona had been carved out of the limestone cliffs during the reign of the Spanish viceroys, originally used to store barrels of salt cod and illegal Malmsey wine. Now it smelled of synthetic oil, high-octane gasoline, and sea spray. The black Maserati Levante sat on the damp gravel like an iron wedge, its twin-turbo engine idling with a deep, menacing thrum that vibrated through the soles of Isadora’s cheap service shoes.
Luca threw two canvas bags into the rear cargo space, then climbed into the back seat without a word, pulling the door shut behind him.
Gio stood by the passenger side. He had changed his trousers—now wearing dark tactical wool and an oiled Barbour jacket that smelled of old paraffin—but he hadn't put on a tie. His throat was bare, revealing the top of a black cross tattooed directly over his jugular.
“Get in,” he said, opening the door for her.
“I’m not your passenger, Rossi,” she said, her chin high. “I’m your creditor.”
Gio’s lips twitched—not a smile, but the grim ghost of one.
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“In this car, Isadora, you’re the map. Sit down and keep your fingers away from the door handle. The drop on the Amalfi drive is two hundred meters, and I don't intend to brake for the curves.”
She climbed in. The interior was dark, smelling of expensive calfskin and cold rain. Before she had even clicked her seatbelt into place, Gio dropped the transmission into gear, dumped the throttle, and the SUV launched forward through the tunnel mouth, shooting out onto the ribbon of asphalt that hung between the sheer cliff of the mountain and the roaring, ink-black void of the sea.
