Once the bricks were fished out of the boxes, the men quickly wrapped them in additional plastic and taped them. Then the bricks were stacked on a platform that was normally hidden by the coffee table. If the Coast Guard got too close, the platform dropped down and extended into the water between the catamaran’s hulls, quickly and quietly jettisoning the cocaine. A potentially costly but effective precaution against one hell of a prison sentence.
Assuming they weren’t boarded, though, and things progressed normally, the next step was to load one crab pot with a few kilos, and drop it for one of the fishermen to pick up. By the time the yacht returned to Cape Swan, there wouldn’t be a single grain of cocaine onboard. Every boat in the Maisano fleet had been searched a few times, and much to the investigators’ frustration, nothing had ever been found except for a few cases of contraband textiles. It was a foolproof system, one carefully developed with a thorough understanding of the laws and regulations they were breaking. A virtual guarantee that none of them would ever do time for narcotics trafficking.
When Felice was apparently satisfied that everything was progressing smoothly with today’s shipment, he gestured for Dom to follow him back to the upper deck. There, he poured them each some wine. They clinked their glasses together, and each took a sip.
“So.” Felice swirled his. “With business out of the way, I brought you out here for a reason.”
Dom’s stomach clenched. “Oh really?”
“Everywhere else in town, the walls have ears. And I’m curious…” He paused, gazing into his glass. Then his eyes flicked up and met Dom’s. “Has my brother seemed… strange to you lately?”
“Strange?” Dom set his glass down. “How so?”
Felice scowled and shook his head. “It’s hard to even put my finger on it, to be honest. But when I’ve been to his house and his offices recently, I’ve seen people coming and going who seem… suspicious, I guess.”
“In what way?”
“He has a lot more of these people”—Felice gestured flippantly at the two Koreans who were pulling up another crab pot—“working for him than I realized.”
Dom scowled. “So he’s got some immigrants on his payroll?” Maybe he’s even paying them properly, instead of exploiting them like you do, asshole.
“Except when I’ve asked, he doesn’t say what they’re for. What are they doing?” Felice folded his arms. “Why aren’t their pay slips in the books?”
Dom chewed his lip. Undocumented immigrants were hardly unheard of. And it wasn’t at all unusual for men to take the immigrants who were under contract, and have them do some work under the table—anything from pulling weeds to transporting drugs. Most of the contractors were desperate to make ends meet and pay off their debts, so they eagerly took the work. Dirt cheap labor for the Italians, extra money for the immigrants—in a perverse way, everybody won. Luciano had never seemed to approve of that practice, but even if he’d changed his tune, it didn’t seem that out of the ordinary.
Dom shifted his weight. “What do you think his game is?”
“It’s hard to tell. He’s operating something on the sly, though. I can fucking feel it. And the thing is, well, let’s face it. We all know that if something happens to my father, or he retires, Luciano’s taking his place.” Felice took a deep breath. “I’m just worried he might make a play to get that inheritance sooner than later.”
Dom studied him. “That doesn’t sound like Luciano.”
“Then you haven’t been paying attention,” Felice muttered into his glass.
“Luciano’s the one who tries to talk your father out of calling in hits.”
“He is.” Felice set the glass down and rested his hands on the railing. “Which means he’d be the last one anybody would suspect of taking out a hit of his own. Especially one on Dad.”
Dom pursed his lips. “I suppose that’s—”
A panicked shout made them both jump. They turned as one of the workers rushed up onto the deck, screaming something in his own language.
“What?” Felice snapped. “What are you saying? English, asshole.”
The man stopped, took a few breaths, and in broken English, said, “Downstairs. He’s…” He drew a finger across his throat.
Felice and Dom exchanged glances. Then, with Felice’s soldiers hot on their heels and their pistols in hand, they rushed down to the lower deck and out onto the stern.
“Oh, my God.” Felice covered his mouth and turned around. “Fuck.”
Dom stared, swallowing hard to keep his breakfast where it belonged.
On the sun lounge, Privitera lay as if he were sleeping, his hands folded on his stomach, his hair and tie fluttering in the gentle sea breeze. He even had a wine bottle lying across his lap, as if he’d been about to settle in for a drink.
The only problem was that gaping wound across his throat and the blood trickling between the chair’s plastic slats and pooling on the deck like rainwater.
“Get the fucking Koreans out here,” Felice snarled. “Now!”
One of the security goons hurried inside.
“They did this,” Felice said. “They fucking killed—”
“That’s insane,” Dom said. “They’ve been in here working.”
“Yeah?” Felice gestured at the body. “Then who the fuck did do it? Because the crew is all upstairs and this doesn’t look like a fucking suicide, Dom!”