"That I go with you to the airport. No offense, but when you get emotional, you become difficult for them to understand. I don’t think I need to explain the consequences a misunderstanding with the Bertolis could cause. I’m not talking about just losing a business partner here . . .”
Sure, it was a stretch on things, but I figured it couldn’t hurt. He considered the idea, then nodded. “Whatever. I would’ve spared you the sight, but maybe you’ll find some kind of satisfaction in watching your brother punish this man. Go get dressed. You’re hardly fit to greet our . . . guests."
He dismissed me with a gesture, and I returned to my room. Looking around, I thought as I started to change my clothes—I hoped that Dad was going to be satisfied with a little brawl. I rubbed my temples and saw something on my desk that set me thinking. Hurriedly, I emptied out my backpack and replaced the contents with some necessities. If my plan was to work, I might only have moments to put it into place. If that meant I had to leave Brazil with my passport, a change of underwear, and nothing else, so be it.
My preparations ready, I sat down on my bed and closed my eyes. Prayer had helped a little bit before, giving me at least a chance to talk to Tomasso. Maybe a little bit more couldn't hurt.
Chapter 21
Tomasso
I’d expected the temperature to be cool when I stepped off the plane in Porto Alegre. After all, it was supposed to be the height of winter in the Southern Hemisphere, and Porto Alegre is capital of the southernmost state in Brazil. Instead, what greeted me was warmer than the weather that I'd left behind in Seattle, and a lot muggier too. Part of me, the part that enjoyed being a college student in Alabama, rejoiced. The weather was a welcome reminder of my time near the Gulf Coast. Another part of me, the part that knew I was about to be in a brawl in just a few minutes with a hurt leg, recoiled. I wasn't in prime condition, even with the rehabilitation I'd been putting in, and the heat and humidity would sap my strength even further.
The first thing that I saw were the half-dozen men spread out in a rough line outside the hangar we pulled up in front of. Four of them were obviously enforcers, with their weapons clearly displayed. They were carrying M-16 carbine derivatives, plenty of gun for shooting up a couple of men and a plane. One of the others I couldn't identify, but he was about my age, and tall, at least six foot two, although he looked to be less bulky than me.
The final man, the one in the middle, I knew was Guillermo Mendosa, who had a grim look on his face and was dressed in a white tropical-style suit. Standing next to him was Luisa, who commanded my attention with her beauty and by the fact that she was the only person in the whole group who was smiling. Her eyes widened when she saw that I wasn't using my cane before she cocked an eyebrow, understanding what I was doing. If I had to fight her brother, then I needed to show as little weakness as possible.
In the relative silence after the two turbofans wound down, Dad raised his hand. "Guillermo Mendosa, I’m Carlo Bertoli, and this is my son, Tomasso. Thank you for such a warm reception."
I had to give it to him. He was smooth and a bit sarcastic. It clearly wasn’t a warm reception. He was acting as if we were being greeted by the Brazilian women's volleyball team instead of stepping out onto a runway faced with at least four men armed with automatic rifles. Even the other man with Guillermo, who I took to be Eduardo Mendosa, had to smirk at Dad's comment.
One of the gunmen, however, wasn't as amused and started to bring his rifle up. I reached for my coat when Guillermo held up his hand. "Vincente, put it away. I didn’t tell you to raise your weapon.” He turned to us. “Welcome to Porto Alegre."
Luisa stepped forward as Dad and I approached but shook her head when our eyes met again. “I’m supposed to translate so there’s no miscommunication," she said, giving me a measured look that said play along a little bit.
Dad nodded, getting her meaning, and smiled broadly. "Of course, Se?orita Mendosa. My son has something he’d like to say. Tomasso?"
I stepped forward, squaring myself up and looking Guillermo Mendosa in the eye. "Sir, it was never my intention to offend you or your daughter. I apologize. I’m here so that we can put this to rest and not have to resort to violence. I don’t think either of us wants that.”
He looked at me with a pissed off expression that seemed to run in the Mendosa family and shook his head. "This isn’t a simple matter of a broken piece of furniture or maybe a bit of hellraising. This is my daughter, and an apology isn’t going to make it go away.”
I nodded and turned my attention to the man next to him. “You're Eduardo, then? You're the one who is challenging me to a duel?”
"I am," the taller man said, his voice flat and emotionless. "Inside the hangar, and the rules . . . well, we’ll stop when one of us can’t go any longer. Agreed?"
I nodded. "When?"