Harvath was about to agree when his phone illuminated. Picking it up, he read the message.
“Vottari just pulled up,” he said. “Two vehicles. Four men in total with him. It looks like they’re all coming in together.”
As Lovett discreetly adjusted her dress, Harvath sent out a group text, notifying the team of the details.
It was time to heat the place up.
CHAPTER 76
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* * *
La Formícula walked into the club dressed all in white—white linen trousers, a white linen shirt, and white shoes. His black hair was slicked back and on his small right wrist was an enormous Rolex in rose gold.
The entourage was admitted right into the VIP section and, sure enough, was guided to the last remaining seating area. The man’s cologne was so strong, Harvath could smell it from where he sat.
Vottari took a spot on one of the white couches, while his bodyguards took up strategic positions nearby.
As the Mafioso’s eyes swept the room, Harvath pretended to be absorbed in his phone. He wanted La Formícula to stare as long and as hard as he pleased at Lovett.
Soon enough, a pair of Vottari’s friends arrived and he stood up to greet them.
“Did he get a good look?” Harvath asked, still interacting with his phone.
“And then some,” said Lovett. “I don’t think I had a stitch of clothing left by the time he got done. I feel like I need a shower.”
Harvath smiled. “I get it. Women look at me like that all the time. It’s degrading.”
Lovett rubbed her thigh with her middle finger. Harvath laughed.
Over in Vottari’s seating area, a few more friends had arrived, as had the waitress with glasses and two busboys toting ice buckets and champagne.
Soon enough, corks were flying and everyone was having a good time.
Morrison and Barton had met up with a pair of sisters. After drinks and some dancing they brought them back to the VIP section and made introductions. Harvath ordered another bottle of champagne.
Not too long after, Staelin and his lady friends came back. But instead of returning to sit with his teammates, he allowed the women to drag him over to meet Vottari and his gang of friends. The guy was amazing.
When Harvath’s new bottle of champagne was opened, Barton raised his glass and said, “Cent’anni!”
The two sisters were delighted that he could toast in Italian. “Where did you learn it?”
“From The Godfather,” he replied proudly.
“The film?” they asked in unison. When he nodded, they all began laughing.
Harvath knew the toast too. And he’d learned it the same way. It was a wish for one hundred years of good luck.
His wish, though, was that Barton would stop quoting from Mafia movies while they were sitting across from one of Calabria’s most vicious mobsters.
Just looking at him, it was hard to believe that Vottari was so dangerous. But he knew that looks could be deceiving. The crime scene photos Argento had shown him had been disgusting.
Focusing his attention back on his group, he joined in as Morrison made a toast with some bawdy Irish limerick and everybody cracked up.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Staelin having a terrific time laughing and telling jokes with La Formícula. Moments later, the Delta Force operative waved the entire team over.
Picking up their drinks, they walked across the VIP section and joined them. Staelin made introductions and before Harvath knew what was happening, Vottari had given his bodyguards orders to move the furniture.
The large men walked back to Harvath’s seating area, lifted the couches, chairs, and even the table and repositioned them so the two groups could sit together. As soon as they were done moving everything, they returned to their positions.
“Antonio is in the olive oil business,” Staelin said, raising his voice so he could be heard above the music. “He’s going to get us a case of his best stuff.”
“Extra virgin,” Vottari promised. “Absolutely the best.”
Harvath flashed him the thumbs-up as the man leaned in to ask Staelin something.
“They only work together,” The Delta Force operative replied, nodding at Harvath and Lovett. “In America, we say that he’s her work husband. They’re not married. She’s totally single.”
Harvath wasn’t the jealous type. Not by a long shot. He was more protective than anything else, but with that said he really didn’t like the vibe this guy was putting out toward Lovett. If she sensed it, which he knew she had to, she was doing an amazing job keeping it under wraps. Vottari was disgusting.
They made small talk as another bottle of champagne made the rounds and everyone’s glasses were topped off.
Just then, a song came on and all of the Italians went wild.
Standing up, Vottari reached for Lovett’s hand. “Number-one song all summer in Italy,” he shouted. “Come dance!”
One of the women with Staelin grabbed Harvath and pulled him with her as the entire VIP section emptied onto the dance floor.
It was so crowded, you could barely move. Harvath did his best to keep Lovett and Vottari in sight.
The bodyguards had stayed behind, and he hoped that Lovett had noticed. This might be her only shot.
La Formícula was a real internationalist on the dance floor. He had Russian hands and Roman fingers all over Lovett. Harvath wanted to knock him out right there and then.
As the song picked up speed, the crowd got wilder and wilder. They knew the lyrics by heart and were belting them out.
The DJ, reading the room the way only a good DJ can, went from the big summer anthem into another huge European hit.
A cheer rose from the dance floor as people recognized the new song, and the energy in the club kicked up to a new level.
Lasers, choreographed to the music, slashed across the room, strobes popped, and fog machines roared to life.
The DJ was on a roll and continued to mix one dance hit into another. The crowd absolutely loved it and showed no sign of slowing down.
The woman Harvath was dancing with was ecstatic—grooving and whipping her hair from side to side. If he had turned and left the floor right at that moment, he doubted she would have even noticed.
Which, as it turned out, was a good thing, because when he looked back over at Vottari and Lovett, they were gone.
CHAPTER 77
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* * *
After a solid twenty minutes of dancing, Lovett convinced Vottari that they should step outside for some air. Considering how welcoming she had been to all his advances on the dance floor, he was all for it.
They walked out onto a large terrace and headed for the round, outdoor bar.
“What would you like to drink?” he asked.
“Whiskey sour,” she replied.
Once he got the attention of one of the bartenders, he ordered whiskey sours for both of them.
Vottari’s shirt was soaked through with sweat. Grabbing a few napkins off the bar, he wiped his face, then his armpits, and tossed the napkins on the ground.