Hunted (17 page)

Chapter 13

Amsterdam, Netherlands; December 23, 5:00 p.m.

Antonio Calsonone stood at the terrace doors overlooking the canal and blew a stream of smoke from the cigar. The heathen city bustled with holiday life. He wanted none of it. He was only here for the meeting. He’d contacted those he needed to, making certain those bosses, the smaller ones, in Eastern Europe who in turned answered to his contemporaries would be in attendance.

He sighed and dropped the smoldering cigar into a nearby ashtray, turning his attention back outside to the cold gray day.

“Don?” his man, Giovanni, asked, setting a glass of wine on the side table.

Antonio waved the man away without turning from the window. He hated this place. He wanted to be at the villa in Italy. Normally, this time of year it bustled and rolled with life, with laughter, with spirit.

But not this year. He was chilled and wished they’d turned the heater up in the room. He was staying at the Grand,
as he always did when traveling here, and he stayed in the same suite as he always did. The window overlooked the canal, as he preferred, rather than the courtyard view, but he saw none of that.

Dread set heavy in his gut.

He was searching. Searching for his daughter.

The hand at his side fisted, and he checked his watch, flexing his fingers. Not long now until the meeting.

His wife and daughters would be at mass. His sons were married and busy with their own families, at least until tomorrow, when they all descended for the holidays. And it would be subdued as it never had been before.

One of them was missing. He took a deep breath. “Giovanni, is the conference room prepared?”

His suite had a long table that sat sixteen. There were only thirteen main players in Eastern Europe. Thirteen. An unlucky number. The men, for whatever reason, had formed an alliance that the rest in the business called a devil’s pack. Their main enforcer was even referred to as the Devil’s Advocate.

Minchionis
the lot of them.

If he learned, for certain,
ever
,
that his Teresa Maria had been a part of them, he’d kill each and every one.

He glanced over to the side table that held the framed photograph he’d brought with him. The shot was candid, taken at the beach this June when all the kids were at home with the exception of Michael, who had been at school at Oxford, and Giorgio, who was in New York.

Teresa Maria grinned up at him impishly, her dark eyes dancing with that inner sparkle she’d always possessed.

She’d left not two weeks later, having graduated from the academy. How she’d begged and pleaded to go on the trip with her friends. He hadn’t wanted her to go. He knew what predators hunted out there. He knew.

Caro Dio
, he knew . . .

Many still whispered the word
Camorra
behind their hands when others said the name Calsonone. He knew what his father had done, for what his grandfather had been responsible. He was raised on stories of blood. He himself had carried out vendettas. He sighed. Times changed. There were still things that had to be seen to, positions that must be kept, but the new world was not the same as the old. After the fracture within La Cosa Nostra in recent years, he’d encouraged his children into other avenues of life. He’d wanted more for his sons, for his daughters.

The photo seemed to laugh up at him and he could all but hear Teresa chide, “Now, Papa, I am grown. I want to see the world. You can’t hide me forever.”

Oh, but he should have. He should have.

The feelings of grief, of pain and fury—of the unknown, of the fears, of the suspicions—pulsed through him again.

His wife, his dear Bella, still held hope that their Teresa would return, that she’d simply run away. He’d asked his wife what their daughter would run away from. She’d said it was his high-handedness. His domination in their house.

He was the father, the husband. Was he to let his children do as they would with no thought to them? To their futures? To their
safeties
?

Bella, his vivacious wife, was no more—wan and pale, she cried herself to sleep every night.

Something in him knew, even as he denied, that his precious Teresa Maria was not coming home, yet he hoped. Every day he hoped. He’d listed her as missing months ago. In September, when her friends had called him, worried because they couldn’t find her. He, of course, had immediately flown to Prague, but no one knew anything, no one saw anything. Her friend, Angelina, called once a week to see if they had heard anything. Angelina and Teresa had been friends for years.

And now . . .

He rubbed a hand over his face.

September to December. So many days . . . where was she?

He sniffed and realized he was crying. Biting down, he tossed back more of the wine. As he had since he’d learned of her disappearance, he traced the scar on his thumb. The one he’d sliced when something in him warned she wouldn’t come home. As his father before him, and his father before him, and as many before, he used the family dagger to swear a blood oath.

If it was the last thing he ever did, he would find his daughter and make those who took her away from him pay. Pay very, very dearly.

He knew, some part of him knew that the only way his daughter would come back would be to be put in the family plot.

“Don Calsonone. The men have arrived,” Giovanni’s voice floated across the room.

He touched the frame, traced the upturned nose that was so dear to him. Someone would pay.

* * *

5:06 p.m.

Mikhail Jezek followed Mr. Ivan Romanovsky into the room. More of the bosses shuffled in behind them. Each had at least one guard. Thirteen in all. They had all attended.

Mikhail looked around the room and wondered what the hell was going on. Why were they all here? Why had he been ordered to attend? He and Luther had arrived just two hours ago. He hadn’t even had a chance to eat a decent meal, damn it.

The thirteen sat. He didn’t presume to do so. He knew his place. Instead, he leaned against the wall, near the head of the long mahogany table, and straightened his dark blue Gucci tie. How long would this take? He didn’t sigh, didn’t look at his watch.

Mikhail knew better. He hadn’t made it this far up the ladder and into confidences to screw up now.

The others muttered among themselves; several acknowledged him with a tilt of head or smile, a few waved and said hello.

He gave all the appropriate responses and acted as the other guards. He might be trusted, might be their enforcer, but he was not—at least at present—a boss. One day, but that day was not today. So he acted accordingly.

They were left waiting for another five minutes before a door at the far end of the room opened and a man, swarthy in complexion, dark hair and eyes, angular bone structure, strode across the room. His suit was fine dark wool and a Caraceni unless Mikhail was mistaken, and he wasn’t—not when it came to important things.

Another man stood beside him, smaller, well built, fair hair and in his forties.

What was this about?

Mikhail bit back his sigh. Perhaps there was a new alliance about to be made. That could open all sorts of possibilities and—

“Gentlemen,” the dark-haired man said, “thank you for coming.” His voice was heavily accented with the flavors of Italy. What would an Italian boss, who obviously controlled more than those here, want with them?

Mikhail’s bosses had all jumped to do this man’s bidding. Why?

“For those who may not know, I am Don Calsonone.” Dark eyes sliced around the room, leaving not a single man unscathed. “I am in need of your services.”

No one said a word as Don Calsonone sat at the head of the table and motioned to the man beside him. “This is my assistant, Giovanni.” Giovanni started to pass out dark blue folders. “Giovanni is giving each of you a detailed account of why I seek your assistance today.” He waited, patiently, his hands stacked atop each other.

Giovanni finally made it around the table and to him. Mikhail took the last packet, surprised he’d been given one.

Don Calsonone’s dark eyes skewered him and the man motioned to the seat just to his left. “Please be seated, Mr. Jezek. I have a feeling you could help, perhaps more than anyone else here.”

Needles tickled inside his stomach. He hated that feeling. As if at any moment everything was going to go horribly wrong. Taking a deep breath, he walked to the table and sat, placing the folder on the glossy tabletop.

Don Calsonone nodded and everyone opened their folders. It was pure instinct that kept all expression from Mikhail’s face.

At least he hoped to hell it was.

Inside was a photograph.

A photograph of a dark-haired young woman.

Ebony
. The needles no longer danced, they pricked and stabbed.

“Gentlemen, I asked you here today to aid me in search of my beloved daughter, Teresa Maria Calsonone.” The don’s voice was deep, yet edged. Waiting like a predator to pounce.

Mikhail wanted to shift, to swallow. Instead he left the folder open and gave Calsonone his undivided attention, noting from his peripheral vision that the other bosses did as well. He also knew Giovanni stood just to the side of him and a bit behind.

Bloody fucking hell.

He stayed still, not twitching, not even moving a finger. Instead he concentrated on keeping his breathing even.

“Don Calsonone, you’ll excuse me for asking, but why have you come to us?” Sergi Nickola asked.

The don took a deep breath and motioned to the folders. “I’ve included the pertinent information. My daughter took a holiday with friends. She was going to attend university in the fall, in Milan. However, one evening she was separated from her friends in a club in Prague. As they were all partying and having a good time, none are exactly certain at which specific club they last remember seeing her. However, sources . . . ” He let the implication hang for a moment, “revealed she was later seen in Prague, in one of the brothels.”

No one said a word. Several shifted.

“That is a serious allegation, Don Calsonone,” another boss, Kulik, said. “Do you have any proof?”

Mikhail watched as those cold dark eyes simply stared down the long table. The silence stretched. He heard a car down below on the street, the faint blare of a horn.

“If I had proof,” Don Calsonone started, his eyes never wavering, “I assure you, this meeting would not be taking place and someone would not be worrying about holiday shopping.”

Again more shifted, the slide of pants on leather chairs, the hush of shoes over the rug, fingers thrumming on the table. Pages shuffled as the bosses flipped through them.

One of the bosses, Mikhail didn’t look up to see which, said, “I do not remember her in any of my clubs, but I will inquire and get back with you. As any of us with family know, this cannot be an easy thing for you or your family.”

Mikhail studied the photo, forcing himself to slowly flip to the next page and look at a series of dates, clubs, places and searches. Police officers Calsonone’s people contacted. Page after page of information.

Fuck. If this man ever learned . . .

“And if you do learn something?” Don Calsonone asked, drawing Mikhail’s attention back to him.

“We will personally see to the matter,” Kulik, based primarily out of Moscow, answered.

Don Calsonone shook his head. “No, you won’t. This is family.” He thumped the photograph of his daughter. “This is
mine.
Any information you learn, you will share with me and
I
will see to the matter . . . ” His eyes scanned each and every one of them. “Personally.”

“As you wish,” Romanovsky said from the other end of the table.

Then those black shrewd eyes met Mikhail’s own. “Mr. Jezek. As the enforcer—I believe they call you Devil’s Advocate, yes?”

Mikhail cleared his throat. “Yes, Don Calsonone.”

The don nodded. “And as such, you are virtually in charge of running the clubs, of making certain the new . . . merchandise is sorted and placed properly, yes?”

Mikhail held that gaze. “Yes.”

“At any time, did you see my daughter?”

He started to automatically deny it, then he glanced back down at the smiling photo. Another image glanced over the top, of her chained and screaming in the basement in Cheb. Of the graveyard.

He took a deep breath and shook his head. “I don’t believe so, Don Calsonone.” Meeting the man’s eyes again, he added, “For, I would remember her.”

Those eyes held his for a moment longer and Mikhail ignored the urge to swallow.

Finally, the don looked back down at the folder before him. “You will check and report back to me, yes?”

Mikhail glanced down the long table to the man who had brought him into this life, who headed up the Devil’s Pact. Romanovsky tilted his head. Mikhail looked back to Calsonone. “Yes, I will check all our businesses and make certain no mistake was made.”

“Good.” Calsonone rose and took a deep breath, straightening his jacket. “Again,
grazie
for coming today. I know this close to the holidays it is often not easy to get away, and I thank you all. Now, please, have dinner on me in the restaurant below. A very nice choice if I do say so myself. My man will see you all out.”

Not so much as a cup of coffee.

If Calsonone had truly wanted their help, he would have treated them with more respect, with more camaraderie.

Mikhail was not fooled. This was no cry for help, but a warning.

He took a deep breath as all his bosses filed out the door, their guards with them. Romanovsky motioned to Mikhail. “Come, we’ll take the stairs.”

Neither Romanovsky, Mikhail or the other two guards said another word until they were in Romanovsky’s limo. Then the older man, his gray hair neatly parted and trimmed, his narrow face worried, said, “Jezek, I want you to search all our holdings personally. If one of our contacts made a mistake, you come to me first.” He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and pierced Mikhail with a cold gray glare. “Do you understand me, Jezek?”