Mafia Kings: Roberto: Chapter 9

Dinner was served an hour after we were in the air. For a pre-prepared meal, it was quite good.

Though for 375,000 euros, it damn well should have been stupendous.

After the stewardess cleared away the dishes, she dimmed the lights and closed the shades on the windows to block out the sun in the morning.

Once the cabin was dark and the stewardess was gone, Niccolo leaned his seat back to go to sleep.

“Why are you going?” I asked.

“What, to Hong Kong?”

“No, to Timbuktu. YES, to Hong Kong.”

“Actually, I’m not going to Hong Kong. Not to stay, anyway.”

“You’re going to Macau instead.”

“Yup.”

“What’s in Macau?”

“Casinos, I’m told,” he replied flippantly.

“Let me put it another way: why are you going to Macau?”

“Better you don’t know.”

That made me angry. “Why?!”

“Because I’m playing a dangerous game, and it’s best if I keep you out of it.”

“Does Dario know?”

“Of course he does – I had to clear it with him.”

“I’m your twin brother.”

My unspoken accusation hung in the air:

You USED to tell me EVERYTHING.

Once upon a time, there had been no secrets between us…

Although that had been quite some time ago.

I was the only person with whom Niccolo could truly be himself. Around other people, he affected an over-the-top, theatrical persona – but he dropped it when he was with me because I knew him too well.

He sighed again, and I could hear the regret in his voice. “If I could tell you, I would… but right now, I need you to trust me. Can you do that?”

“I don’t suppose I have any other options, do I?”

“Not really, no.”

“Then I guess I have to trust you,” I snapped.

“What are you going to say to the Syndicate?” he asked, trying to get off the subject of Macau.

“If I could tell you, I would,” I said sarcastically, “but right now, I need you to trust me.”

Niccolo lifted his head to glare at me. “Don’t be a little bitch.”

“Then don’t ask for what you won’t give me.”

“And what’s that?”

“Information. The truth. Whatever you want to call it.”

“Fair enough.” Niccolo paused, then said, “You know… if you don’t get the money back, we’re dead men.”

That irritated me even more. “I’m well aware.”

“Do whatever you have to do to get it.”

“Leave that to me,” I snarled. “You just concentrate on not fucking everything up with whatever you’re doing in Macau.”

“I’ll try,” he said, then fell silent.

After a few minutes, the change in his breathing told me he was asleep.

It took me far longer to drop off – and even when I did, I was haunted by a voice in my dreams that kept saying, If you don’t get the money back, we’re dead men.

If you don’t get the money back, we’re dead men…

If you don’t get the money back, we’re dead men…