Mafia Kings: Roberto: Chapter 8

Two hours later, Niccolo and I left in a bulletproof Mercedes chauffeured by a foot soldier named Giorgio. A second soldier named Lorenzo rode in the front seat with him, and another car full of armed men followed us.

Niccolo was worried that Fausto had turned every single Cosa Nostra family against us and that no one could be trusted. So instead of flying out of Italy, we drove five hours along the coast until we reached France – specifically the city of Nice (pronounced like the English word niece).

Nice Côte d’Azur Airport was just 45 minutes from the Italian border, but it was outside the reach of the Cosa Nostra and therefore safe.

Probably.

There was just one problem:

Monaco.

Monaco is an independent country on the Mediterranean Sea, landlocked on all other sides by France. Less than one square mile in size, Monaco is tiny; only Vatican City in Rome is smaller. As such, it does not have its own airport. It uses Nice’s instead, just 30 minutes away.

Famous for the Monaco Grand Prix in Formula One racing, the country is also a playground for multi-millionaires and billionaires. Besides being small, Monaco is also exorbitantly wealthy.

Which meant that we were going to have to pay triple the normal rate for a last-minute private flight to Hong Kong:

375,000 euros.

I winced when Niccolo told me the price, but there was nothing to be done.

If we flew out of Italy and were assassinated before we reached Hong Kong, I couldn’t exactly get our investment back from the Syndicate.

And if I didn’t get the money back, the family would be bankrupt and helpless within weeks.

Enduring occasional price gouging was the cost of doing business.

Especially when ‘business’ included the possibility of being murdered.

“At least at these prices we won’t get blown up,” Niccolo joked. Then he added grimly, “…hopefully.”

The private jet was waiting for us at the airport when we arrived at 9 PM. Our cars drove right up on the tarmac next to the plane.

“Are we coming with you, boss?” Giorgio asked as he retrieved our luggage and my garment bag from the trunk.

Niccolo looked over at me. “What do you think?”

“No,” I replied. “We’ll be in and out in 48 hours. Fausto’s reach doesn’t extend to Hong Kong. Plus we’ll be under the protection of the Syndicate. We’ll be fine.”

Niccolo looked thoughtful. “Just playing Devil’s Advocate here… what if Fausto pays someone to come after us?”

“They can’t carry guns,” I said, gesturing to Giorgio and our other foot soldiers. “Hong Kong’s firearm laws are far stricter than Italy’s. If the authorities catch them with a pistol, it’ll mean a decade in prison. And if they can’t carry guns, then there’s no reason for them to accompany us.”

“We could smuggle in a couple of guns using the compartments in our luggage,” Niccolo suggested.

He was referring to the fact that our suitcases had been specially designed with concealed compartments big enough to conceal a pistol or other contraband. The compartments were lined with lead, so they would block any attempts to scan the contents using an x-ray machine at an airport.

There were several decoy metal plates inserted, too, as part of the luggage’s rigid structure. An inattentive screener would see black areas on the x-ray monitor and think they were part of the bag’s ‘skeleton.’

Of course, an attentive screener would immediately think something was wrong and rip the bag apart, so it wasn’t a perfect system – but it was better than nothing.

However, there was one obvious flaw in Niccolo’s suggestion.

“Getting the guns into the country isn’t the issue,” I said. “It’s walking around with them that’s the problem.”

“We’ll take the chance,” Giorgio said, “if it’ll keep you safe.”

“I appreciate the sentiment, but that would be the easiest way for Fausto to fuck us over,” I replied. “All he has to do is make an anonymous call to the authorities and tell them you’re carrying. Then all of us would be arrested, and Niccolo and I would be charged as accomplices. Lars did three-and-a-half years in San Vittore for having an unregistered gun in Italy; I have no desire to repeat his experience in China.”

“I’m convinced,” Niccolo said and turned to Giorgio. “Get back home and guard Dario and the others.”

“Yes, sir,” Giorgio said. “If it’s all the same to you, though, we’ll wait until you’re safely in the air before we leave.”

“By all means,” Niccolo agreed.

The jet was magnificent: plush leather seats and lacquered wooden tables, plus a wide-screen television on one wall.

A stewardess hung up my garment bag, checked our passports, and took our suitcases to the back of the plane as we said goodbye to Giorgio. He offered once more to come with us, gun laws be damned; Niccolo thanked him, but told him to get back home as quickly as possible.

Niccolo and I sat down in seats that faced each other. As we were getting settled, the stewardess walked over and offered us glasses of champagne. I declined; Niccolo accepted.

“We also have filet mignon and lobster for dinner,” she said. “I’ll serve you an hour after takeoff.”

“Wonderful,” Niccolo replied with a smile.

When he saw my dour look, he said cheerfully in Italian, “It’s a flat fee no matter what. For 375,000 euros, I’m eating and drinking every goddamn thing on board.”

I couldn’t argue with that logic.

The pilot came out from the cockpit to greet us. He was a trim, middle-aged man in a blue uniform and spoke English with a pronounced French accent.

“Hong Kong ees six hours ahead in time. It ees approximately a 13-hour flight, so we should arrive around 4 PM local time.”

“Excellent,” Niccolo replied.

“I need to make a phone call before we leave,” I said.

“We depart in five minutes,” the Frenchman said. “Do you need more time than that?”

“No, that will be plenty. Thank you.”

As the pilot returned to the cockpit, I pulled out my phone.

“Who are you calling?” Niccolo asked.

“The Syndicate.”

“It’s the middle of the night in Hong Kong.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you calling them?”

“To let them know we’re coming.”

Niccolo’s eyes bugged out. “They don’t know?!”

“They will in the morning. Now be quiet for a minute, if that’s even possible.”

After a recording in English informed me that the Hong Kong Gaming Syndicate was closed for the evening and they would return my call in the morning, I said, “This is a message for Mr. Lau. This is Roberto Rosolini, your Italian investor. I’ll be in town tomorrow afternoon and would like to meet. My plane arrives at 4 PM, and I’m assuming it will take at least an hour to reach you, so I’ll be at your offices around 5 PM. Perhaps we can have dinner together. See you soon.”

Then I hung up.

Niccolo shook his head in disbelief. “You’re unbelievable – you know that?”

“I don’t want to give them too much advance warning.”

“What, that you’re coming to beg with your hat in hand?”

“More or less.”

Niccolo laughed ruefully. “I guess it doesn’t matter. If you get the money, then it will all be worth it. If you don’t, then we’re fucked, and this was just a very short, very expensive vacation.”

“But one we can claim as a deduction.”

“That’s why you’re the money man,” he joked. “Here we are on the eve of Armageddon, and you’re thinking about how you can write it off on our taxes.”