We’re nearing the entrance of the docks, where a man stands guard. His casual slacks and loose white shirt set him apart from the crisply dressed Saleri men. He must be a manager.
“I’m sorry,” he says as we approach. “The docks are closed for uh… Maintenance—”
“We’re here on behalf of Antonio Salvatore,” Donatello declares. “Taking stock of his assets.”
The man sputters. “I’m sorry, but we’re closed.”
Donatello reaches into his pocket. “Give us ten minutes,” he says, extracting a few crisp bills from a gold money clip. “Do you really think we can get up to much trouble? All we need is to check out the boat and square everything away.”
“I can’t,” the man insists, though his gaze flickers toward the money with open interest. “Trust me, man—”
“Tony’s dead, and the boat is in his daughter’s trust,” Donatello says coldly. “You really want to drag this out another day before her father’s affairs can be put in order? You want that on your conscience, or can you spare us ten fucking minutes?”
I don’t know what shocks me more. Him, using Kisa’s name to his benefit in the first place? Or that it seems to work.
With a harsh sigh, the man snatches the money. “You have ten minutes. Just, please make it quick. I don’t think these guys are playing around—” he jerks his chin in the direction of a man standing near the water’s edge, his posture rigid, eyes fixed on the yacht.
“We’ll just take ten minutes.” Donatello urges me forward. Once we’re out of earshot, he meets my gaze.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he warns. “We’ll leave little Kisa’s inheritance intact. Think of it this way, no one will inherit shit if whoever this motherfucker is takes out your family for good. Or mine.”
He has a point. One I feel acutely aware of as I spy the white vessel drifting in the distance.
“We need to get closer,” Donatello says. I can almost see the war taking place within him. The need for restraint. The urgency for action. Normally, he’d surrender to the impulse.
This time? He looks at me.
“What? You think we should play the game the right way. Call for backup. Wait for Fabio. But I feel it. Something’s off.”
His voice touches on that deep, raspy baritone again, rousing a shudder in me. To distract myself, I turn away, observing the boats docked nearby. Does Mischa own one? It startles me to realize that I don’t know.
“Antonio kept two boats here,” Donatello says, following my line of sight. He hones in on a particular vessel, white with black lettering spelling out “Lady Killer” on the side. “I bet my ass that’s one of them.”
“Here.” The lone worker returns with a manilla folder stamped with the name Salvatore. “These are the keys to Mr. Antonio’s two boats. I’m sure the maintenance and upkeep fees will continue to be paid, or we can arrange to have the boats removed—”
“Maintenance,” Donatello says softly. “Does that include making sure it’s fueled?”
The man shuffles through the documents and nods. “Yeah. It looks like everything was based on Mr. Salvatore’s schedule. Since we are in season, I believe the fuel tank was last topped up on the Lady Killer… About two weeks ago.”
“So, it should still be good to go, then,” Donatello says. He barges down the narrow dock, craning his neck to inspect the larger of the two boats. “When is the last time he’s been out?”
“Um, right after the last refuel. He took out the Lady Killer with some acquaintances.”
“Anything about it stand out?” Donatello’s voice radiates a deceptive calm. Even I fall prey to it, losing track of the aim behind his probing questions.
The man, however, stiffens, his neck reddening. “I…”
“So it wasn’t a normal visit, then?” Donatello prods.
I marvel at his skill. For someone who can seem so intimidating—like ice—one minute, he still has a unique way of lulling someone into a false sense of security. As though they could tell him anything. Do anything.
“There was a lot more fanfare than Mr. Salvatore usually employs,” the man confesses.
Donatello raises an eyebrow. “As in more security?”
The man shakes his head. “No, in fact. Just a woman, but she wasn’t the sort like this young lady here—” He nods respectfully toward me. “That one was a spitfire.”
“What made that visit, in particular, stand out?”
“Well…” The man chuckles. “They were shouting, for one. Mr. Salvatore mentioned something about ‘your little master thinks he can yank my dick, but you can’t. Unless you do it manually,’ or something of the sort.”
“And the woman?”
The man’s smile falls flat. “When she left, Mr. Salvatore looked like the fear of God had been put into him.”
“They went on this boat?” Donatello gestures toward the larger of the two.
“The Juggernaut, yes. Though I don’t think anything has been left on it—”
“Here—” Reaching into his breast pocket, Donatello fishes out another crisp set of bills. “Give us ten more minutes.”
“But… I…” the manager sputters, but Donatello is already halfway up the ramp leading to the larger of the two boats.
I follow him, warily stepping foot on the modest deck. It’s a surprisingly stable structure overall, swaying gently in time to the waves below.
“In here,” Donatello calls from a narrow staircase descending into the boat itself.
This must be the main cabin. It’s spacious, stuffed to the brim with gaudy furniture and accents. Dark wood paneling offsets the leather seating and the impractical black fur throw rug in the center of the floor. Square, strategically placed windows allow for a breathtaking view of the water.
While I’m distracted by the sight, Donatello prowls the confined space, inspecting every surface. I copy him, moving in the opposite direction. Upon first inspection, the place is impeccably clean, with nothing seemingly out of the ordinary.
Still, I try to see things through the lens of Donatello Vanici. In his world, death is transactional and strange women wield power over men who own yachts. The manager said
