“You have the wrong person,” I say, trying again to reason with them. “I’m here to go skiing. I must have made a wrong turn because this clearly isn’t the ski resort.”
With a gun at my back, he pushes me to move faster.
I’m not even sure my weight on the stairs won’t bring me tumbling down through the stairwell.
I pause for the briefest of seconds and I feel the hard metal reposition against the back of my head. “Don’t try anything stupid,” the man behind me urges.
Point made.
I continue down the creaky old stairs.
There’s no handrail. The paint chips away at the walls.
This place looks abandoned, but clearly it has electricity. Someone is paying the bills. There’s no sound of a generator, no sign that it’s off grid.
It’s being used for something far more sinister.
The floor of the basement interior is cement, crisp, clean, with a recent coat of paint.
That’s not the only fresh scent permeating the air.
Bleach.
Which means they’ve likely murdered men down here. The fresh scent of cleaner burns my nostrils.
The second man who had thrust me from the car yanks a metal folding chair across the cement floor. The shrill sound sends a shiver down my spine.
There are cardboard boxes near the wall closest to the stairs, stacked waist high across the length of most of the room.
Storage and death.
A strange combination.
There’s another door in the basement, sealed tight, with a padlock. I can only imagine what might be inside that room.
Another man, this one sports a hefty beard and long dark hair, a mix of black and gray. He throws my arms up at the sides and pats me down. If he’s searching for a weapon, I’m not carrying one.
“Where’s your phone?” his gruff voice asks. He doesn’t have a hint of an accent. I’d guess he was raised around here, works for the man with the cigarettes, probably a soldier. He doesn’t strike me as capo material.
“Not on me.” I don’t give him any more information than he needs. It’s in my car, which they can figure out on their own.
During his thorough pat down, he removes my wallet.
“I’d like that back!” I spin around to face him. I don’t have a lot of money, but I don’t need him stealing the cash that I do have on hand.
Although as robberies go, this doesn’t exactly fit the typical stereotype. Besides, the mafia doesn’t really care about stealing a man’s wallet. They’d go after a small mom and pop store for a shakedown.
The bearded man opens my wallet and retrieves my driver’s license, examining it closely.
“Luca Ricci.” His voice is rough, and his gaze unapologetic. “Why do I know that name?” He brings my identification over to another member of his crew, the scarred man who dragged the chair for me to sit.
“As in the Don Ricci?” His accent weaves in and out, the slight Italian emphasis recognizable to the right ear. It’s as though he’s trying to hide it. His brow flinches as he stares at me, sizing me up, like he recognizes me.
It’s not possible.
I’d know if he worked for Dante. I may not have been privy to all of my father’s business dealings, but if he were a member of the family, I’d have seen him in the compound.
Perhaps they’ve crossed paths, but whatever’s happened, whoever these men are, they’re out for blood.