The Italian Mafia, Part 1

We rolled into the city hauling not only the bandits still breathing, but the corpses as well.

The way we disposed of the ones we'd caught went roughly like this. First we dragged the prisoners and the dead on a full circuit of the market. Every citizen turned out to watch dozens of men being hauled ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠along behind a Humvee flying the banner of the Sahara Merchant Group. Word that the merchant group had fought the bandit company and wiped them out spread through the streets of Gerona in a flash, rippling outward in every direction.

After that we hauled the bandits to Gerona's municipal offices and had them certified as bandits. Bandits usually wore the same tattoo, so the certification wasn't difficult. Once it was done, we sold off the ones still in one piece as slaves.

Those with light wounds but obvious disabilities—men whose worth as slaves had fallen—still found a separate market in a great city like Gerona, outside the slave trade proper. That market was the colosseum. The colosseum was a vast arena that charged citizens for its spectacles, and nothing drew a crowd like gladiatorial combat, duels between swordsmen, and fights that set men against beasts or monsters. They usually bought prisoners for the purpose, and bandits were prisoners in all but name, so they could be sold just the same. The lightly wounded went to the colosseum at three to four gold a head.

Last of all, those who had taken mortal wounds and hadn't long to live were dragged to the city square. The office paid a set bounty for the bandits, then held an execution. From their point of view, advertising that they had brought in bandits and monsters calmed the citizens' unease and let them look as if they were laboring for the city's order. An ordinary low-ranking bandit fetched one gold. Officers and above brought three or four. A guild master, the boss himself, brought a little over ten. It was a pittance next to selling them as slaves, but these men were about to die anyway, so disposing of them even this way was profit—and as a public example, the effect was excellent.

The twenty who had taken mortal wounds were put on the execution platform at once. An execution was a spectacle people loved nearly as much as the colosseum. The colosseum charged a steep admission, but an execution was held free in the square, so the moment word got out that one was coming, everyone—men and women, young and old—poured out to watch. They looked at the bandits and monsters brought up onto the platform, cursed them, threw stones, and let off steam.

The execution overseer climbed up and addressed the gathered crowd.

The charges ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠against the ringleader rolled on for a long while, and the crowd shouted for them to cut his head off and be done with it.

At last a giant of a man climbed up with a great battle-axe and brought it down on the neck of the guild master, who lay prone with his neck stretched over a log. A hollow crack. A heavy thud. The severed head dropped into a basket, and the heads of the officers followed after it.

Word that the bandit ringleader was dead passed from mouth to mouth, and with it the name of the Sahara Merchant Group—the ones who had taken the bandit company—rose to fame alongside.

In the end even the corpses brought a bounty, usually about fifty silver a body. Picked clean down to the dead and sold off, the whole business came to a little over 120 gold. Set against what we'd spent buying items, it was a heavy loss. But reputation itself is no small asset, the way a nation's name or a brand is. This affair fixed a clear impression of the Sahara Merchant Group's banner in people's minds.

With the bandit guild business in Gerona wrapped up, I returned to Earth at once. One reason for heading back was that flying straight on to Damascus was simply more convenient, but there was also business on Earth that needed handling in the meantime. A text I'd received the week before.

They were the Italian mafia bastards I'd opened my first deal with in Cairo. I'd already sent them a date before coming to Gerona, and three days remained. If I finished the work here, flew to Damascus, and then ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠drove to Sorbonne Harbor, the schedule ought to line up well enough.

The leased vineyard lay southeast of Rome. We reached ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the farm and changed clothes first thing. Seven of us in all: IS-1 and IS-2, Trainer-1 and Trainer-2, Istanbul-1, Maximus, and me. Maximus had put on the suit he'd bought in Istanbul last time. The rest of us wore comfortable everyday clothes. Once we were ready, we drove for Naples—about two hours by car—and arrived late in the afternoon.

After we got in, I took my time driving the van around the city. Comparing the map against the terrain, I learned the lay of the land, and I checked the roads just as carefully: their condition, and which of them were free of traffic.

The place I headed for next was a restaurant a little outside the city center. It didn't have the feel of a spot tourists would visit. It was one of the places that had shown up in the payment history on Giovanni's phone, back in Cairo. I'd already marked every location from that history on the map app of my smart pad—restaurants, cafés, even the convenience stores where he'd bought things. A single district drew itself. The odds were high he was somewhere in this area.

And since men who sold drugs were hardly going to be living ordinary lives, I went, as a matter of course, to the entertainment quarter inside that district. Bars and clubs of the sort locals would use—working men of Naples—were packed in along the streets.

I was easing the car along, steering around the people on the sidewalks, when I picked him out.

"Knew it. Here he is."

A familiar face. One of the men who had come to Cairo with Giovanni—the one who, that day, had kept badgering everyone to go out and have some fun. Here too he was walking an alley with a heavily made-up woman on his arm.

"The one up ahead, beside the woman in the black skirt. Drive past him, turn into the alley, then go back to the vineyard and wait until I call."

"Yes, Boss."

The car stopped and I got out fast. I stepped into a nearby building, then looked around again. Only after I'd carefully confirmed that no one was watching did I cast.

My form turned half-transparent, and Levitation lifted me into the air. I rose onto the next building and, from the roof, confirmed the mafia soldier once more. I walked slowly along the rooftops, following behind him. He'd show me where the organization was.

A mansion on the outskirts of Naples. Set on grounds of several acres, with a wide garden at its heart, it was the headquarters of the Moreno Family, one of the local mafia outfits. Its boss, Alessandro Moreno, had led a small violent crew based in Naples, but in recent years, dealing in Captagon, he had swollen his power at a rush. He now headed a mid-sized organization of more than a hundred members and was in the middle of extending his distribution network as far as Rome.

In the mansion's large dining room, Moreno sat at the head, his trusted men ranged to either side. Giovanni was among them.

"Deal day's the day after tomorrow, you said?"

"That's right."

"They've been in touch?"

"We got a reply. They'll bring the goods to Naples on the day of the deal."

"They didn't say how they're bringing them?"

"No."

"Figures. No reason they'd hand over their trade secrets."

"What's the price?"

"Three million euros for a hundred kilograms."

The local street price, selling to junkies, was ten million euros per hundred kilograms. Better than a threefold return.

"Mm. Not bad. Handle it clean. No problems."

"Yes, Boss. Don't worry. If anything goes wrong, we'll cut the line at once so nothing blows back on us."

"Good. We'll see how this deal turns out and look at raising the volume later. If it goes well and we can count on a steady supply, pushing into Rome gets a hell of a lot easier."

"That's right, Boss."

The heart of Italy was still Rome. Naples was no small city, but to become a truly major mafia, you had to plant yourself in Rome all the same.

"Come for the money the day before. I'll hand it over then."

"Thank you, Boss."

The boss's head turned the other way.

"How are the women?"

The man sitting across from Giovanni answered.

"We collected about a hundred out of Sicily this time. Brought across the sea from Africa. All of them in their teens or twenties."

"Break them in properly at the start. Don't let them raise hell, and don't let anything unnecessary come out of a customer's mouth. Giovanni brought drugs, so use some if you need to. When did we say the French would come for a look?"

"Yes, Boss. The end of this month."

"The price?"

"Ten thousand euros a head for the teens. We agreed on about seven to eight thousand for the ones in their twenties."

They had made big money on drugs lately, but the Moreno Family's original business was human trafficking and prostitution. Lately in particular they had been kidnapping girls from among the refugees crossing over from Africa and selling them to prostitution rings in other European countries. Even on Earth, it seemed, slavery had not entirely disappeared.

Directly above the room where they were eating, I sat in an empty chamber with my ear to the floor, listening in. I had gotten this far after tailing one of Giovanni's men for two days.

Armed guards, guard dogs the size of calves, surveillance cameras—the watch on the grounds was tight. But all of it had been built against ordinary ways of breaking in. There was no stopping a man who flew through empty air while invisible, set down on the roof, and then used Passwall to bore through the concrete ceiling and seep inside as if soaking through it.

Fortunately the mansion was quite large, and so there were empty rooms and hiding places to spare. I slipped in and out all day, gathering what I could. I still hadn't found the money. From the talk, it sounded like the boss had it hidden. Somewhere else, maybe? Even so, the house still looked like the most likely place. I thought about grabbing him that evening and beating it out of him—but then again, a man who had climbed as high as boss of an outfit might not break so easily. I turned it over for a moment, and in the end I decided to make him bring the money out with his own hands.

I hid in a corner of the mansion and settled in to wait, through the night if it came to that, until dawn. Night fell. I went quietly down to the kitchen. If something was going to catch fire, better that it be a place where a fire would look natural. I opened the gas valve on the wall, and I didn't forget to switch off the gas alarm first.

Once I was sure the gas had spread far enough, I put a good distance between myself and the kitchen, then reached a hand toward it.

The spear of lightning shot into the kitchen.

BOOM.

With the blast, flame began swallowing everything around it in an instant.