Chapter 4
Sitting at the head of the long oak refectory table was Don Donato.
He was past sixty, with silver hair cropped close to a skull that looked like weathered granite. He wore a rumpled linen shirt with the sleeves rolled to the forearms, revealing faded tattoos of maritime anchors and Catholic crosses inked during his youth in the shipyards. Beside him sat two men with dead eyes and folded hands, neither of whom had touched their wine.
When Tazio led Sienna into the room, Donato did not stand. He simply raised his rheumy, yellowed eyes, his gaze sliding over her blue silk dress, the diamond-encircled sapphire at her throat, and finally resting on Tazio’s hand, which was spread possessively over the small of her back.
"So," Donato rasped, his voice sounding like gravel dragged across an iron grate. "This is the mermaid."
"Sienna," Tazio said smoothly, pulling back a heavy high-backed chair and guiding her into it before taking his seat beside her. He never fully broke contact; his left arm rested casually along the back of her chair, his fingers brushing the fabric of her shoulder. "Sienna, this is Don Donato. The patriarch of our Salerno operations."
"Good evening, Don Donato," Sienna said, keeping her voice level, remembering the iron grip Tazio had held on her wrists upstairs.
Donato chuckled, a wet, rattling sound. He cut a piece of blood-rare steak with a heavy silver knife, chewing slowly before pointing the blade at her. "A pretty thing for a dock rat. I know your father's name, girl. Old Matteo. Worked the bottom of the bay with that rusted tub of his until the debt swallowed him. You got his nerve, diving into a force-seven gale to haul this bastard out."
"I was nearby when the siren sounded," Sienna replied, keeping her hands folded in her lap.
"A siren." Donato’s knife clicked sharply against the porcelain plate. He turned his heavy, suspicious stare toward Tazio. "You told me the electrical system blew out twenty nautical miles north of the shoal, Tazio. You said the auxiliary batteries died. How did Matteo’s girl hear a siren?"
The air in the room instantly dropped several degrees.
Across the table, the two bodyguards subtly shifted their weight. Dario, standing near the arched colonnade with his hands folded in front of his belt, didn't move an inch, but the line of his shoulders went rigid.
Sienna felt Tazio’s fingers tighten on the back of her chair. For a terrifying half-second, she thought she had doomed him.
"The manual foghorn," Tazio answered, his tone smooth as polished glass, devoid of panic. He didn't even look up as he poured himself a measure of mineral water. "Gianni rigged the emergency compressed-air canister to the horn before the main deck flooded. It fired three short blasts before the valve jammed. That was what she heard."
Donato stared at him, his jaw grinding steadily. "Gianni. My boy Gianni."
"A tragic loss," Tazio murmured, leaning back, his shoulder brushing Sienna’s with casual reassurance. "If the crew had possessed more experience with the Faraglioni cross-currents, they might have cleared the outer reef. But they were green on those waters. They panicked when the rudder lost hydraulic pressure."
Sienna frowned slightly, keeping her face aimed downward.
*Green?*
She knew the Salerno docks. Everyone who grew up on the waterfront knew the faces of the syndicate’s offshore runners. Gianni wasn't a novice; he had captained high-speed contraband skiffs through the treacherous shoals of Capri since he was eighteen. He was notorious along the coast for navigating blind through fog without GPS, using only the echo of the surf against the cliffs.
And Paolo, the second mate who had drowned in the lower cabin—she had seen him two months ago at the marina dry docks, expertly refitting the hydraulic thrusters on a sixty-foot Sunseeker. Paolo was an engineer with twelve years of offshore commercial certification.
Why was Tazio telling Donato they were novices who panicked?
"Gianni knew those waters better than you did, Tazio," Donato said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, gravelly growl. He picked up his wine glass, swirling the dark red liquid without drinking. "He ran twelve supply drops through the Faraglioni trench last winter alone. In weather worse than that puddle of a squall."
"Knowledge doesn't fix a snapped hydraulic cable, Donato," Tazio said, cold confidence ringing through every syllable. "When fifty tons of fiberglass takes a fifteen-knot swell on the beam, sea-time doesn't save you. Luck does. And God saw fit to put Sienna’s skiff in the lee of the cove."
Donato’s eyes narrowed into slits. He leaned forward, resting his thick forearms on the white linen tablecloth. "And the cargo? Forty million euros in untraceable bearer bonds from Marseille. Encrypted bank archives for the whole southern territory. Did God see fit to save those, too?"
"They went down with the safe," Tazio said, meeting the old man's glare without a flinch. "The hull broke along the engine bulkheads. The vault fell straight into the trench. It's sitting eighty meters under silt."
"Eighty meters," Donato repeated. He looked back at Sienna, his eyes sharp as scalpels. "You're a salvage diver, girl. You've picked scraps off the bottom of that bay since you were twelve. Can a diver get down to eighty meters off the Faraglioni?"
"Donato," Tazio interjected, his voice carrying an edge of sharp steel that made the cutlery on the table seem to hum. "She is not an asset for your salvage crews. She is under my protection."
"I asked the girl a question, nephew," Donato barked, slamming his palm onto the table. The glasses rattled. "Can a commercial diver reach that hull?"
Sienna swallowed the dry knot in her throat. She felt the heavy, suffocating weight of Tazio’s presence pressing against her side, his body radiating a heat that was suddenly terrifying.
"Not with standard compressed air," Sienna said carefully, choosing each word like she was treading across rotten deck planks. "The Faraglioni trench has a thermocline drop at forty meters. The current under the ledge runs south-southwest at four knots. To reach eighty meters, you need mixed-gas trimix, a decompression bell, and surface-supplied heating lines. Otherwise, the nitrogen narcosis will kill you before you find the anchor chain."
Donato listened intently, then let out a slow, satisfied grumble. "You see? A girl who knows her business. Not like you, Tazio, who thinks everything at sea can be solved with a checkbook and a nine-millimeter pistol."
"The subject is closed," Tazio said, standing up abruptly.
The scrape of his chair against the flagstones was loud, violent in the quiet room. He reached down, taking Sienna’s arm with a grip that left no room for hesitation, pulling her firmly to her feet.
"We have entertained your questions out of respect for your mourning, Donato," Tazio said, his voice dropping to a low, lethal register that caused Donato’s two bodyguards to brace their hands on their weapons beneath the tablecloth. "My guest has had a long recovery. Her lungs cannot handle the sea damp. The dinner is concluded."
Donato didn't stand, but his expression hardened into an ugly mask of suspicion. "I am sending a recovery team from Genoa next Tuesday, Tazio. With trimix. And a deep-water dredge. If that safe is down there, they will bring it up. If it isn't..."
