The stationary shop is small, but it has exactly what I'm looking for. I know that I'm supposed to be at The Farm in twenty minutes, but for some reason I had to stop here in downtown Caccamo at this store, darting inside fifteen minutes before they close.

The drawing tablet isn't that big, in fact it's specifically designed so that the aspiring artist can keep it in a regular backpack, so it's just a little smaller than your average notebook, but the paper is rich and creamy, a real artist's set of papers. It's thick too, a hundred sheets which should give Jessica plenty to work with. I pick it out before going to the front, where the shopkeeper is giving me a wary look. “Anything else, signore?”

“Yes,” I admit, looking around. “I don't know what a good set of pencils for drawing looks like. Can you please put in a set of black pencils and a set of colors that would go well with this paper? I don't really know anything about those.”

“Of course signore,” the shopkeeper says, smiling. “This is a gift?”

“Something like that,” I admit. The shopkeeper smiles and selects an all in one kit almost the same size as the notebook, with four different black pencils, twenty different colors, a sharpener and two erasers. He rings it up, then to my surprise wraps it quickly in tissue paper.

“I can see in your eyes, this is for a pretty girl. Enjoy.”

The rest of the drive to The Farm, I keep glancing at the wrapped package, wondering what the fuck made me stop to buy the set. I could have given Jessica a simple ream of printer paper and plain pencil from my home office, or one of the books in my library. Why'd I stop to purchase her a set of pencils and a sketch book that was nearly sixty euro total? The money's not important, sixty euro is pocket change... but still, why'd I do it?

I park at The Farm and get out, putting the question out of my mind for a while. Thankfully, I don't have as many personal issues about the shipment that's coming through The Farm tonight, The Sultan's beginning to gather weapons from The Network and transporting them again to the Middle East for a big shipment as soon as he can arrange the buyer. It's mostly small arms, but as I walk into the mostly deserted warehouse that is also the slave pens, I'm surprised by three crates that are stacked in the middle. “What's this?”

Leon, who I've come to understand has been promoted to about the same role for The Sultan that I play for Scoglitti, pats the top crate happily. He's one of the two men in here besides me, and I can tell from the way he's looking at the crates he's proud of his work. “British Starstreak-B surface to air missiles. Small, high speed, and can be mounted on the back of a pickup truck very easily. Four launchers with ten missiles each. You're looking at a three million dollars right here.”

“Impressive,” I comment as my blood runs cold. Surface to air missiles? The Sultan's getting into some pretty pricey shit, and the pricier it gets, the more dangerous it gets. “That just came in?”

“Today,” Leon says, smirking. “We will be making quite a profit this trip.”

“Good, after the last one ran into trouble,” I comment, looking over the rest. There's a crate of AK-74's, nothing that impressive, some radio equipment, and then something that stops my heart. “Wait... pills?”

“Counteragents,” Leon says, shrugging. “Apparently someone wants to play dirty where these are going. We get the canisters in right before we actually ship, The Network doesn't want to keep those around here longer than we have to.”

“Jesus,” I whisper, almost unconsciously crossing myself. “Which side is buying?”

“Who the fuck cares?” Leon asks, covering the crate in a tarp. “All that matters is the money, according to The Sultan. Speaking of which....”

Leon looks over at his fellow member, shouting something in Arabic. The man lifts his head up, says something back, and Leon repeats himself, the other man shrugging before leaving. Leon waits until the door closes then turns his head back to me. “I know what you're doing, Camponini. To my boss.”

“And what is that?” I ask, shifting my weight slightly. I guess The Sultan's hearing rumors, or maybe Leon's just trying to show he's not the smallest dog in the yard among the lieutenants for the various capos. Either way, Leon's about to bark, and he needs to learn just how hard I can bite.

“The word's out, Camponini. Trying to make the other bosses lose faith in Al Gazi so you can look good for the American job,” Leon says. I can see that he's got a sap in his right hand, he's doing a shitty job of hiding it, probably because he's not used to dealing with someone who actually has training and isn't scared by his bullshit. “A warning, you don't want to piss off Omar Al Gazi.”

I nod, then strike before he can, my right foot connecting with Leon's stomach. He doubles over and I pound him in the jaw with an elbow strike before throwing him to the ground, flipping him over my leg before mounting him and bouncing his head off the concrete. “You listen to me, and you listen good you little bastard, if you ever come against me again or call my honor into doubt, I'll cut your coglioni off and send them to The Sultan in a box. You can get a good job in your little shithole home country as a puttana castrata. And tell your boss, if he's the one who told you to send this warning, next time he wants to send me a message, he can either send it himself, or he can at least send someone who knows how to handle himself and not just his cock.”

Leon tries to protest and I punch him between the eyes, knocking him out before I get up and leave the warehouse, where I see Leon's co-worker standing outside, surprised when he sees me. “Your friend's inside. He fell down, hit his head.”

I leave and get in my truck, leaving The Farm and heading back towards Caccamo. I'm going to have to send a message on my phone, and I need some time to think about what I want to say.

* * *

I wish I could spend this next day with Jessica, after the intensity of our training session yesterday I feel like we're on the cusp of a final breakthrough, but I can't. Instead, I find myself at a trattoria in Caccamo for a late dinner with my capo, 'Il Capitano' Scoglitti. Getting the name from serving a stint as a commander in the Italian Navy, Scoglitti even looks the part still, with a trimmed white beard that gives him a sort of old fashioned sailor's look.

“Rodrigo, it's been too long,” he says as I sit down in the booth. The restaurant is busy, we're not so late that a lot of the dinner crowd isn't still here, but Scoglitti isn't worried about anyone here reporting what he has to say. Instead, I'm more worried about the cheesy decor. Seriously, who the fuck plays instrumental Sinatra for an Italian restaurant any more unless they want to come off as a joke? “Sadly, business has kept me out of Caccamo for what now, six months?”

“Almost, zio,” I say, using Scoglitti's preferred honorific, 'uncle.' “You look to be in good health.”

“As do you,” Scoglitti says, raising a glass of wine. “A toast. To our continued good health. Salud!”

“Salud,” I reply, drinking half of my glass before setting it down. “When you said you wanted to have dinner, I was surprised. You aren't a man who comes just for the lasagna.”

Scoglitti shakes his head, his smile fading. “No, I don't. Rodrigo, I got word of an incident at The Farm yesterday evening. A certain... accident by The Sultan's assistant?”

“It was no accident. He threatened me, I whipped him like a dog, zio. While I would not like violence between you and The Sultan, I would not be a man if I accepted that level of disrespect,” I say, trying to remain casual. Scoglitti respects the old ideas of honor, courage and pride. There's no reason to whine like a bitch around him.

He measures me with his look, then picks up his wine and takes another drink. “I understand, Rodrigo. And based off of what I know of this Leon and of how The Sultan hires his men, I would not be surprised. By the way, Leon tells a different story, but that is neither here nor there. I wouldn't trust that fool more than you can throw him. However, The Sultan, he is a man of position within our organization. Do you think it is wise to be taking him on? Rachmaninoff told me about the concerns you shared with him, and I have to say Rodrigo, your insight is good. Dangerous, but good.”

“Dangerous? How so, zio?”

“The Sultan is not a man who overlooks sleights, either real or perceived. The danger to you personally is very high.”

Our dinner arrive, pork chops Italian style, and I slice mine open, enjoying the herby aroma that hits my nose. “Zio, if I am to be considered for the honor that you and Rachmaninoff have in mind for me, that takes a man of insight and courage, yes?”

“Of course it does,” Scoglitti says. “But it requires intelligence too. So, is what you are doing intelligent?”

I finish cutting my piece of pork chop and bring it to my mouth, chewing slowly and carefully before I answer. I'm trying to make it look like I'm thinking, but the reality is, I made up my mind on this particular situation long before tonight's dinner. “I think, zio, that the risk is worth the reward, both to myself, and to our organization. If The Sultan wishes to find me... I'm not a hard man to find.”

Over dessert, Scoglitti shifts to the other big change in my life. “So the new girl, she's working out?”

“She's coming along quite well,” I admit. While Scoglitti doesn't know the full depths of my passions, only Larissa has even an inkling about that, he is instead asking if I like my new servant and slave. He couldn't begin to understand how one of a kind Jessica is. “I don't know if it's my skill, The Dryad's skill, or just the girl's natural affinity for her new position. If anything, the only difficulty has been overcoming her background.”

“What do you mean?” Scoglitti asks. “Is she high born?”

I shake my head, smiling. “No, zio. But she's a very smart woman, and coming from where she comes from, she developed a lot of ideas, like how being in service is somehow beneath her or demeaning to her. I've spent most of my time bringing her along slowly to a more... traditional Sicilian point of view.”

Scoglitti laughs. “Don't do that too much, Rodrigo. Or else you're going to come home late one night and find yourself being cursed out and beaten with a rolling pin by the very same woman who is so docile and polite whenever you're in public or when you have guests over!”

I laugh, shaking my head. “No, not that traditional a view, zio. I'm ambitious... not stupid.”