Mafia Kings: Roberto: Dark Mafia Romance Series #5

I woke after a fitful night’s sleep, stiff and uncomfortable.

Niccolo was reading something on his phone in the darkness. I could see the glow of the screen on his face.

“Ah, you’re awake,” he said. “Sleep well?”Content © NôvelDrama.Org 2024.

“Well enough,” I said grumpily. “What time is it?”

“Eight-thirty in the morning our time, so 2:30 PM Hong Kong,” he said as he lifted the shade on the nearest window.

I squinted against the blinding light streaming in.

“Care for breakfast before we land?” Niccolo asked in a chipper voice.

“Why not.”

The stewardess brought us croissants, butter, cheese, fruit, mimosas, and espresso.

A fairly nice breakfast… although for 375,000 euros, it should have included caviar and black truffles.

“We are now approaching Hong Kong,” the French pilot’s voice said over the speakers.

I peered out the window at the city far below us.

Hong Kong was a dense forest of skyscrapers on the shores of a bay. Although smaller in area than New York, the sheer number of buildings looked like someone had duplicated Manhattan several times over and placed everything along the water’s edge. The airport, however, was located on a sparsely populated island miles from the city.

Our landing was smooth as silk. As we taxied down the runway towards a hangar, I turned on my phone and found I had a voicemail with a Hong Kong area code. With a slight nervousness in my stomach, I played the message.

“Mr. Rosolini,” said Mr. Lau. He had an older man’s voice with a cultured British accent. “How nice to receive your message. Unfortunately, I have pressing plans this evening, but I can meet with you at my office at 5 PM. My associate, Mr. Han, will be waiting for you when you land and will bring you to me. I will see you soon.”

The message was neither good nor bad, but I still felt uneasy.

Niccolo could tell from my expression that something was off.

“Was that your contact?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Everything alright?”

“I’ll let you know in a couple of hours.”

Once our plane stopped inside the hangar, the stewardess opened the main hatch, and a representative of the private jet company came inside. He stamped our passports and had us sign some forms for customs.

Once we were cleared to disembark, we said goodbye to the stewardess and pilot and walked down the steps with our luggage in hand.

A wall of hot, humid air slapped us in the face – but I forgot all about my physical discomfort when I saw who was waiting for us.

At the door of the hangar was a black limousine. Beside it stood a tall, fit, 20-something Asian man in an impeccably tailored black suit.

His shirt was burgundy-colored silk, and his collar was open at the neck with no tie.

His stylish haircut was immaculate, his black leather shoes were expensive, and he wore a gold wristwatch.

His face was impassive, and his eyes were deep, dark wells.

He looked like a sharply dressed gangster, not a businessman.

Even worse, the way he carried himself reminded me of a calmer, more dead-eyed version of Adriano…

Which worried me immensely.

It must have worried Niccolo, too, because he whispered in Italian, “That’s your contact?”

“I assume it’s a babysitter sent by my contact.”

“Wonderful,” my brother grunted.

“Mr. Han, I presume?” I called out as we approached.

“Correct,” the man said without smiling. Like Lau, he had a British accent, which made sense. Hong Kong was a British Colony up until 1999, and British English was taught in most schools. “You are Mr. Rosolini?”

“I am.”

Han frowned as he looked over at Niccolo. “I didn’t know you had a twin.”

“Surprise!” Niccolo said.

Though Niccolo and I look almost exactly alike, we’re fraternal twins, not identical – meaning that we came from two separate eggs inside our mother’s womb.

However similar our facial features were, our personal styles were miles apart. I preferred three-piece suits and ties; Niccolo hated them and opted for open-necked shirts and no jackets. I wore my hair slicked back, while Niccolo preferred his wild and free.

Our personalities were opposites, as well. I was laid-back and introverted; Niccolo was outgoing and chatty.

My brother immediately dialed up the charm to 11.

“I suppose we’re both Mr. Rosolini, but you can call me Niccolo,” he said, extending his hand.

The Asian man regarded him coldly without moving to shake hands. “You can call me Mr. Han.”

“Well,” Niccolo said as he withdrew his hand. “Mr. Han it is, then.”

Han turned to me. “Your brother will not be able to attend the meeting with Mr. Lau.”

“Didn’t want to,” Niccolo said cheerfully. “I’m going to Macau. If you could tell me the quickest way to get there, I would be much obliged.”

“You can take a helicopter from any of a dozen businesses here at the airport. Helicopter rides take only 15 minutes. Do you know where you’re going?”

“The El Dorado Macau.”

“They’re hosting a poker tournament right now.”

“Is that so?” Niccolo said brightly, like it was a fascinating factoid.

I knew my brother well. The glibness in his voice made me wonder if the poker tournament was somehow connected to his decision to come to Hong Kong – but I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why.

“The El Dorado has a landing pad on top of the hotel,” Han said. “You can fly directly there.”

“Wonderful! If you’ll just point me in the right direction, I’ll be out of your hair.”

“We can drive you to a helicopter charter,” Han said as he pointed at the limo. It wasn’t a friendly offer so much as a statement of fact.

“No need. After the long flight, I feel like stretching my legs. Where do I go?”

“Follow the road to the main terminal,” Han said, pointing outside the hangar. “You’ll see plenty of advertisements in English.”

“Thank you.” My brother turned to me and smiled. “Give me a call after your meeting. Maybe we can meet up later.”

“Alright,” I said.

Niccolo turned and walked out of the hangar, pulling his wheeled suitcase behind him as he whistled a jaunty tune.

Han gestured towards the limo. “Shall we?”

“Let’s.”