The Santini Vendetta Read online

  THE SANTINI VENDETTA

  A novella by Christopher Fox

  V6

  A grudge leads to a deadly feud; a ransom that cannot be paid; a showdown with a powerful Mafia family.

  Alberto has been nursing a 20-year grudge against a notorious Mafia family. Ransoming Lorenzo Santini's son and his family in Kyle MacDonald's hotel, he makes demands for their safe release. Kyle is unwillingly made a go-between for the negotiations and Lorenzo is forced into paying the ransom—but it doesn't end there.

  In an about face, Alberto is now being blackmailed by Lorenzo, but he is unable to meet the demands and joins with Kyle to find a solution. Where and when will it all stop? Will either Alberto or Lorenzo—or even Kyle—have to die for the feud to end? Follow Kyle and Alberto in a race against time as they go up against the powerful Mafia family…and try to stay alive.

  To Kay Clark, for her diligent editing and suggestions.

  Note to Reader:

  This book is a prequel to my first book, Lost Loot of Lima, which has now been updated to reflect some changes necessary in order to turn the book into a series.

  If you have already read earlier versions of Lost Loot, you can skip Chapters Three and Four, as they have been removed from Lost Loot and inserted into this book, with some slight modifications. This Chapter provides the background of the main characters.

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  This book is written in Canadian English, except where the use of US English terms were appropriate.

  Copyright ©2018 by Chris Fox

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-0-9950089-4-6

  Published by Chris Fox, Ottawa, Canada.

  CONTENTS

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Excerpt from Lost Loot of Lima

  About the Author

  Other books by Christopher Fox

  One

  Playa Hermosa, Costa Rica. January, 2005

  Kyle gazed out to sea across the white sands of Playa Hermosa. Gulls hung suspended in the air on the ocean breeze, occasionally diving into the water when spying a tasty morsel. Small boats rocked and pulled on their tethers while heads of swimmers bobbed like corks in the rolling surf. A cacophony of sounds invaded his ears—the gentle sound of the waves lapping on the shore; birds chirping to compete with the exuberant voices of children playing; background music from the hotel’s sound system—all soothing sounds as he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep under the large umbrella. The smells of the ocean, mingled with that of suntan lotion and bougainvillea, filled his nostrils. It was a rare time for relaxation for Kyle as owner of the Hotel Playa Hermosa, and he was thankful for the reduced occupancy during low season. Images of Anna, his executive assistant, came into his mind, but he quickly dismissed them and forced his thinking to the proposed renovations he planned to make. The distant sound of a jet caused Kyle to briefly open his eyes, and he saw contrails drawing white lines across the sky, going to places he could only dream about with Anna. He knew his infatuation with her was something he had to keep under control.

  Kyle had made a success of the hotel over the last few years, enjoyed improving it each year and loved mingling with the guests, listening to their stories. A major hotel chain had expressed interest in the location, but he wasn't about to sell yet—maybe in a couple of years.

  Several men wandered around the property in suits, trying to be nonchalant. But their constant glancing in all directions and the telltale coil of wire dangling from one ear gave them away as security guards. Oversize jackets concealed Uzi machine guns and holstered pistols. One of his repeat customers was a Chicago mobster who liked to chill out at this specific location. He rented the whole top floor of the hotel for him and his entourage, which included his wife and children. Of course, he stayed in the honeymoon suite—a large and opulent suite of rooms that Kyle had specially fit up for his high-end clients. He rented the fifth floor, beneath it, for the security team. Giuseppe (Peppe) Santini had several business interests in Central America and travelled by helicopter from the hotel to Tobías Bolaños International Airport in San José where he kept his Gulfstream private jet. From there he would fly to the major cities in Panama, Honduras, San Salvador and Mexico, and back to Chicago.

  Peppe, like many second generation mobsters, was born into wealth, but unlike his father, he generated wealth through legitimate investments. Graduating from Oxford College in England with a Master's degree in economics and business management, Peppe had diversified his investments into real estate and, specifically, shopping centres. Drawn to the culture in Latin America along with learning Spanish in his early years, he decided that it was a good place to invest in the retail sector. His analysis of the market showed that there was a steady increase in discretionary spending in most Central American countries, except Nicaragua. This meant an increase in retail outlets resulting in a demand for shopping centres. The threat that on-line shopping had on the bricks-and-mortar retail businesses caused concern, but all indications were that a strong market for growth existed.

  One of Kyle's staff awakened him from his nap.

  “Señor MacDonald,” he said. “The internet is down and the phone lines are out.”

  Kyle was somewhat agitated at being awakened over something so trivial. “OK, Use your cell phone to report it.”

  “That’s the problem, señor, there is no cell phone signal either.”

  Now that was strange. The reception at the best of times was sporadic, but two or three bars always showed when he made calls. He picked his iPhone from the table and looked at the screen. The top left icon read ‘no signal’. At that moment, the staccato sounds of automatic gunfire permeated the quiet of the beach. People screamed and ran back to the hotel for cover, grabbing infants in their arms as they abandoned their idyllic setting. Adrenaline pumped as Kyle dove for cover under the small table beside his lounge chair and peered out, looking around for the source of the chaos. A pop, pop, sounded and one guard seemed to stumble and fall to the ground while another attempted to return fire, but subsequent pop, pop, rang out and the guard fell to the ground. He was unsure where Peppe was, but suspected that he may be the target of the attack. Kyle was now the only one on the beach with three other guards, who were lowering their weapons and raising their hands. Several black-clad men toting AKs emerged from the nearby bushes and walked up to the guards, securing their weapons and forcing them to lie down with their hands behind their heads. Peppe had six guards and two had been shot, which meant that there was one guard unaccounted for. Three attackers entered the hotel while two attended to the guards. A sixth man walked up to Kyle.

  “Mr. MacDonald,” he said. “Buenos Días.”

  Kyle got up from the below the table, brushing sa
nd from his body. “Do I know you?” he said, surprised to hear him mention his name.

  “No, you don’t. But you will.”

  “What is it you want?” Kyle asked. “What’s the meaning of shooting up my hotel and killing guests?”

  Kyle's concern was for the guests and staff, especially Anna, and wondered where she was.

  “No one has died–yet. Simply a tranquilizer. What is going on will become clear soon enough–in the meantime, I would like you to return to the hotel.”

  Kyle made his way to the hotel, the man following behind him. He entered through the glass doors of the restaurant and headed for the lobby. Two men were herding guests into a conference room appended to the lobby.

  “Is that your Cadillac?” the man said as they walked by Kyle’s car. He was referring to the 1991 Sedan de Ville Brougham parked in the reserved spot.

  “Yes, it is,” said Kyle.

  “Nice car. You are an aficionado of older cars?”

  “Not really.” Kyle said, reluctant to engage in a conversation with him.

  “I have a 1970 Boss 302 Mustang,” the man said.

  Who cares, thought Kyle and didn’t respond.

  The stranger instructed Kyle to activate the Evac portion of the fire alarm system and the man grabbed the microphone.

  Ladies and gentlemen, this is not a drill. You are all to assemble in the ground floor conference room immediately. The hotel has been taken over by armed personnel and anyone found in their room or anywhere else on the hotel property will be shot on sight.

  He repeated the message in Spanish and turned to Kyle with a smug look on his face. “That should get their attention. Now señor MacDonald, please join the others and take a seat.”

  Kyle entered the conference room where chairs were arranged for a meeting later that day. Many people still wore their bathing suits and huddled closely with their children, panicked looks on their faces. Several more people were herded into the room who Kyle recognized as staff, along with a frightened Anna who came to Kyle’s side.

  “What’s happening?” she asked Kyle.

  “I don’t know yet. I would suspect that they are after Peppe Santini.”

  “Ladies and Gentlemen,” the tall, tanned aggressor said. “My name is Alberto Caporalos. Do as we say and no one will get hurt. We have a mission that does not involve any of you, so please do not be foolish enough to get in our way. We may be here for a while, so make yourselves as comfortable as you can.”

  “The road to the hotel has been blocked,” said Alberto, “so if you were expecting anyone, they will not be coming. Internet has been shut down and a signal blocker prevents any cell phone transmission, so essentially you are all incommunicado.”

  Alberto grabbed a master key card from one of the hotel maids and handed it to one of the men.

  “OK Ruben, take Daniel and ferret out Peppe and his family.”

  “Sure boss,” Daniel said and the two of them each took a stairwell and scaled them to the top floor.

  * * * *

  Ruben peered around the Exit door and noticed Daniel doing the same at the other end. There was no one else in the corridor and the Honeymoon Suite door, in front of Ruben, was closed. Daniel inched toward the suite until both men were standing beside the door.

  Ruben slid the key card in the lock and several rounds of bullets peppered the door, sending splinters of wood flying into the corridor. He laid down, activating the lock again, this time depressing the handle. Another salvo of bullets greeted him, but they sailed harmlessly above him. He gave the door a shove and slid a clip of ammunition in the gap to keep it from closing.

  “Come out with your hands up,” Ruben shouted.

  More holes appeared in the door, so Daniel reached into one of his pockets and pulled out a stun grenade, pulled the pin and launched it through the door that Ruben had now pushed open with his foot. They ducked behind the wall and covered their ears. An ear-splitting explosion rocked the floor and a bright flash framed the partially open door. Ruben and Daniel rushed into the room and found a man writhing on the floor, in a foetal position, covering his ears. Daniel rolled him onto his stomach and cuffed him. Ruben shouted through the closed bedroom door, “Come out with your hands in the air.”

  The door to the bedroom slowly opened, and a dazed Peppe walked out.

  “Please don’t hurt my family,” he said as his wife and three crying children came out of the bedroom. One child was an infant, and she carried him in her arms.

  “We’re not going to hurt anyone,” said Ruben.

  “I can’t put my hands up,” said the woman.

  “That’s OK,” said Ruben, patting Peppe down for any weapons. “Just keep your hands where I can see them.”

  “What is the meaning of this?” Peppe said.

  “All in good time,” said Ruben. “All in good time.”

  * * * *

  In the conference room, another round of gunfire sounded, although subdued. Kyle surmised it was coming from the fifth or sixth floor as the attackers no doubt were being repelled by the last guard. A muffled explosion shook the hotel and rattled the windows. Guests cowered into each other as Alberto stood there smirking.

  “Just a stun grenade,” he said. “We expected some resistance.”

  Moments later, two assailants ushered a dishevelled Peppe into the room with his hands behind his back tethered with plasticuffs. Behind him, an attractive woman, with two young children clutching her legs and an infant in her arms, crept apprehensively along in front of two men holding pistols, their AKs slung over their shoulders.

  “Ah!” said Alberto. “Our guest of honour. Ladies and gentlemen, meet Peppe Santini, one of Chicago’s finest. For those unfamiliar with the Santini family, they are notorious for extracting money from people using whatever illegal means open to them. Drugs, prostitution, money laundering, gambling… you name it, they have done them all. Our friend here thinks because he channels those ill-gotten gains into legitimate enterprises, that he does not differ from his father and other members who used illicit means to get their money. Much of it is blood money; many people died who opposed the Santinis, my father being one of them.”

  With that announcement, Peppe, who was sitting with his head hung low, perked up.

  “Of course,” Alberto continued, “you would know nothing about that. My father was working in one of your restaurants when your men approached him to distribute drugs. He refused and when he got home, two of your men were there with a gun to my mother’s head. I watched from behind the door as my father pleaded, in his limited English, to let my mother go. He agreed to be a distributor, but then the man holding my mother began fondling her breasts. My mother struggled with him and my father tried to intervene.” Alberto seemed to relive the incident in his mind as he told the story. “The bastard shot him in the chest and my mother tried to help him. He was bleeding heavily and my mother was crying ‘call an ambulance’, but the men ignored her, then left. I went to my father and I remember all the blood. My mother ran next door because they had a phone. She called the ambulance, but it was too late. I sat with my father as he bled out and died.”

  There was an air of melancholy as Alberto told his story. Peppe hung his head again, more in shame this time because although not personally involved in this incident, he was aware of many more like it. He had always tried to distance himself from the actions of his family, but he was still using the proceeds to finance his legitimate business ventures. His brother maintained his involvement with the illegal activities and ran the drug distribution and prostitution ring from various clubs in the City.

  “So, what do you want?” Peppe whispered, not looking up.

  “First, I want the men responsible for my father’s death. Then I want ten million dollars as compensation.”

  Peppe raised his head and looked at Alberto.

  “Firstly, I am sorry about your father, but I’m sure you are aware that I had absolute
ly nothing to do with that. As for your demands, I don’t think there is any way that my father will give up the two men you claim killed your father. The money I will try to negotiate for you, but I’m not confident they will pay.”

  Alberto walked over to him and slapped him hard across the face. A dribble of blood appeared in the corner of Peppe’s mouth and there were gasps from the huddled guests. He grabbed him by the shirt, pulling him to his feet. Their faces were centimetres apart. “Understand one thing,” he snarled, a small amount of spittle projecting from his mouth. “I have waited over 20 years to avenge my father’s senseless murder. Your family with their high-priced lawyers had the police in their pockets and, what was the death of another illegal alien to them anyway? They buried the investigation even though my mother and I identified the men from a line-up. They both had iron-clad alibis, no doubt arranged by your father, and we could not afford a lawyer to press the charges further.”

  He released his hold on Peppe’s shirt and propelled him back into the chair, the chair tipping backward and crashing to the floor on its back. Peppe rolled out of the chair and stood defiantly in front of Alberto. Peppe, now took the situation seriously.

  “If you hurt me or any of my family,” he said, his face red with anger, “you and your cohorts will be hunted down. Let my wife and children go and I will consider your demands; it is me you have an issue with, not them.”

  “How gallant and noble of you to protect your family. Actually, not only do I not have an issue with them, I don’t even have an issue with you—you are all merely tools for me to get what I want. So no, I am not letting your wife and children go until my demands are met. And you are in no position to make demands on me.”