Costa and Sophia Sneak Peek
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Chapter 1: Tips
The neon haze of Miami’s night skyline flickered across puddles on the sidewalk as Detective Giovanni Costa stepped out of his Porsche 911. The sleek black sports car gleamed under the streetlights, a far cry from the standard issue squad cars, and a blatant badge of Costa’s taste for the finer things. He straightened the lapels of his all white suit, smoothed his hand over his short black hair, and slid his trademark sunglasses down slightly on his nose. Even at midnight and indoors, he wore those dark shades, a quirk that drew mutters from fellow officers, but Costa didn’t care. Behind those tinted lenses, his sharp green eyes scanned the entrance of the seedy bar in Little Havana where he was to meet an informant. Inside El Cangrejo Rojo, a dingy bar with peeling turquoise paint and a flickering “OPEN” sign, the air was heavy with cigar smoke and Cuban jazz from the jukebox. Costa’s presence turned a few heads, a short man in a pristine suit and aviators at this hour stood out among the tired regulars. He moved with a calm, unhurried confidence, ignoring the side eyes. Those who recognized him as a Miami detective quickly looked away; cops in these parts meant trouble, and Costa’s reputation preceded him. Not that he was known for being a hero, quite the opposite. There were rumors he played both sides of the law, and the hints of a light goatee on his face and the nonchalant smirk on his lips as he lit a cigarette only added to his roguish aura. In a shadowy corner booth, his informant waited. Ricky “Roach” Ramirez was a wiry man with twitchy hands, a low level dealer who had gotten in over his head. Roach gave a nervous grin
as Costa slid into the seat across from him. “Detective,” Roach greeted, voice cracking. He eyed the detective’s crisp attire and swallowed
the Adam’s apple bobbing in his skinny neck. Costa exhaled a stream of smoke slowly, the curl of it reflecting in his shades. “Roach,” he said evenly. “This better be worth my time. You sounded urgent on the phone.” His voice was calm, almost bored, but with an undercurrent that made Roach wring his hands. “It is,” Roach insisted, leaning forward. He spoke quietly, eyes darting around to ensure no one eavesdropped. “I got a hot tip, something big is going down. Thought you’d wanna know.” Costa raised an eyebrow, taking another drag of his cigarette. “Go on.” Roach licked his lips. “There’s… there’s gonna be a drop, tomorrow night. Real hush hush. My
guy didn’t know much, but he said it ain’t the usual players. He heard CIA’s in on it.” At that, Costa’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. CIA, here in Miami, doing a covert drop?
Interesting. He remained impassive, stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray. “CIA,” he repeated flatly, as if unimpressed. “And who else?” “Some Italians. He thinks… maybe the Abruzzo family from up north, or some Florida branch of it. Italian mobsters, for sure. They got a priest or something at the top, a real church operation.” Roach forced a laugh, but his jittery eyes showed he knew how deadly those men could be. Costa’s mind churned behind a mask of calm. CIA and Italian mob working together on a deal. Drugs. It had to be drugs, given the players. Miami’s drug underworld had all sorts, but CIA involvement suggested something deeper, maybe even an off the books government operation. If it was off the books, that meant there would be no backup, no official oversight. The
opportunity glinted like a diamond in the dark to a man like Giovanni Costa.
He leaned in, lowering his voice. “When and where?”