Trying to be as silent as I can, I tiptoe through the gap where Rafael pushed the suit jackets apart and find myself in a room that’s about half the size of the walk-in closet. A counter runs along the entirety of the opposite wall, the space below it is filled with dozens of drawers. Above, nearly all the way to the ceiling, are cubbies, shelves, and brackets, but it’s not clothes they hold. It’s weapons. Knives. Dozens of various caliber handguns. Long-range rifles. In one of the corners, utility crates are stacked nearly waist-high, and more weapons are slotted into gun racks mounted on both sides of the room.
The last time I saw so many weapons in one place, was when Uncle Sergei showed me his armory (well, one of them, at least). I made the mistake of telling Dad and ended up grounded for a week. Uncle Sergei sported a busted lip for days afterward. If Dad ever finds out that my uncle taught me how to use most of the weapons in that armory (the other one contains explosives and assault weapons, and Uncle Sergei has never allowed me to see those, unfortunately), he would totally go apeshit.
Rafael opens one of the top drawers below the counter and takes out a few small boxes, setting them on the countertop in front of him. Ammunition. He removes his black suit jacket and throws it onto the counter, too, revealing the dark-gray dress shirt he has on underneath. Reaching into another drawer, he selects a shoulder harness and puts it on, adjusting the straps. After grabbing two handguns off the shelf before him, he checks their ammo, then slots the pistols and the extra magazines into their holsters.
“Rafael? What’s going on?”
“This is turning out to be an eventful evening. I have to go resolve a misunderstanding at the port.” He approaches the side wall and takes down one of the mounted rifles, then pulls out a box with ammunition from another nearby drawer.
“You usually solve misunderstandings with a Remington?” I choke out as panic builds in my chest.
Rafael’s head snaps up, his gaze collides with mine while a corner of his lips quirks upward. “Is that worry I hear in your voice, Miss Petrova?”
My body goes rigid. “Nope. I think you mistook it for excitement.”
A strange look settles on his face, and with his eyes never leaving mine, Rafael takes a step toward me. I take one back. He keeps advancing, I keep retreating. Until I’m in the walk-in closet again, and my back is pressed against the rack of his shirts. Rafael stops in front of me and leans over until our faces align.
“I’ve never met a woman who can identify a particular make of tactical rifle,” he says, astonishment glowing in his eyes.
I draw in a breath, and my olfactory receptors swell with his scent. Fresh. Seductive. My gaze lowers to his lips. Two thick scars bisect the lower one, making it misshapen, before continuing down his chin. How would it feel to have those lips on mine? What would they taste like? I raise a hand, pressing my palm to his chest. Hopefully, that will be enough to stop me from leaning in further and trying to find out for myself.
Rafael reaches out and brushes his knuckles down my cheek. “You can keep the laptop to finish what you started, but the activity on that device is monitored. If you get inspired to contact someone online or share things you know you shouldn’t, please remember that one word from me, and your family will lose their lives in minutes.”
And just like that, my worry for him transforms into rage.
I push him away and I scurry out of the walk-in and back to the office to get the fucking laptop. I can’t wait to be done with this crap so I can return home. I thought this “job” would last only a few days, but I’ve been here almost three weeks.
We both enter the bedroom at the same time. I’m heading toward the bed with the laptop under my arm, while Rafael makes a beeline from the walk-in to the door. As we pass each other, our hands brush ever so slightly.
The touch lasts less than a heartbeat, but it feels like the back of my hand is singed. I climb into the huge bed and, folding my legs under my ass, open the laptop in front of me.
“Sleep well, vespetta.” His husky voice comes from the entryway.
I don’t bother looking up from the screen, simply raise my hand and flip him the bird. A thunderous laugh fills the space between us before the door shuts in his wake.
An hour later, I can still hear the roaring in my head.
I step out of the car. “Who started it?”
“Rizzuto,” Aurelio, my main man at the Catania Port, says. “One of the cranes has been out of commission since Friday, causing delays. Rizzuto tried to bribe the freight forwarder to get bumped to the top of the import customs queue and then through the inspections and out the gate. He went ballistic when they wouldn’t do it. Port security got involved, and there was a confrontation. Rizzuto holed up in the admin offices, taking the terminal operators hostage, and is threatening to start shooting unless his cargo is processed and released tonight.”
I look up at the third floor of the building that serves as the port control tower. Rizzuto is one of the biggest alcohol smugglers in Sicily. He brings in high-end French and Spanish wines and pays hefty bribes to have port and customs officials rubber-stamp the necessary clearances. I don’t give a fuck what he’s peddling as long as he keeps up his part of our deal and drops half a million into my bank account annually for letting him use the Catania harbor. Delays are not uncommon, as Rizzuto is well aware of. And he doesn’t have a history of being unreasonable.
“Has anyone checked his containers?” I ask.
“No. They’re still at the stacks.”
“Let’s have a look at them.”
Even at such a late hour, the port is buzzing with life. Shouted orders fill the air as the cargo is loaded and unloaded from the vessels by gantry cranes. Forklifts and terminal tractors move around the storage yard, stacking the containers that then undergo final inspections before being released for dispatch and loaded onto the distribution trucks. I don’t like all that commotion, so only come here when it’s absolutely necessary. Assassinating people is so much easier than working with them.
“Open the first one,” I tell the dockworker standing by the three green containers in the temporary storage area.
The man hurries to unlock the heavy-duty swing doors and then moves out of the way. I take the crowbar from Aurelio and step inside.
Wooden crates bearing the logo of a well-known French winery in Bordeaux are neatly stacked one on top of the other, filling nearly the entire steel container. A faint woody odor permeates the air. I jam the chisel end of the crowbar between the two boards of the closest crate and push. The planks break and splinter. White powder spills from the plastic package that got torn up by the busted edge of the destroyed box frame and drips to the floor next to my shoe. I catch a dribble of the fine particles with my fingers and bring them to my mouth. Cocaine.
Spitting out the bitter traces, I throw the crowbar aside. “Find a suitable place and incinerate the whole load. I want it done by morning, Aurelio.”
“Sure, boss.”
I nod and head back out, while fury rages inside me. There’s only one person on the island who can get his hands on coke this pure.
Guido is lounging by his sports car, chatting with one of the forklift drivers, but when he sees me returning to the control tower, he heads toward me. “Aurelio messaged me. What’s going on?”
“Calogero tried to smuggle his drugs in Rizzuto’s cargo.” I grab the rifle out of the back of my SUV and slam the door shut.
“Fuck. You sure it’s his?”
“Yes.” I cock the rifle and head to the tower’s main entrance. “Go help Aurelio organize the torching of that shit,” I tell my brother over my shoulder.
The bottom level of the building is a vast warehouse, used to store machinery and cargo that’s been held up at port for various reasons. The floors above are filled with administrative offices. My footfalls make hollow sounds as I climb the metal stairs to the top level where the control room and port operator center are located.
“Has he calmed down?” I ask the man standing guard at the door.
“A little. He still won’t let anyone leave the room, but he stopped waving his gun after we told him you’re here.”
