“No. He’s been using VPN and IP address scramblers, pinning his position all over the globe.”
“And it’s always a different location?”
“Yes. Tokyo. Manila. Chicago. Panama. The Hague. Once, we got a pin in Patagonia. There were nine separate incidents, at different locations every time. Except . . . just a second.” The clicking sounds of fingers rapidly working a keyboard come across the line. “The first incursion six months ago and this latest one both show an IP address in the Chicago area. It”—more typing—“appears that these hacks were done from an internet café. But not the same one.”
The tapping of heels on the wooden floor resonates behind me. I throw a look over my shoulder to find Constanza standing by the couch. She’s wearing the same short red dress I peeled off her an hour ago. One that barely covers her ass and reveals her mile-long legs. Her hair is down, each strand in its place, framing her classically beautiful face. Drop-dead gorgeous. My fucks always are. I’m used to having beautiful women by my side. Money can buy what appearance alone cannot. That’s the reality.
“I’m being interviewed on TV Thursday afternoon.” Constanza’s lips widen into a beaming smile. “There’s this amazing black gown I saw at Albini’s . . . It would be perfect for the occasion.”
I’m sure it would. Albini’s is the most expensive clothing boutique in this part of Europe. But before I let her spend thousands of my money on a dress, she’ll have to learn to look at my face while we talk. And fuck.
“No. You can get a dress at one of the regular shops. Tell them to put it on my account.”
The smile on Constanza’s face wavers, but she quickly hides the slip. She closes the distance between us in a few heel-clicking steps and rises on her toes to kiss me. “Thank you, love.”
There’s a barely detectable flinch as her lips brush mine, and I have to give it to her—she’s probably the best actress out of all the women I have screwed. They all try damn hard to hide their disgust. Some manage better than others. As good as she is, though, like the rest of them, Constanza can’t stomach looking at my face, even in low light.
I don’t mind the fact that the only reason my hookups remain with me for any length of time is for the extravagant trips and lavish gifts I shower them with. Unrivaled luxury—compensation for being subjected to having a beast at their side. It’s a fair compromise. Some chicks can tolerate it for longer. Most can’t.
A few years back, I picked up a woman at a club. Or rather, she picked me up. A well-known socialite from the mainland, she was in Sicily vacationing with her friends. One of them probably told her who I was. She was flying high on life—or maybe it was something more and I didn’t realize it at the time—and was clearly celebrating something that had champagne flowing freely at their table. By the time we made it to a suite at my hotel, she was singing the latest chart-toppers and could barely keep her hands off me. We fucked. Several times. She begged for more. I know how to please a woman in bed. The poor thing even asked me to marry her. But the following morning, when she woke up sober, but definitely hungover, and saw my face, she screamed. Two minutes later, she ran out of the room and straight into a taxi I called for her.
“When are we going to see each other again?” Constanza chirps.
“I’ll call you,” I say, then gesture toward my suit coat she has draped over her shoulders. “Take off my jacket.”
“But it’s chilly outside.”
“Right now, Constanza. One of my men downstairs can give you theirs.”
She pouts a bit but leaves the jacket on the back of the sofa and rushes across the office, closing the big oak door after her. I turn toward the view outside and put my phone back to my ear.
“Listen to me carefully, Mitch. You’re going to find that hacker, and you’ll do it quickly. I don’t give a fuck if you need to station one of our men in every shitty internet café in the Greater Chicago Area. I want the motherfucker found and brought to me.”
“But . . . There are hundreds of internet cafés there, boss.”
“I don’t fucking care!” I snarl into the phone. “Find him. Or I’m going to detach your fucking head from your spine!”
“Yes, boss. Of course. I’ll get it done.”
I cut the line, then hit my brother’s contact icon.
“Raff,” Guido yawns through the speaker.
“Do we have anything major happening this week?” I ask as I head toward the door connecting my office to my bedroom.
“Christ, Rafael. It’s six in the morning.”
“Answer me!”
“As far as I know, no. Most of the available contracts were low-value, so I decided to pass on them. I need to check the postings, but I think I saw a double-hit order added last night. The amount, though, was less than a million.”
“Take it,” I bark as I step inside the walk-in closet.
“Okay. Who are we sending? The targets are in Germany, and I think Allard’s team is already there.”
“No.” I push the button hidden behind the row of suits and watch the back of the closet slide to the side. A moment later, the ceiling lights flick on, illuminating the interior of the hidden room, and the walls covered in an array of weapons.
“Then who do you want to send?”
“We’re not sending any of the teams. I’ll be handling this one.”
“Why?”
“I had a shitty start to the day, Guido, despite just getting home less than an hour ago. I need a distraction.” My eyes skip over the selection of long-range rifles before me. “Any special kill instructions?”
“Mmm . . . Let me see. Nope. No preferences for the method of disposal.”
“Perfect. Send me the file and tell the pilot to have the plane ready by seven.” I cut the line and take an M40 off the wall.
The last time I personally handled a contract was more than a decade ago, just before I made my return to Sicily. With all the crap I needed to do to take over and then maintain control of the east coast of the island, I had to “retire” my mercenary role. Now, I have eleven teams of hitmen scattered around the world, using the strategically located branches of Delta Security as bases. My brother oversees that part of our clandestine operations these days, while I’m focused on laundering and investing the blood money through the legitimate side of our business.
The business that some son of a bitch has decided to fuck with.
I can’t wait to get my hands on that bastard.
Home of Roman Petrov (the Russian Bratva’s pakhan), Chicago
