by LP Lovell
“Find a room, and stay there until I tell you to come out,” I order, handing her bag to her.
“Why?” Always questions. She never learns. “You know, I’m not a child.” Spoken with the rebellion of youth. On a sigh, she snatches the bag from my hand. Her grumbling can be heard almost the entire way up the stairs.
I walk through the house and out into the garage. An SUV sits untouched.
I close the exterior door and set the alarm before getting into the car. Leaving Adelina isn’t ideal, but the alarm system is connected to my phone. If anyone comes in, or more importantly, go out of the house, I’ll know.
I have a small window and limited time to act on the information Gio sent me yesterday. He still hasn’t been able to track the whereabouts of Enrique, but one of his contacts assured him that Luca Santori—one of Enrique’s closest men—will be at a restaurant only twenty minutes from here, tonight.
It’s the only piece of information I have, so I need to act on it.
I drive down the winding driveway that loops over the hillside like a piece of dropped spaghetti. At the bottom, there are a few small cottages that lead into the outlying areas of the town. I skirt the busiest sections, following the coast a few miles to the next village. The sun starts to drop below the horizon, shimmering over the ocean and casting long shadows across the road in front of me.
I reach the town and pull up on a narrow cobblestone street with several small shops lining either side. Cutting the engine, I get out and survey the area. It’s quiet, with only the occasional local going about their business.
An old lady with a dog shuffles past me. “Buongiorno,” she says without looking up.
Farther up the street, two children kick a ball between them, laughing as they try to get it past each other. It all seems normal, but that doesn’t mean it is.
The restaurant is a beacon in the surrounding darkness of the otherwise quiet street. Fairy lights scatter through the ivy that crawls up the exterior of the building. As soon as I step inside, the silence of the streets is lost.
People chatter, their voices blending into a low, incessant hum that almost drowns out the lulling tones of the piano. Glasses tinkle and cutlery clings. My senses are instantly drowned, and it puts me on edge. I take stock of the entire room, spotting three possible exits. I note the diners: a group of college-aged girls, several couples, a few families.
Slipping into a table at the back, I take a seat and wait. When the waitress comes over, I order a bottle of wine that I won’t drink and a glass of tap water. She hurries away, just as Lucas Santori walks through the door, on time. He’s with a friend, and both are dressed in suits. They step into the busy restaurant, the pair of them laughing.
They take a seat and order. The waitress brings me the wine, opening it before she pours a glass.
"Grazie.”
She ducks away, leaving me to my dark corner of the room. And that is where I stay, watching, waiting.
The customers leave one by one, and I can’t stay much longer without my presence being noticed. Thankfully, the two men finally get up and stagger to the door, unsteady from too much wine. I give them a minute before I toss some money on the table, leaving the bottle untouched.
As soon as I step outside, I can hear the raucous laughter of the two men. They're so oblivious, I could be right behind them, and they wouldn’t notice. I follow for several streets before Lucas’ friend claps him on the back. They kiss cheeks, and he disappears inside a building. Alone now, Lucas takes a cigarette out of his pocket and lights it, strolling along the cobblestone street. When he slips into shadows of the nearby buildings, I make my move. His drunken state makes him easy prey. Sliding my gun from the holster, I shove him into a side alley. He stumbles, reaching clumsily for the weapon beneath his jacket. But my hand is on his back, shoving him face first against the wall before he can move. I press the barrel of my gun to the back of his skull. “I will not hesitate to kill you.”
“Do you know who I am?” he slurs.
“Who you are is why I am here.”
I turn him around, pinning him to the wall by his throat. His mouth opens and closes like a dying fish.
Piggy eyes glare at me with venom, and he grits his teeth on a snarl. “Portatore di morte.” Bringer of death.
Over the years, the Elite have become feared and respected by almost every criminal organization in the world. The Mexicans named us the Devil’s servants, the immortal warriors of Satan. Una was always the most prolific of Nicholai’s killers, referred to as The Angel of Death or the Kiss of Death, for her calling card. I’ve been called a death bringer, a demon, and even God’s judgment by pious men. The reputation of the Elite has spanned the globe, unrivaled, and more often than not, it works in my favor.
He tries to fight my hold. “You do not scare me. I will kill you.”
“Where is Enrique Bianchi?”
“You want Enrique?” He stops struggling. “Fuck you.” He spits on the floor.
I release an exasperated breath. I had hoped this would go easier, but I’ll ask one more time since I’m feeling generous. “Where is your boss?”
A hacking laugh barks out into the night, and my patience runs out. Clasping my hand over his mouth, I slam the heel of my boot into the side of his knee, hearing the bone crunch. A muffled cry is muted by my palm covering his lips. He crumples to the ground, his fingers clawing at the rough brick in an attempt to stay upright.
“Where is he?”
He sucks in several deep breaths, and his shoulders tense. Silence is all that follows. How disappointing. Grabbing one of his hands, I snap his index finger. This time he screams into my hand. He thinks himself strong because he is mafia. I can break him as easily as his bones. Taking the next finger, I snap it.
“I can break every bone in your body if you like.”
Ragged breaths hiss against the inside of my hand. I snap another finger, and he starts to sag against the wall. Adrenaline will take over in the face of extreme pain. It’s the body’s way of surviving just long enough to escape a predator or perceived danger. However, after a while, it fades, and the reality of the pain creeps in. I can almost see the moment his adrenaline burns off. His skin turns a waxy grey, and he starts to tremble. Blood covers his hands, shards of bone protruding through the skin of his fingers. This is where I often fail. I’m a killer, well versed in the art of torture, but it isn’t my forte. The breaking point differs for each person. There’s always a fine line, a point where he will tell you everything just to make it stop, but it has to be before he goes into shock. Push him too hard, and all is lost. It’s a balancing act, and Lucas here is about to go into shock.
“If you are of no use to me, I will slit your throat and leave you here to drown in your own blood.” I remove my hand from his mouth.
“I don’t know where he is,” he mumbles.
Gripping the back of his neck, I lean in closer, speaking in his ear. “Lies.” If that were true, he would have blurted it the second I broke his knee.
“I don’t. Please. Just…I can pay you.”
“Where. Is. He?” I say. I’m very much in control of my emotions, but I don’t have time for patience right now. I’m out in the open. Exposed. Anyone could walk right by and see us.
He inhales a breath. “I…he’ll kill me.”
“I’d take my chances if I were you.”
He releases a sharp sigh, wincing as he does. “He visits his club. Every Friday…Ten o’ clock…” His speech slurs, and he jolts as though he’s struggling to remain conscious.
“Where?”
“Finale. A private club…” His eyes close, and I shake him.
“What’s the club in Finale called?”
“Essenza.”
“Thank you, Lucas.”
I’m now left with a dilemma. If I let him go now, he could well run right back to Bianchi and warn him I’m coming. If I kill him, his absence will undoubtedly be noted, and it’ll raise an alarm.
When I get back to the villa, all the lights are on. As soon as I open the door, the scent of food greets me. I find Adelina in the kitchen, stirring something in a pan. Checking my phone, I can see that the alarm didn’t go off. It should have.
“I told you not to leave your room.”
She turns around and places a hand on her hip. “I was hungry. You left and set the alarm. That’s a shitty move.”
“I had business to attend to. I needed you to stay here.”
“Doesn’t mean you have to lock me in like some kind of convict. There are these things called words. What if someone had tried to take me? Some protector you are.” She rambles on.
“The alarm is linked to my phone. I’d know if anyone broke in.” Or if she tried to leave…in theory.
Still, she could have run. She’s still here. “If you gave me a phone, you’d know, anyway.” She arches a brow and flicks her hair over her shoulder.
“No.”
“You’re exasperating.” She turns away and keeps stirring.
“Why hasn’t the alarm gone off?”
“It did. I disabled it.” She waves a hand through the air dismissively.
“How? You don’t have the code.”
“You might need a new alarm.”
On a heavy sigh, I walk through the house to the garage door where the little box for the alarm sits on the wall. The front panel has been pulled off, and a few severed wires hang out. I stalk back to the kitchen, my teeth grinding over each other. “You damaged the alarm.”
She doesn’t even bother turning to face me. “My father is a mafia boss with two daughters. You aren’t the first man to try to lock me up.”
“You leave us vulnerable to attack.”
“Then don’t lock me in.”
A rare lack of control washes over me, and I grab her wrist, yanking her to face me. I expect her fear, want it even, but as I meet her gaze, there is none. Only defiance. Behind those eyes, a war is brewing, and it matches my own. “That was stupid, Adelina.”
“No, you were stupid. It’s me they want. I’m every bit as invested in my own safety as you are. More so. Stop treating me like your prisoner and realize that we’re in this together. I’m fucked without you, and I know it.” Ah, malyshka. How foolish you think I must be.
I pull her closer, her chest bumping against my stomach. “I don’t trust you.”
She inches closer still until our eyes lock and our breaths intermingle. “I don’t care,” she whispers. Yanking her wrist from my grasp, she steps back and picks up a plate from the counter behind her. “I made you food.” She drops it on the bar in front of me before picking up her own and walking out of the room.
I haven’t seen Adelina all day. I’m sure she’s locked in her room, planning her next escape attempt. I check the time. It’s eight o’ clock, and I need to leave soon. Climbing the stairs, I knock on Adelina’s door and enter.
She stands at the end of her bed, wearing her jeans and a bra. Her eyes go wide, and she turns away, giving me her back. “Jesus, you know, when you knock, you’re supposed to wait for permission to enter.”
My eyes roam over the length over her back, stopping on the black rose tattoo that sits at the base of her spine.
“Why a rose?” I ask.
She grabs a tank top and yanks it over her head before facing me with her hands on her hips. “What do you mean, why? Why not? It’s a tattoo.”
“But it’s on your skin. Permanently.” Why anyone would allow another human to repeatedly inject ink beneath their skin for no apparent reason, I do not know.
She rolls her eyes. “It was my compulsory seventeen-year old slag tag.”
“Slag tag?”
Her lips twitch, and she ducks her head to hide a smile. “It means nothing. I was young.”
“It was three years ago.”
Now she glares. “I’ve matured a lot.”
I would beg to differ.
“Anyway, aside from being a pervert, why are you here?”
“I am not a pervert.”
She raises one eyebrow, and I choose to ignore her.
“I’m leaving.”
“Okay…” I slowly close the distance between us, and she eyes me like an approaching rattlesnake. “Where are you going?” she asks.
“I have business to handle.”
“I thought I was your job.”
“You need to stay here.” I take another step, and she wisely retreats.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m sorry, malyshka, but I do not trust you.” I dive for her, tossing her over my shoulder.
“Sasha! What the hell—” She writhes and thrashes around like a feral animal.
I drop her on the bed and take the handcuffs from my back pocket. The metal snaps into place around her wrist before I fasten the other cuff to the headboard.
Her eyes dart from me to her wrist and back again. “You did not,” she growls. She lunges for me, and I simply step out of her reach.
“I won’t be long.”
“Sasha! What if Enrique’s men come for me? You can’t leave me like this,” Adelina begs, but I turn away. “Sasha!” Her voice breaks, and when I glance back, tears well in her eyes. “Please.”
“Your acting skills are wasted on me, Adelina.”
Her face instantly morphs into one of cold, hard resentment, her tears dissipating. “You’re a dick. You can’t do this!”
“Yes. I can.” I close the door behind me and leave the house, but not before I re-activate the alarm I fixed this morning.
The club sits in a basement beneath an ordinary residential townhouse. The main door sits on a quiet cobblestone street, so I park a little way down to keep a clear view of the front.
The only sign that there’s even anything here is the small sign above the door, elegant script carved from steel that reads, Essenza. It’s not lit and would be easy to miss. The clientele all appear high end. Men in suits, women in tight dresses and heels. A single man guards the door with his hands clasped in front of him as he assesses the street. Climbing from the car, I approach the door. The man spares me a brief glance and pats me down before allowing me inside. The music drifts up the stairwell from below; it’s a low hum that rumbles through the walls. In the main club, blue lights flash, cutting through the darkness. The outer walls are occupied by private tables and small clusters of people. There’s nothing unusual about the layout. The open floorplan makes scouting the place easy, except for the VIP area. The stairs are guarded at the base—as Nero indicated—and I have no doubt Bianchi will bring more security detail with him. I deliberately came here early so I could scout the place. The VIP is mezzanine that juts across a lowered area of the floor. There’s a short set of stairs up there, guarded at the bottom. I have no doubt Bianchi will bring more security with him.
Nicholai taught us that discretion is everything—We were trained to be ghosts, unknown to any law enforcement on earth. Our DNA, fingerprints…don’t exist. And in order to maintain that anonymity and accomplish the kill, I have to lure him out—without alerting his security.
Leaving the club, I return to the car and the stash of weapons I raided from the villa earlier. He may not visit the place, but he maintains the mandatory arsenal. In the back, I loaded guns, grenades, and C4. Poison could have been an option, but I didn’t exactly have a stash just hanging around. That’s always been Una’s preferred method rather than mine. Still, if I can’t kill him with what I have, then I’m in the wrong job.
I pick up the bag of C4 and take out a couple of
blocks along with the detonators in the zipped pocket of the bag. Coupled with a few wires and a timer, that’s all it takes to set the charge. And then I wait.
An hour goes by before two black Mercedes pull up in front of the club, and a hoard of men get out, weapons in hand, uniform suits in place. The back door of the first car swings wide and Enrique steps out. Four men fall in around him, shadowing him—shielding him with their bodies. Even for a mafia boss, it seems extreme, or maybe he’s just smart. After all, he did send Elite into Nero Verdi’s home. If I were him, I’d have a lot of security, too. The only reason Una isn’t slitting his throat while whispering sweet nothings in his ear is that she fears the immediate threat from the Elite. She’s closing ranks, protecting the home front. It’s me who’s coming for him.
As soon as they enter the club, I exit the car. Lifting my gun, I take aim at the bouncer. There’s a small pop from the silencer as my finger squeezes the trigger. The bullet hits him in the forehead before he crumples like a rag doll. I shoulder the bag of C4 and drop a grenade in my pocket. I don’t have time to plan this the way I usually would, and the lack of subtlety is distressing. I can’t leave Adelina alone too long, though, and I refuse to put her this close to Bianchi by having her with me. I approach the two parked Mercedes. Taking the first block from the bag, I set the timer for fifteen minutes and move to the back of the vehicle. I do a quick check to ensure no one’s around before I bend down and reach far beneath the bodywork, sticking the explosive to the fuel tank, and then I follow suit with the second car, unsure of which one he’ll get into.
I move over to the dead bouncer, grab him beneath his arms and drag him around the corner into a back alley. With the club set in a basement, there’s only one way in and out. No chance of them stumbling across him as they make a hasty exit.
I go back inside the club. As the evening has worn on, it’s gotten busier, and bodies fill every available space, swaying and writhing against each other. Wealthy men occupy private booths, watching beautiful women. It’s the way of the world. Every country, every city. It never changes.
I cut through the crowd, careful to cling to the shadows and maintain watch over the mezzanine. Bianchi sits with his back to the railing, women flanking him both sides. His guards remain close, observant, but only on their immediate surroundings. I make my way to the only bathroom in the small club and wait for a single man to leave before I take the grenade and pull the pin, tossing it into one of the toilet cubicles. I’m out the door and halfway across the dance floor when the bathroom door blows off. Screams of hysteria drown out the music, and smoke billows into the club. Everyone rushes to the door, like prey fleeing en-masse. A stampede. I keep walking, going with the flow of traffic.