After about an hour of waiting, just before eleven o’clock, a boat turns up. The small vessel looks out of place next to the enormous freight ships that flank it, their forms slumbering on the water.

  The smaller boat cuts its engine and glides up to the dock silently. They don’t really need to be careful. Working for Ronan Cole is like an international brand of immunity. Even the DEA won’t touch him. Still, it’s always best not to draw attention. Men like Cole left to their power as long as that power isn’t a public debacle.

  The boat docks, and a man jumps off, hitching it to several tie points. More men hit dry land, and I tilt my head, straining to hear them. The language of my homeland greets me, and I nod to Gio, where he lingers beside me.

  They all know what to do. They fan out, moving around the dock to flank the boat as best they can. This needs to be quick and quiet without drawing any attention. More importantly, they all need to die before anyone can raise the alarm and contact Cole. In an ideal world, I wouldn’t be here. Bianchi can’t know I’m alive, or it will endanger Adelina; however, this requires stealth that no mafia soldier could possibly train for.

  I tug the balaclava over my face and step out into the night. Every inch of my body is covered in black, and the shadows make me all but invisible. I flank the dock until I’m well away from the light, then I walk to the edge and lower myself off it. Icy water engulfs me, though the wet suit beneath my clothes stops me from feeling the full force and freezing to death. It’s a short, silent swim to the boat. When I reach it, I tread water and pull the gun from between my shoulder blades before pointing it at the railing above. When I pull the trigger, a grappling line springs free, meeting the rail with a clink of metal on metal.

  When I press the trigger again, I’m towed out of the water and up onto the railing. I linger there, hunched against the edge of the deck, listening. Loud voices come from the other side of the boat where they’re unloading onto the dock. A cool breeze whips off the ocean, making me shiver violently. My job is simple, and this entire plan hinges on it: check that this is indeed a shipment worth stealing before we needlessly kill Ronan’s men.

  A man climbs out of a hole in the deck, a rifle strapped to his back. It’s always a good sign. Armed men don’t tend to guard anything legal or worthless. As soon as he’s out of sight, I descend the steps into the belly of the ship. A single man is ticking off a clipboard, his back to me.

  “That one next,” he says, pointing at a box.

  I stride over to him and wrap my arm around his throat, squeezing hard. His clipboard clatters to the floor, and his legs kick helplessly as I cut off his air. Eventually, his struggles lessen, and he finally falls unconscious.

  I drop him to the floor and pick up his clipboard. It has no details of the actual contents of the boxes, only how many there are. Sixty in total. I glance at the stacked metal crates; each one padlocked shut. I hurry, retrieving the tiny lock picking kit that I always keep in my pocket. My gaze nervously darts to the steps, waiting for someone to come back. The padlock springs open, and I wrench the lid back. Inside are…candles. I push some aside, scrambling against them as they all roll into whatever gap I create. About four rows down, my fingers hit the bottom of the box… barely a third of the depth of the entire thing. I throw the box over, sending candles scattering everywhere. With my hunting knife, I pry the interior layer away. Bingo. Inside the box are wooden racks, each stashing a Chukavin Russian semi-automatic rifle.

  Sixty boxes. That’s a lot of guns.

  I take the radio from my waistband. “Go, go, go,” I say quietly. There’s no sudden flurry of gunfire. It isn’t that kind of mission.

  Footsteps hit the top step of the cargo hold, ringing out loudly over the rusted metal. I palm the knife at my thigh and let it fly the moment the figure comes into sight. The blade buries in his skull, and his eyes go wide, the life leaving them in a rush. The body tumbles down the steps, and I stop only to yank my blade out of his head before I’m moving again, knife in one hand, gun in the other.

  I take down three more men silently, a slit throat, broken neck, knife in the spinal cord. I round the corner of the helm, knife poised between my fingers, ready to fly.

  “Hey, it’s me.” Gio tugs down his balaclava and glances around at the bodies decorating the deck of the boat and dock beyond.

  I watch as his men scout the bodies, finishing any that aren’t quite dead yet.

  A few minutes later and a van pulls up on the dock. Jackson gets out and slides the back door open. Six men climb out, all dark-haired and olive-skinned, clearly Italian. I jump down off the boat and walk over to him. There’s a trace of pity in his eyes, though I know he won’t allow it to affect his work.

  “Nero will pay their families well,” he says, as though he thinks I need some kind of moral justification.

  “It’s just business, Jackson.”

  He nods stiffly. “You lot, pick up the bodies, put them in the van,” he instructs. The men start moving Russian bodies, placing them in the back of the vehicle.

  Another vehicle chugs down the road to the dock and halts, this time a small truck. One of Gio’s guys hops out and hands the keys to Jackson.

  “You.” Jackson points at a random guy. “Here are the keys to the truck. You just have to load those boxes and drive them out of the city. But, you cannot leave until one o’clock in the morning. Am I clear?” The man nods, and he hands him a burner phone. “I’ll text you a location. If you have any problems…well, you have weapons.”

  Of course, it’s all completely pointless. These men aren’t here to do a job for cash. They’re the sacrificial lambs for the slaughter. Nero won’t kill his own men, but the simple fact is, someone has to die for this to be believable to Bianchi. These men are unskilled in any form of combat, deliberately so. We need Enrique to succeed. I would feel bad, but truthfully, it’s a masterful strategy, a means to an end. My empathy and humanity extend only to my own family.

  Before one of the boxes is loaded, I stop the men carrying it and dig into my pocket, finding a tiny metal disk, exactly like the one I gave to Adelina. Bending down, I stick it to the underside of the metal crate. “Carry on.” I wave them away, and they put it in the van.

  Gio jerks his head to the side, and I join him, jogging back up the road to where we parked. I climb into the car and drive away. The rest of this falls to Bianchi and a group of helpless men who have no idea what is coming.

  Bianchi took the bait. The shipment was taken only an hour after we left. Jackson stayed, watching from a distance, ensuring that it all went smoothly.

  Here we all sit, gathered in Nero’s office, just as we were when Nero told us of this insane plan. Only now, there’s no turning back. He picks up his desk phone, placing it on the speaker. I’m sure he’d usually take a call like this privately, but we’re all invested at this point. If this goes wrong, we’re all dead.

  The phone rings and then clicks off. “Hello, Mr. Cole’s office,” a woman greets in Russian.

  “My name is Nero Verdi. I need to speak to Mr. Cole. It’s very urgent,” Nero says.

  “One moment,” she says in English this time. Generic classical music comes over the speaker.

  It cuts off. “Mr. Verdi. What, pray tell, is so urgent?”

  “Mr. Cole,” Nero says. “I have some bad news, I’m afraid. I’ve just got word from my men that there was an incident at the shipping yard in Brooklyn last night. I have quite a few dead Russians. Yours, I assume?”

  There’s a beat of silence, and even through a phone, I can feel the tension. “The contents of the boat?”

  “The vessel is empty as far as we can tell.”

  There’s a long pause. I imagine the man plotting all the ways in which he can tear a man’s organs from his body. Ronan Cole is not known for his patience or mercy, though he’s certainly gained a reputation for some very inventive ways to kill a man. “Thank you for informing me.” He hangs up, and we all look at each other.

  “Well?” Gio asks Nero.

  “Now, we wait.”

  “Cole will not rely on the word of another, especially not an Italian,” I say.

  Nero’s calling Ronan isn’t a complete anomaly. The Italians run New York. They control the docks, which means anyone who wants to run product through here pays them a cut. They also look after things. It’s Nero’s job to ensure his territory is tightly controlled and that things like this don’t happen. People like Ronan Cole are paying for the fact that the police are in Nero’s pocket, and Nero is so feared, no one would steal from him. Otherwise, why pay him? So, this—to Ronan Cole—will look like a brazen affront from Bianchi but also a failure on Nero’s part. He’ll be back in touch because he will expect Nero to remedy this.

  Barely an hour later, and I’m sitting at the breakfast bar watching Nero make a mess while feeding Dante. It’s Margot’s day off, and of course, Una isn’t here. Nero’s phone rings, and his eyes flick to the screen before darting to me. Ronan Cole. He hands me the little plastic spoon covered in some kind of mashed-up concoction.

  “Yes?” Nero answers. There’s a brief pause. “I’ve been doing a little digging of my own. Not Italians. A chartered plane landed at Newark yesterday afternoon, in the name of Enrique Bianchi. The Sicilians.” Another pause and I can imagine Cole’s rage. “I believe it is me he intended to steal from, not you. We have somewhat of an ongoing disagreement.” The best deceptions are always founded within the truth. There’s a long pause. “I understand. Can I request one thing?” He inhales a sharp breath. “There is a girl with him; she is…important to me.” His eyes meet mine, and I nod. “I’d be very grateful if you would ensure she is unharmed.” A slow smile makes its way across his face. “Thank you.” Then he hangs up.

  “He’s going after Bianchi?”

  Nero smiles, clearly pleased with himself. “Ronan Cole does not care who Bianchi intended to take from, only that it was him. Stupidity seems to irk him more than the act itself.”

  And so, it begins. This will either fix everything or end us because we just got into bed with the Devil; worse, we stole from him and set him up as our own personal hitman.

  20

  Adelina

  It’s been days since the gala, since I saw Sasha. Though I knew Sasha would come for me eventually, I was so consumed in my grief, that I just accepted my fate at the time. Until I saw him. Now it feels as though insects are crawling over my skin. I can barely sit still. Enrique has hardly been in the penthouse. I guess my little outburst at the dinner party has put him off taking me with him everywhere. He’d rather run the risk and leave me here.

  I sit up on the bed when I hear the front door open. There’s a flurry of footsteps, permeated by several voices. Enrique’s is distinctive above the rest. I open my bedside drawer and pick up the tiny metal disk that Sasha gave me, pinching it between my thumb and forefinger.

  I shove it into the pocket of my jeans and leave the room, glancing up and down the corridor. A few of his men are in the living room, a rugby game on the TV keeping them transfixed. I slip past them, looking for Enrique. He isn’t in the kitchen or dining room, either. That just leaves his room. I pause outside the door, my fingers wrapped around the handle. I press my ear to the wood and can hear the faint hammering of water over tile. He’s in the shower. Perfect. I quietly push open the door and slip into the room, closing it behind me.

  His suit is discarded on the bed, his phone on the bedside table next to his watch. It will be obvious on the phone, and if I know anything about people in his line of business, it’s that they change their phones. Often. The watch, however, he always wears. It’s my best shot. Digging into my pocket, I take the little disc and stick it to the back of the watch face. He may see it, but it sits flush, completely un-noticeable unless he was looking for it. I place the watch back down and move away. It’s only when I’m a few feet from the door that I realize the water has cut off. Steam pours through the open bathroom doorway, and Enrique suddenly cuts through the fog. My eyes dart between him and the my escape, and panic rises. I lean against the wall beside the, casually crossing my arms over my chest.

  He freezes when he spots me, a frown blanketing his features. A towel is wrapped around his waist; another tossed loosely around his shoulders.

  “Adelina.” He steps into the room, eyes narrowing. “What a lovely surprise,” he drawls, sarcasm running rife. “What can I do for you?” He trails his fingers over his flat stomach before touching the towel at his hips.

  “Not that,” I say, trying to hide my disgust. My mind scrambles for something. Anything. “I wanted to speak to you.”

  “Oh?” He moves away to the closet.

  I can see straight into the dressing room. He releases his towel, revealing his bare ass. I drop my gaze to the carpet, my cheeks heating unnecessarily.

  “Yes, I uh, I’ve been thinking. You were right. . . about Una Ivanov.”

  He steps out of the closet in just a pair of pants before crossing the room. He picks up the watch and slips it over his hand, clasping it tightly.

  “She’s coming for us both, and…it doesn’t help either of us to be against each other.”

  “Well, isn’t that sweet?” he mocks. “But, I no longer need your help.” He steps closer to me, reaching out and clasping my chin. “You serve one purpose now.” His thumb swipes over my bottom lip, and I swallow bile as I look into those dark eyes, flat and dead like a shark’s. His free hand grips my hip hard, almost painfully slamming me against the wall. His lips assault mine, violent and demanding. God, I hate him. I hate everything about him. I allow him to violate my mouth, all so I can get that damn tracker on his watch without him suspecting me.

  I manage to shove him away from me. “Of course,” I say through gritted teeth. “I’m just a hole to stick your dick in, right? Sad, that you can’t find a woman who actually wants to sleep with you.”

  He grins lecherously. “Keep going, principessa. I so enjoy our little fights, mainly because I always win.”

  I turn away, pulling the door open.

  “This will all be over soon.”

  A shiver tears down my spine at his words. What does that mean? He’s going to kill me? I walk out of the room, passing one of his men as he raises his fist to knock.

  Once back in my room, I get straight into the shower. I’ve barely pulled on a shirt and leggings when a pounding fist hammers on my door. Opening it a couple of inches, I find a guy with a shaved head on the other side, a piece of toast in hand.

  “Boss says you need to pack up. We’re leaving.” He takes a bite of his bread, chewing loudly.

  “When?”

  He checks his watch. “Half an hour.”

  I close the door on him and press my back to it. Thirty minutes. It makes me wonder what could possibly have happened to send Enrique running on such short notice.

  I grab a bag and start throwing clothes in it.

  Half an hour later and I’m sitting in the back of a car, alone. Two of Enrique’s men are in the front, though they don’t speak to me. The car winds along back roads for hours, part of a convoy, until we reach a commercial harbor. All four black SUVs load onto the huge ferry, though no one gets out.

  The crossing to Italy is long, and when we get to the other side, it’s still several hours before we reach a villa somewhere in the Italian countryside. By the time I stumble inside the house, I’m tired, and my back hurts from sitting for so long. The house is clearly unused. The air inside is stuffy, and a layer of dust coats everything: the floor, the furniture, the light fixtures. I snatch my bag from one of Enrique’s men and climb the stairs. The long hallway is lined with several rooms, enough to house a small army. I open a few until I find a small one with an attached bathroom, something that is clearly not the master, just in case I accidentally find myself in Enrique’s bed. With the door locked, I crawl onto the mattress and fall asleep almost immediately.

  I wake in a panic, someone’s weight on top of me, pinning me down. A hand is clamped over my mouth, and my breaths become frantic with the restriction. I lash out, fighting against the hold.

  “Shhh, shhh,” the person hisses at me. Enrique?

  I fight even harder.

  “There are people in the house! They’re here to kill us.”

  Una. She’s finally come for him. I hear the fear in Enrique’s voice, and I revel in it. For the first time in weeks, something akin to joy blossoms in my chest.

  I’m roughly yanked to my feet by my wrist. He’s like a crazy man as he peeks through the gap in the door. The methodical pop, pop, pop of gunfire echoes through the house. He throws open the door and jogs along the hall, dragging me with him. Ducking into another room, he hurries across and swings the doors to a balcony wide. His eyes scan the ground below frantically before I’m tugged forward.

  “What are you doing?” I fight his hold, but he doesn’t let go.

  “We have to jump. It’s our only escape.”

  “No. I’m not jumping,” I screech.

  “You have to,” he hisses. “They’re coming.”

  The bedroom door explodes open, and Enrique shoves me in front of him. I was expecting Una, maybe even Sasha. What I did not expect to see were the pale, stoic soldiers dressed head to toe in black. I know from my limited run-ins with them that they’re Elite. The woman on the left looks as though she were chiseled from rock, and the man to the right has a permanent scowl set into his pale features. They both point their guns at us. She lowers her rifle, reaching for the radio at her waist before speaking into it in rapid-fire Russian. Another voice crackles through the device, and she returns it to her belt.

  She then takes a phone from her pocket and presses something on the screen, holding it in her palm. The dial tone echoes around the room on loudspeaker. It clicks off, and someone answers in Russian. She says something, only a few words.