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Wait, Vettore? As in Alessandro Vettore, leader of Nuova Notte and mafioso royalty?
Me: Who’s her father?
Whit: Oh shit, please tell me you’re not gonna fuck and chuck her. She’s Alessandro Vettore’s youngest. His only daughter.
I wasn’t even aware he had a daughter. Fair, because I usually deal with the Japanese and the Irish. Looks like I’ll be getting closer to Nuova Notte because when I have my way, I’ll be eating Italian pussy for the foreseeable future. I love Italian food, so it’s no skin off my nose.
I google her and find out she and her twin are the youngest of Vettore’s five children. She’ll be twenty-five in two months, has a bachelor’s degree in business management, and her official role in the Vettore Corporation is Head of Community Relations & Charities, but it’s most likely a front. She’s obviously not being charitable when she’s killing people in cafes in broad daylight. Although… one could say she’s doing the world a service by ridding it of human garbage.
I guess it’s all about perspective.
Regardless, she’s not your typical mafia princess. She’s not playing pretty and sitting in a gilded cage until she’s married off as part of a business deal. The fire and determination in her eyes makes me think that anyone who tries to lock her into one would get their dick ripped off and handed to them.
She’s going to be fun to play with.
Whit: Garrix! Leave her alone, you’ll get us in deep shit with the Italians and we don’t need that right now.
*Incoming call from Whit*
“Hello, Whit. Nice to hear from you.”
“Garrix, whatever you’re thinking of doing, stop. There are at least four million other women in the city you can dip your wick into who will cause us less trouble than the most dangerous man in the city’s only daughter,” he warns me. His preachy tone and Staten Island accent grate on my nerves.
“This is for a job from Fox,” I half-lie. If Fox asked, I can always say I’m scouting her for relevant intel.
“Why would Fox want you to track Maddalena Vettore?” he asks, his suspicion clear. He’s too fucking smart for his own good, and it’s starting to piss me off.
“That ain’t your business, Whit. Butt out and track her phone for me, tell me where she is,” I say as I climb behind the wheel of my black Aston Martin. The leather seats feel like butter and I let myself sink into them and relax. But only for a moment. I’ll need a bit of rest before I hunt her down.
“Give me a few and I can set up a live location feed to your phone,” he huffs. “Please don’t do anything dumb.”
“Sure,” I placate him. He knows it’s bullshit though, and cuts the line without so much as a goodbye.
Well fuck you too, Whit.
I wait a few minutes I can’t spare for him to send me Maddalena’s location. Every second away from her is one where I don’t get to see her beautiful eyes or that audacious smirk. When he finally does, I grimace. She’s at the docks in Brooklyn, of all places.
What is my beautiful little killer doing at the docks? Nothing above the board goes down there. I should know, I just dumped a bag of body parts there this past Monday.
The thought of some dumb fuck trying to hurt my little angel of death makes me ragey. I start the engine, and enter her location coordinates in my GPS.
It’s time for me to learn more about my mystery woman.
Traffic turns a thirty-minute trip into an hour-long one. She’s in a warehouse on the far side of the docks, surrounded by armed guards, and I’m forced to conceal myself behind a shipping container.
My mother was the nastiest, meanest cunt I’ve ever met, but the one true thing she ever said about me summed up my time waiting for Maddalena: I am not a man with the virtue of patience.
Every minute I don’t have eyes on her makes me lose a little more of my shit, until I semi-seriously consider storming the building and getting her myself. Thankfully, my common sense stops me from making such a grave mistake.
I may be deadly in my own right, but I’m not arrogant enough to think I can take out a dozen armed guards, even with the element of surprise.
I can’t claim Maddalena all for myself if I’m dead.
Finally, after an hour of waiting, she finally comes out of the warehouse. Her smug smirk from earlier is gone, replaced with furrowed brows and a tightness to her face that has me on edge. Something or someone upset her, and I intend to figure out exactly what.
She’s surrounded by men as she makes her way over toward a black town car. The older man on her left with the gray streak in the front of his hair is her father, Alessandro. Everyone in the criminal underworld knows who he is because he rules the city with an iron fist. Every enemy he’s had since he took his father’s throne in the early 90s has been run into the ground. He’s earned his reputation through smart business and ruthless bloodshed.
I’ll have to navigate him carefully, because I doubt I’m his first choice for his only daughter. As second in command of The Brigade, my hands aren’t clean. We’re not just a group of skilled mercenaries—we’re the most notorious criminal organization in the country. The ghosts you call when you’re in a jam and willing to pay an arm and a leg to get out. The only reason The Brigade doesn’t come up on the public’s radar is because we operate in secrecy.
