“I’m a Moretti” He grinned. “We were born under a lucky star.”
“Okay, Mr. Lucky, I gotta paint the door?—”
“I got it done when you were out.”
“Who helped you?” Gabriel asked.
Angelo chuffed out a throaty laugh, pulled a cigarette from the pack. “Just say thank you.”
“Smoke out front,” Gabriel said.
Angelo fiddled with the cigarette. “Come see how good it looks.”
The two men stood in front of the small salon, made more private and secure with a steel door painted black.
“You did good, fratello,” Gabriel said.
“She’s gonna appreciate what you done for her. She must be somethin’ special, ‘cause those wedding rings are a serious gift?—”
“They’re spy gadgets,” Gabriel corrected him.
Another smoker’s laugh from Angelo. “I hope she’s cool ‘bout it ‘cause they look like the real thing to me.” He popped the unlit cigarette into his mouth. “Back in five.”
Gabriel opened the newly painted door to the salon, appreciating that it swung silently on its hinges. Back in the office, he did payroll, but got interrupted by his ringing phone. It was Carmelo, the GM at Santini Spirits, his whisky distillery in Milan.
“Ciao,” he answered as he glanced at the time. “It’s late, everything okay?”
“We have a problem, Boss.”
As Gabriel listened, his blood turned to ice in his veins.
“How fast can you get here?” his GM asked.
Gabriel wanted to jump on the Santini jet and fly to Italy now. Right now. But he couldn’t pivot on a dime.
“Give me a few days?—”
“You won’t have a distillery if you wait that long,” said his GM. “Fuck, they’re back.” The line went dead.
Gabriel shoved out of the chair. He’d left his business in competent hands… or so he’d thought. What happened to the ruthless men he’d hired?
Teddy bounded into the room, broke into a grin when he saw his brother.
“Can no one handle the fucking Bratva without me?” Gabriel grumbled.
“Say what?” Teddy asked.
“I’ve got a problem in Italy. I have to fly home.”
Teddy glanced around, furrowed his brows. “I smell paint. Do you smell it?”
Gabriel’s mind was racing. He needed to leave, but he had to handle Pavel Donskoy—alias Bob Smith—first. “Too much going on.”
He brought Teddy into the hallway outside the small dining salon, pulled the door closed.
“What the hell?” Teddy boomed. “Why’d you do this?”
“What’s the problem?”
