Page 54
The facility, twenty minutes outside Naples, is built into the hillside with the kind of unique architecture—white stone and glass walls—that screams money. It’s easier to let underworld activity pass unnoticed in a place that deflects attention. Simple misdirection at work.
We get out of the car and walk the final stretch along a quiet road that smells of citrus trees and sea air. I keep my pace steady, with one hand resting against the small of Lucia’s back, guiding without appearing to guide.
The reception area is designed to reassure rich clients that they’re in capable hands. The lighting shines with soft, neutral tones, and arrangements of expensive white orchids bloom around the space.
Two cameras hang near the entrance, with the one above reception angled toward the hallway. Three staff members are visible from the lobby, as well as one security guard who tries hard to look like a concierge.
The tension in the air reminds me of locker rooms before championship fights, where every man pretends he can end the match before he bleeds.
Lucia matches my stride with composure, her arm linked with mine. We drip money, ease, and the particular, unhurried confidence of people accustomed to being accommodated. She doesn’t fidget or search for exits. If she’s also cataloguing every camera in the room, she’s doing it behind eyes that appear only mildly interested in the orchids.
I continue to rest my hand against the small of her back as we approach the desk, and Lucia doesn’t flinch.
A woman greets us with a smile and professional warmth, her Italian quick and polished as she confirms our appointment. The moment I respond in English, she switches without missing a beat.
“Of course, Mr. and Dr. Smith. Please take a seat in the waiting area.”
“Thank you.” I return the smile, easy and magnanimous. Our aliases fit like a borrowed coat, close enough to wear but loose enough to shed.
“And would you mind if I connect to the facility’s Wi-Fi? I’m expecting an email, and the reception here is spotty.”
The intake coordinator nods and gives me the password.
Once I’m connected, Nico and Billy attempt to access the facility’s systems. This is what the whole trip hinges on. Billy’s three days of hammering the clinic’s network from New York got him nowhere, the server walled off behind geofencing and strict MAC-address filtering that rejects any connection not originating from a router inside the building.
No amount of hacking from across an ocean can spoof a device that isn’t on-site. So here we are, operating under fake names because the only way into Bruno’s system is through his own Wi-Fi.
We head to an elegant waiting area and take a seat on plush beige couches. A few minutes later, a young coordinator arrives and introduces himself as Dr. Leonardo. He’s polished and stylish in his white coat like a costume. When prompted by his intake questions, we offer the insurance information we fabricated two days ago without hesitation.
Dr. Leonardo leads us to a small consultation room with sterile white walls, a desk, and a frosted-glass window. He begins explaining the program in a calm, controlled voice that could convince almost anyone of his feigned legitimacy.
Lucia asks the right questions about recovery timelines and referral documentation, her voice carrying the practiced authority of a physician overseeing a family member’s case. She plays the role Nico built for her like a second skin.
Fifteen minutes in, Lucia lifts her hand to her forehead and sways. She moves fast enough that Dr. Leonardo starts rising from his chair.
“Jennifer?” I’m already standing, and I have to catch myself before the wrong name slips out.
“I… I’m fine,” Lucia wheezes.
Her act could have fooled me if I weren’t well acquainted with the plans.
“I think she needs some air.” My words come out frantic as I put on a show of being a protective and concerned husband.
Dr. Leonardo retrieves a bottle of water from the mini-fridge beneath the credenza. “Should I call one of our nurses?” I help Lucia steady herself, and she leans into my side as I steer her toward the door.
“I’m so sorry.” I heave a dramatic sigh. “We may need to continue this consultation another day.”
Dr. Leonardo nods, sympathetic and accommodating, and walks us back toward the lobby. On the journey, my phone vibrates once in my pocket with Nico’s signal that they’ve breached the facility’s servers.
We’ve successfully hacked into their system and secured everything we came for.
We’re ten steps from the front entrance when a door at the far end of the corridor opens to reveal a restricted area clearly not meant for patients.
Bruno Caruso walks through the threshold, and my view of the world compresses to a pinhole.
I knew the facility was Bruno’s. What I didn’t know—what Nico didn’t expect and none of us anticipated—was that Bruno would be here today, in person, waltzing through that corridor in a white coat with his name embroidered above the pocket.
He looks older than he did twelve years ago. He’s in his late fifties now, though he carries it well. His hair has thinned and gone silver at the temples, but the wire-rimmed glasses and white coat lend him a distinguished air. If I didn’t spend most of my life beside this man, I would consider him a respectable doctor.
