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“Weak men wait for opportunities. Strong men make them.”
Orison Swett Marden
Rio
I live for the business.I kill for the business.
Everyone says I’m an emotionless monster. And they’re right.
That’s why Danelli’s standing in front of me now, delivering the news I’ve been waiting for.
My second-in-charge pushes his dark hair back out of his eyes. “We found the missing Carlotti girl. You were right all along, Boss. She’s alive.”
To hide our conversation, the thrum of DJ music, muted by the soundproofing in the offices of my club, rises up through the exotic African hardwood flooring, the background noise and hum of the crowd one of the advantages of the club’s location.
I crave those sounds when I’m not in the office. They mask the emptiness inside me; the space where my heart should be. And the sophisticated women gracing the dance floor below provide endless fodder for my sexual appetites.
Most of them will do just about anything to spend a night with me… Gregorio Agosti, head of the combined Agosti-Carlotti crime syndicate.
All of them discover, too late, that my appetites are dark and rarely sated in a way that brings pleasure without the pain.
I stare at my second who has just delivered the golden opportunity I’ve been waiting for. I’ve been looking for Bianca Carlotti for the past seven years.
Mafia princess.
Loose end.
One I need to eliminate.
I don’t trust myself to speak without betraying my excitement, so instead, I simply hold out my hand for the file clutched in Danelli’s fist.
Emotion is a weakness in our world. My position is not so set in stone that I can afford to show even a hint of anything other than what they all expect: coldness. Dispassion.
But the photo on the front of the file Danelli hands me is not whatIexpect.
The woman has long dark hair, not immaculately styled but instead gathered into some kind of messy knot atop her head. Her brown eyes are crinkled at the edges, because the photographer obviously snapped her mid-laugh. A wide mouth with generous lips and a sprinkling of freckles across her nose give her an air of innocence.
She’s wearing no makeup that I can discern, and her T-shirt above the jeans is gray and almost shapeless.
Is this really her?
Not that she would be aware of her heritage, necessarily, but surely, if it is the Carlotti girl, something of her birthright must remain. She looks nothing like the women who inhabit my world.
“Are you sure you got the right woman?”
Danelli flinches at my frosty tone, his shadowed eyes flicking to the photo in my now-clenched fist and his skin not tan enough to hide a sudden pallor. Heshouldflinch. If his team got this wrong and raised my hopes for nothing, there will be dire consequences.
“Yes, Boss. A hundred percent. We took some of her hair and swiped her toothbrush. The DNA came back a match. It’s her.”
I turn away and pour a whiskey into one of the crystal tumblers from the antique set behind my desk, then take a couple of sips while I flip through the rest of the file and process the information therein.
Current alias: Bree Walker.
Current address: Franklin Park.
Place of work: Lots of Paws Animal Rescue Center.
