I shake my head. "This is different. This isn't a rival gang. This isn't some business deal gone sideways. This is the whole damn world, and they don't play by our rules."
I stare again at the girl on the screen. Blonde, glossy, her features softened by a filter, smiling as if the entire world belongs to her, a playground for her amusement. She possesses an almost terrifying ignorance. She doesn't even know what she's done, the ripple her one careless act has already initiated.
"Who is she?" I ask, knowing Enzo already has the answer ready.
"Antonio's got eyes on her full social media profile now. Her name is Nikki Ricci. American. Los Angeles base, but she's been in Italy for the past two weeks, on a 'European content trip.' Travel influencer. Brand partnerships. Lifestyle reels. Beach glam. Eight million followers and climbing, fast. Exponential growth in the last hour."
"How fast did the traffic spike hit?"
"Under twenty minutes for the viral threshold," Enzo confirms. "It tripped two keywords on the backend, then cross-referenced against geotags that she included in her post. That's how it reached us."
"Did she tag the exact location?"
"Yeah, unfortunately. A specific yacht, a very public landmark near the coastline. The digital footprint is thorough. The video didn't only go viral; it detonated a minefield."
I press pause again. Nikki Ricci is frozen mid-spin, lips curled into a smug, self-satisfied smirk. She's wearing designer sunglasses, too large for her face, and a barely-there bikini.
This idiot girl has no idea she just documented the precise moment my entire operation became vulnerable, exposed to the careless gaze of millions. The efficiency of her digital self-promotion has just become a liability to me of catastrophic proportions.
I tap a knuckle against the armrest of my chair. Once. Twice. The sound is sharp in the silence. Then my hand is still. My decision, already made, simply solidified.
"Pick her up," I state.
Enzo arches a brow. "Alive?"
"Obviously," I reply. "She's no good to us dead. The video's already been seen. A corpse draws questions, a live, breathing, terrified witness can be… managed. A dead influencer creates a global outrage. A missing one creates confusion. We prefer confusion until we figure out the best way to handle this."
"Public setting?"
"No. I want it quiet. Surgical. No screams, no witnesses. The last thing I need is a trending hashtag with my name in it. Or, worse, a global media frenzy that leads to deeper scrutiny."
He nods. "Understood. We have teams positioned near her hotel. Minimal risk of exposure."
"Make sure she comes directly to me," I instruct. "No detours. No middlemen. I want to see her face the moment she realizes what she's truly walked into. I want her to understand the weight of her carelessness."
Enzo nods, and exits the room without another word. I lean back in the chair, a tired sigh escaping me, and press play again. The video rolls for the fourth time.
Jesus Christ.
Nikki Ricci. QueenNikki online. Twenty-three years old, digitally untouchable, a product of her own making. She smiles for the camera as if it's the only oxygen sustaining her, her performance a desperate plea for validation. She tosses her long,blonde hair, and makes a kissy face, utterly unaware that with that careless flick of her wrist, that casual turn of her phone, she fucked up my entire operation.
I mute the sound. I don't want to hear her anymore. The screen dims, but I let the last frame, her beaming, oblivious face, burn into my vision. I already know she's not a threat. Not in the traditional sense. Not a rival, not an enemy. But she is exposure. She's the first toppling domino in a long line I can’t control.
And that, in my world, is unforgivable.
My phone buzzes. "Her team just docked," Enzo's voice comes through my earpiece. "They're splitting up. She's riding alone to Rome. Her car is already booked, a black Mercedes SUV, private driver. We can intercept the car."
"Make it quick," I reiterate, my grip tightening on the armrest. "I don't want her touched, just removed discreetly. She won't know what's happening until she's already inside the transfer vehicle. No struggles, no visible signs of abduction. It must appear as if she simply vanished into thin air."
"Copy that," Enzo confirms. "We'll have her in the villa soon. Secure and without complications."
Antonio, my lead analyst, walks in a minute later, carrying a tablet. He slides it across the table. Like Enzo, he is thorough, precise.
"I pulled her full online dossier, Rafe," Antonio begins, his tone crisp. "It's not deep. Surface level, mostly. No criminal record. She claims she's from Los Angeles with wealthy parents, but there's nothing to support that. She uses a fake online name and became popular on social media at seventeen. Started gaining traction on TikTok and YouTube, then pivoted into high-end travel content. She was smart enough to monetize herself, to build a solid brand that keeps expanding."
"A boyfriend?" I ask, a detail that can sometimes reveal vulnerabilities.
"None that stuck," Antonio replies. "A few European flings, minor celebrities. She likes athletes, DJs, anyone with a yacht, according to her social media posts. But nothing long enough to truly matter. No significant attachments."
