Car will pick you up at 7:15. Address: 1847 Blackwell Drive. - Enzo
Enzo. Giving me his home address. Trusting me.
Stupid. He should’ve done more research, pushed his team to dig deeper into David DaCosta’s background. If he had, he might’ve found the holes I couldn’t quite patch, the references that would crumble under real scrutiny.
But he didn’t. Because I’m good at this, and he’s too confident in his ability to read people.
Tomorrow night, that confidence is going to kill him.
I take another suppressant, dosing schedule be damned, and try to sleep.
I dream of cedar smoke and dark eyes and my brother’s laugh, all tangled together in a nightmare that makes me wake up gasping.
THREE
True to his word, a black Mercedes picks me up at 7:15. The driver doesn’t speak once during the forty-minute ride to Valerio’s estate, and that suits me fine. I need the silence to steady my nerves while my mind runs through scenarios of how tonight might go.
We stop at the security station before a massive iron gate, and I give my name to the guard. He checks something on his tablet and presses a button. The gate swings open, and we roll forward, following a driveway that curves through manicured grounds toward a huge modern Italian mansion.
I knew Valerio was rich, but this is just obscene. The estate sprawls across land three times the size of a football field. I spot a guest house off to the left, a pool glittering at the other side of the main building, and what might be a fucking tennis court in the distance.
I press my hand against my side, feeling the gun’s weight in its custom holster in my leather jacket.
It has to be tonight. I haven’t found Sokolov’s location yet, but I have enough from the files I’ve compiled to tie him to the missing shipments and clear Marco’s name. Besides, Enzo’sdeath might be exactly what forces the bastard out of hiding to claim a piece of the Valerio empire. A slip is all I need, and then I’ll finish what I started.
The car slows as we approach the main house, gravel crunching under the tires. When we stop at the front entrance, the driver comes around to open my door.
I step out into the cool evening air and every sense sharpens the way it always does when I'm about to be in close proximity with Enzo. Every single time. Like my body knows before my brain does that he’s dangerous to me.
I’m halfway up the stone steps when the front door opens.
Maria Esperanza. Of course. She’s in a dress tonight instead of her usual pantsuit, but she’s no less intimidating.
“Mr. DaCosta. Glad you could make it.”
“Well, it wasn’t like I had a choice in the matter,” I reply as I follow her inside.
“I understand. Mr. Valerio can be insistent at times.”
“That’s one word for it,” I mutter. "Controlling bastard is more like it.”
A ghost of a smile crosses her face as we step over the threshold.
The foyer alone is enough to make me want to burn the whole place to the ground. Marble floors polished to a mirror shine. A staircase that curves up to a second level. Art on the walls that’s probably worth more than Marco’s life was to these people.
“The other guests are in the dining room,” Esperanza says. “Mr. Valerio is running a few minutes late—a call he had to take. He asked that you make yourself comfortable.”
She gestures toward an open doorway where I can hear voices and laughter. The family and key associates, just like Valerio said. I’m about to walk in there and play nice, all while plotting how to kill their beloved patriarch.
“Can I get you a drink first?” Esperanza asks.
“Whiskey. Neat. Thank you.”
She nods and disappears down a hallway. I stand there for a moment, forcing myself to breathe. The suppressants I took earlier are already wearing thin. I can feel the low-grade fever building beneath my skin, and the hypersensitivity that makes every brush of fabric feel like sandpaper.
If I had to guess, I have maybe three hours before things start going bad for me.
Three hours to find my moment, take the shot, and either escape or die trying.
