“It’s a setting for the negotiation of a major international arms shipment, covering Eastern Europe and the Middle East. Black market stuff that could seriously destabilize half the region. It has Bratva written all over it, so the authorities will catch on eventually, but it won’t just be the Russians who pay.”
My jaw grinds as I absorb the information.
Cristiano’s right. This is stupid and risky. As the soon as the Feds get wind of this, they’ll crack down on all organized crime. We’ve been able to fly under the radar for many years, but this could spell the end, not just for the Russians, but for the Italians, the Irish, the Polish, the Chinese. Anyone with an oath to abide by and an underground living to make.
“Why does this concern us?” Nicolò cracks his knuckles. An outstanding capo but too young to have seen this kind of bad decision play out. Unfortunately, I don’t have that problem. I’ve seen plenty, and none of it good.
Benito approaches from the bar. “First of all,” he starts, placing the loaded lowballs on the table, “they will need to go through Italian-controlled ports. That involves us whether we like it or not. Second, destabilization will screw us for future trade.”
He places his palms flat to the table and pans his gaze across each of us.
“And third, it’s large-scale arms trafficking. Shit like that doesn’t go unnoticed. Especially when the Bratva get behind it. Those fuckers couldn’t lower their voices if their lives depended on it. It will trigger the CIA, FBI, Europol, Interpol. Even if we’re not involved, the Bureau doesn’t care. They’ll sweep everyone.”
Cristiano murmurs in agreement. “It’s too big, too loud and too fucking immoral.”
I arch a brow. Pot calling the kettle black and all.
The boss lifts the glass halfway to his lips. “We’re criminals, not terrorists.” Then he tips the lot down his throat.
I drop my gaze to the brochure and feel my jaw tighten. “Who’s on the guest list?”
“Private investors, shady officials, old oligarch money.” Cristiano taps one of the photos. “This is one of Morozov’s men entering the resort, preparing for the negotiations, we believe.”
“Just one?”
Benito slides a glass across the table to me. “We only have confirmation of one. There might be several.”
I feel my blood heat. “You want me to find out who they are?”
“Not exactly,” Cristiano says. “I want youthere. At the retreat. On the inside. I want you to be a part of the negotiations. I want to know who is selling, who is buying, what type of arms, what quantities, how they’re being transported and when. Once we have all that information, we sabotage the deal.”
“By leaking information to the Feds?”
“Not directly,” Cristiano says, to my relief. There’s only so ‘cozy’ I like to get with those assholes. “We’ll utilize our friends in government. That way there’ll be less of a trail back to us. Not that it will matter. If you do your job right, they’ll put the whole of Morozov’s organization behind bars before the Russians can retaliate.”
“Okay…” I look at each of the men, wondering why they haven’t stepped up to spend a week on a luxury retreat doing the kind of dirty work we all live for. “Why me?”
I don’t mind, of course—I love this kind of task. But there are younger, more spritely kids in the family who would relish a week away doing undercover investigations.
Cristiano folded his arms. “Your face isn’t as recognizable as others’.”
He arches a brow as his gaze skates over Benny and Nicolò. The two pretty boys of the family, along with their bombshell girlfriends, have attracted a few column inches in recent months.
“You could easily go under cover. And the other capos… None of them have your experience.”
I close the folder, slowly. “Okay then.” I have nothing to lose—no family, no wives, girlfriends or independents, and this is precisely why. “I’ll do it. What’s the angle?”
“You’re no longer Augie Zanotti.” Cristiano reaches into his jacket pocket then drops a new ID onto the table. “You’reAugust King.Hot shot hedge fund manager. International money. Looking to invest in… unconventional markets.”
I scan the fake passport. “Arms specifically?”
“Among other things.” Cristiano nods. “You’ll need to hint at political connections overseas, contacts in the Middle East.”
I lean back, considering it. “All sounds doable. I can sell that.”
“There’s just one problem.” Cristiano says, rubbing his fingers over his jaw. “Only married couples are invited.”
I roll my eyes while something inside me deflates. “I need a partner.”
