It is not the time. Not yet.
I pick up the phone and call Ricardo.
He answers on the second ring.
“Mario.”
“My office. Now,” I snarl.
I hang up.
Then I look toward the door.
My assistant’s desk sits directly outside my office. That is the point of it. Anyone who wants access to me goes through him first unless I have specifically instructed otherwise.
Peter Hanley should never have reached my door.
I walk to the door and open it.
The desk is empty.
My assistant’s chair sits pushed back. His computer is locked. His coffee mug is gone.
I look down the hall.
One of my private security is stationed near the far corner, discreet but visible. Rocco Marinelli. Thirty-eight. Former military police who made the journey across the ocean with us.
I crook two fingers.
Rocco is at my door within seconds.
“Signore.”
“How long has Eric been gone?”
His gaze flicks briefly to the empty assistant’s desk.
“About thirty minutes.”
Thirty minutes.
My jaw tightens.
I feel my temper settle and cold quiet wash through me.
Anyone who knows me understands this is worse than anger.
Anger burns hot and fast.
This is calculation.
Rocco knows me. His expression does not change, but his posture sharpens.
“Thank you,” I say.
Right on cue, footsteps come from around the corner.
Eric Bellamy appears carrying a coffee mug in one hand and his phone in the other.
