In the closet, she found nothing but men’s clothing…elegantmen’s clothing. She checked every suit pocket, noting the label in each garment.
Santini International
I haven’t found the damn thumb drive, but I’ve learned the owner is wealthy. Sick wealthy.
As she shone the flashlight, something reflective caught her eye. She slid the suits aside. A safe was built into the back wall. A smile tugged at the corner of her lips. Even though her bosshadn’tgiven her a code for it, she wasn’t leaving without attempting to open it.
She tried the gate and house codes. Neither worked. She stared at the keypad, willing the numbers to come to her. Then, she tried the villa code backward. Nothing. She tried the seven-digit security code backward. To her surprise, the light changed from red to green.
Nice.
She turned the handle, opened the safe.
Inside were neatly stacked packs of money. She lifted one. Euro bills. The stacks on the second shelf were twenty-dollar US bills.
She had no idea if they were real or counterfeit. Either way, there was alotof money in that safe. On the top shelf were three old-looking black photo albums. She shone the light, searching for a thumb drive, but there wasn’t one. Tucked beside the albums was a glass case. She lifted it out. Inside were several high-end watches.
Who is this guy?
Despite her extensive search in the safe, she found no thumb drive, so she shut the heavy, metal door. She’d combed through every inch of that residence and found nothing.
Do it again.
She glanced at the time on her phone. It was almost four in the morning. She would scour the home again, but not before she took ten to clear her mind.
She opened the balcony doors in the primary bedroom, letting the cold air rush into her lungs. Two white bistro chairs separated by a small, round table. The space was large enough to accommodate more furniture, but the uncluttered look worked here. Pausing for a few seconds, she stared out at the twinkling lights of the sleeping city.
Her thoughts floated to the bottle of wine on the kitchen counter.
Don’t do it.
Down the stairs she trotted. Instead of veering into the kitchen, she made her way into the home office. Her second search yielded the same results as the first. Nothing.
Dammit.
Seconds later, she stood in the kitchen pouring herself a half glass of Santini Chianti. She hadn’t had any alcohol during her stay in Russia. Yes, Russians drank, but she’d abstained.
Up the stairs she went, through the primary bedroom, and back onto the balcony. After removing her ski mask, she tipped the wine glass, sipped the blood-colored drink. The blackberry, roasted nuts, and chocolate flavors ignited her taste buds.
That’s amazing. A perfect wine.
She sat there in silence, staring into the night, thinking. Had she missed anything? She visualized each room, but she’d been thorough in her search. The thumb drive simply wasn’t there.
With the empty wine glass in hand, she returned to the bedroom, closing and locking the balcony door. To be certain, she rechecked every inch of that room but found nothing.
It was six-thirty in the morning. She needed to get to the airport, so she headed toward the staircase.
The front door opened, then shut with a bang.
Oh, no.
“Signor Santini, è qui?” a woman called out.Mr. Santini, are you here?
“Mr. Santini, it’s me, Pina.”
Halston beelined into the bedroom, bolting into the closet. Off came her jacket. She tugged off her boots and pants, then yanked a lounging robe off the hanger and shrugged into it. Once she’d tightened the sash and wrapped the lapel closed, she hurried out, wine glass in hand.
“Ciao Pina, sono qui,” Halston called out.Hello, Pina, I’m here.
