Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 107265 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 536(@200wpm)___ 429(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107265 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 536(@200wpm)___ 429(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
“Hundreds. We need both the compound and the warehouse stocked and prepared for anything. I don’t just want guns; we also need tear gas and grenades.”
“I’ll let him know when we schedule the meet. Anything else?”
I shake my head. “Come back after you speak to Marco.”
It’s hours later.
I’m staring at a map of locations my men need to collect from this week, and I’m putting together who will go where. I need to call my men in to discuss what’s going on, but I am reluctant to until I have more info.
As if on cue, the door opens again.
Lorenzo is back, and this time, he walks up to my desk. He’s holding an iPad.
“What did you find out?”
“A lot,” he answers.
“Get everyone in here.” I don’t specify who I mean, but Lorenzo knows who I want to hear this. My most important men. My underboss, capo, and consigliere.
Lorenzo fires off a text, and a minute later, Roberto and Luka step into the room.
“The first thing we know is this, Marino’s wife has been depositing money into the bank account of Ana Checklov’s family for over twelve years,” Roberto says. He is, for all intents and purposes, what most would refer to as my consigliere. He is my advisor and one of the smartest men I know. He studied law before stepping into his role in the business. After Lorenzo, he is the closest person to me.
Lorenzo nods and then hands over the iPad, and I see the documents that Jaxson Price, the computer hacker I keep on retainer, has sent over.
“And who is Ana Checklov?”
His hand reaches out and swipes at the screen. Behind the bank transactions are documents on the woman in question.
“An affair?” I ask, and it’s Luka who shakes his head.
“No, according to the records, she was Marino’s daughter’s nanny,” he answers.
“Interesting. Why would the governor be paying the nanny for twelve years?”
“Probably an affair.” Lorenzo laughs, agreeing with my earlier assessment.
“What do we have on her?” I ask.
Lorenzo keeps scrolling through the data.
“Not a whole lot.” His finger swipes the screen of the iPad. “Wait. Lookie here.”
He points at the document on the screen. There, in front, is a death certificate.
“Little Ana Checklov is dead.”
“It appears that way. It looks like she died twelve years ago.”
“And the payments. They’ve been going on for all these years?”
“Yeah, exactly.”
“Now isn’t that interesting. . .”
“Let’s get to the bottom of why they are paying her family. Luka, I want you to speak with anyone who knows them, neighbors, old staff members. Find out what Marino is hiding. I don’t care what it costs. I need to know this now.”
“Okay,” he answers before he leaves to start the task I have thrust upon him. I turn to Roberto.
“I need you to get Marco over here.”
“No problem. Also, I spoke to Cyrus.”
“And? Do I still have money?” I laugh, lightening the mood. “Or has my banker stolen everything?”
“He’s a pain the ass. I prefer to deal with Maxwell,” he gripes, and I can’t really blame him. Cyrus Reed, aka the bank to the underworld, is one of the biggest pricks out there, but he’s damn good at his job.
“I’m sure you’ll get your wish soon enough. It’s only a matter of time until he’s completely retired.”
“Is there anything else we can do for you?” Lorenzo asks.
“Nope.”
Both men move to leave the room as I lean back in my chair. This is going to be a long night.
Lorenzo stops at the door and turns to face me. “I forgot to tell you. You’re meeting with Cristian to discuss the incoming shipment of guns this week.”
I nod. “Come back when you have more information for me.”
“Will do.”
They leave me in my office with the iPad still on my desk.
Pulling it closer to me, I swipe the screen.
What are you hiding, Marino?
I look through the images of the governor. My teeth grind together as I stare at the man who has become a thorn in my side. His dark, soulless eyes stare back at me in each picture. He’s probably in his mid-sixties, the age my father would be if he were still alive, with salt-and-pepper hair and an olive complexion. I imagine women must think him to be a handsome man, regardless of the wrinkles lining his weathered face. Power and money will do that.
I continue my perusal. The next image stops me because in this one, he’s not alone.
He stares back at me, sandwiched between his wife and daughter.
His daughter is the one who gives me pause.
She’s gorgeous.
An exotic beauty with long, dark brown hair that flows in loose waves past her breasts.
She’s different than the women I associate with . . .
I drag my eyes away from her photo to look at the rest of the file.
Twenty-two years old.
Five feet two.
Well educated.