5. Reconnecting
5
RECONNECTING
SIMONE
M onday, just before two in the afternoon, Simone walked down 10 th Street toward the J. Edgar Hoover building in Northwest DC. Her first meeting with Carrera since Z had left the Bureau.
Rather than upload the twenty-seven reports to ALPHA’s secure website, she wanted to get a feel for Carrera’s management style. This was more of a meet-and-greet from ten-thousand feet than a get-in-the-weeds review for each of her targets.
That morning, Carrera had emailed her that they’d meet in Z’s basement office. While it was creepy as hell in the lower level, it was absolutely necessary. As a watcher, she had to stay in the shadows. No one at the Bureau knew she worked there.
Being a watcher was her way of staying connected to ALPHA without actually being in ALPHA. When she’d taken a leave of absence, she’d walked from a job she loved. A safe choice for a vulnerable time in her life.
After entering the FBI building, she held her badge under the scanner, the light flashed green, and she proceeded through to the first guard. After placing her computer satchel on the conveyer belt, she walked through the metal detector, then collected her bag on the other end. As she made her way through the lobby, she spotted her old boss and mentor, Peter Hirzog, chatting with several people in a small group.
Dammit .
She spun around, beelined toward the exit. Since only Z knew the watchers existed, she had no reason to be there, especially unescorted.
Peter Hirzog had been her first supervisor after her training in Quantico and her favorite during her five years as a Special Agent. He spent a lot of time with all his agents helping them navigate their way through a sea of bureaucracy and hierarchies.
Relax. He didn’t see me.
She hurried outside, called Carrera.
“Hey, Simone. Do you need an escort?”
“I’ve got my badge. I almost ran into my old boss, Peter Hirzog. I’ll chill in the coffee shop next door. Can I bring you something?”
“I’m good,” he replied.
Simone hung up, entered the busy eatery. After ordering a coffee, she waited in the pick-up area.
Her phone buzzed with a text from Fred.
I swung by the Bureau to speak with a legend builder about updating our website. Did I just see you in the lobby?????
“Simone!” the barista called out.
I knew the universe would punish me for sleeping with Luciano.
Simone glanced up to see Peter Hirzog holding out her coffee, a big smile plastered on his face. “I think this is yours, Red.”
“Peter,” she said trying to sound surprised.
Hirzog was average height with a fit build and a head of graying hair, parted on the side and held in place with gel. He always wore a dark suit, a white shirt, and a brightly-colored tie. Never without a smile or a positive word, he was highly respected by his peers and subordinates.
“What a great surprise!” he said handing her the hot beverage. “What are you doing here? Tell me you’re thinking of coming back to the Bureau.” Still smiling big, he crossed his fingers.
She forced a chuckle. “I was in the neighborhood, had to grab a cup.”
“You always did like this place,” he said. “If you have a minute, let’s catch up.”
What could she say?
“Sounds great,” she replied.
After they found a table in the corner, he excused himself to collect his drink. Seconds later, he returned, another man by his side.
“Red!” Jerod exclaimed.
“No way.” She pushed out of the chair, extended her hand toward the familiar face.
Former colleague and ATF agent Jerod De Clerq stood there grinning from ear to ear. Ignoring her outstretched hand, he leaned in and hugged her.
Jerod looked more muscular than she’d remembered, maybe even dropped a few pounds. His military-short, light hair was slicked back with gel, his brilliant white teeth popped against his tanned skin.
“Damn, it’s good to see you,” Jerod said.
“It sure is,” Peter agreed.
The two men sat beside each other, Simone sat across from Peter.
“It’s been a while,” Simone said.
“Too long,” Jerod added.
She and Jerod had worked a handful of cases together during her five years as a Special Agent. He was a total team player, a hard worker, and someone Simone had always liked.
“What have you been up to, both of you?” Simone asked.
“Working,” Peter said.
“Peter’s a muckety-muck at the Bureau now,” Jerod said, and both men laughed.
“A few years back, I took a job in Philadelphia,” Peter replied. “It was a great opportunity. I came back to HQ last year.”
“He’s a Deputy Director,” Jerod said.
“Nice,” Simone replied.
Peter leaned close. “I’ve got the Director’s ear.”
She smiled. “I’m not surprised.” Pausing, she sipped the drink before regarding Jerod. “Are you still with ATF?”
“Jerod is Deputy Director of Field Ops,” Peter said.
“Congratulations,” Simone said. “You’ve done well for yourself.”
“I got promoted, moved to Atlanta,” Jerod explained. “Recently, a position at HQ opened up, and I applied, never thinking I’d get it.” He broke into a smile. “Crazy bat-shit world. Here I am running my own department.”
“Well deserved,” Simone said.
“Are you still a kick-ass Special Agent?” Jerod asked. “No, wait, you’re a supervisor now, right?”
“I left years ago,” Simone replied, sadness swirling through her.
Jerod furrowed his brow. “Really? I thought you’d be a lifer.”
“I did too,” Peter agreed.
So did I.
“What are you doing with yourself?” Jerod asked.
She glanced from Jerod to Peter. “I’m a personal shopper.”
Jerod’s eyebrows shot up. “Really?” He pointed to his clothes. “I could use your help.”
“Nah. You look great, but I’ll add you to my wait-list.” Eager to change the subject, she said, “Are you two working on something together?”
“I have a meeting nearby,” Jerod said. “I texted Peter to see if he had time for coffee.”
“I remarried,” Peter volunteered. “My first wife had an affair?—”
“Peter, let it go,” Jerod murmured.
“I met my new wife, Lucy, in Philadelphia,” Peter explained. “We’re throwing a dinner party this Friday night to celebrate our one-year anniversary.”
“Congratulations,” she said.
“I want you to be there,” Peter said.
“What? Oh, no, I couldn’t?—”
“Please,” Jerod piped in. “I won’t know anyone?—”
“You’ll know me,” Peter interjected, and the men laughed. “I insist,” Peter continued. “It’s at my house in Chevy Chase.” After pulling out his phone, he asked, “Do you still have the same number?”
“I do.”
He scrolled, then got busy typing. Seconds later, her phone buzzed. “I texted you the address.” He put his hands in prayer. “Please, it would mean so much to me.”
She nodded. “I’ll be there.”
“Great! Cocktails at seven. Dinner at eight.” His phone rang and he stepped away to answer.
“How’s life on the outside?” Jerod asked.
“Peachy,” she replied, her sarcasm front and center.
Jerod laughed. “We had a lot of fun working together.”
“Made some arrests too.”
“Those were the good ole days,” Jerod said. “Years back, I got assigned the biggest damn case of my career, then it got yanked.”
ALPHA probably took it.
“Bummer,” she said. “Which one was it?”
“The Bomb Maker,” he replied.
Simone’s stomach dropped while bitter bile rose in her throat. “That was a big one.”
“A career changer if I’d gotten to work it,” Jerod replied. “The Bomb Maker obliterated the hell out of several government buildings in major cities. What a cluster fuck.”
Goosebumps covered her arms, hair on the back of her neck stood on end, and a shiver traveled down her spine. The memories came crashing back into her thoughts like a locomotive thundering down the tracks. The destruction caused by The Bomb Maker was etched into her soul.
Peter returned to the table. “I’ve got to head back.”
“Same,” Jerod added.
The three made their way out of the crowded coffee shop. On the street, she heaved in a breath. Just thinking about The Bomb Maker made her sick to her stomach.
“Let’s do lunch,” Jerod said to her. “I loved going to Rudy’s with you.” He scrolled on his phone, then showed her the display. “Same number?”
She viewed her contact info. “You got me.”
“Red, it’s great to reconnect,” Jerod said. “I’ll text you about lunch.”
“See you Friday night,” Peter said.
The men took off toward the federal building. But they got no more than twenty feet before Peter stopped to speak to someone. Jerod put a hand on Peter’s shoulder, whispered something into his ear, and continued walking.
She waited several seconds, then decided to go for it. Head down, she strode past Peter. Just as she was about to veer toward the building, Peter called her name.
“Simone, wait up!”
Ah, dammit.
“Where’re you headed?” he asked.
“I’m meeting a client,” she lied.
“You know, I couldn’t understand why you left the Bureau,” he said. “It never made sense to me. You were an excellent agent.” He gestured to the building. “I assumed you’d make a career here. Wondered if you went undercover, but when I asked around, I was told you left.” He stepped close. “Did you move to ALPHA?”
What the hell?
Simone had a great poker face. “What’s ALPHA?”
The color from Peter’s face drained. “It’s nothing.” He glanced at his watch. “I’m late for a meeting. See you Friday.” He strode toward the entrance and vanished inside.
She had no idea he even knew about ALPHA, but he should never have asked her about that, especially in public.
What happened to having some damn discretion?
Her guts churned. She might not work for ALPHA, but her allegiance was still with that organization, if for no other reason than to protect its secrecy. She tossed her coffee into the trash, and hastened inside. Hirzog stood near the elevators talking to several people.
I gotta call this.
She exited the building, got Carrera on the phone. “Sorry, Peter Hirzog cornered me in the coffeeshop.”
“Lucky you.”
“Not a fan?”
“No,” Carrera replied.
“He thought I’d gone undercover, then asked if I’d joined ALPHA.”
“That’s not good,” Carrera said.
“Peter’s still in the lobby, so we’ll have to reschedule.”
Carrera pulled up beside her on the sidewalk. “I just got called to an offsite meeting.”
“Hey.” She hung up, extended her hand. “Good to see you.”
He shook it. “Slash has been asking about you. Come by tonight for dinner, and we’ll talk after.”
“I’d love to,” she replied. “Slash has wanted me to meet Elsa for a while now.”
A black Range Rover pulled up to the curb. The back door opened and Luciano exited. Hit- after-glorious-hit of adrenaline powered through her. His impeccable blue-gray suit accentuated his muscular form to perfection. His bulging biceps pressed against the sleeves, while his white dress shirt made his beautiful olive skin tone pop.
She gave him a once-over. Approved. Then, did it again.
A gust of wind blew his hair every which way, but he combed his fingers through it and it yielded to his touch.
Just like me.
“You got out. You never get out.” Carrera followed his cousin’s gaze, which was pinned on her.
Luciano’s muscles ticked in his chiseled jaw. “Simone.”
“Luciano,” she replied.
Silence, while they drilled each other with their searing gazes.
“Okay, so this isn’t weird or anything. I’m gonna wait in the car.” Carrera vanished inside the Range Rover.
Despite being on a busy sidewalk, her attention was laser-focused on Luciano.
Someone sidled over, but she couldn’t break eye contact. She was consumed, the energy swirling at a frenzying pace around them like an invisible tornado.
“Is this your client?” asked a familiar voice.
Simone dragged her attention from Luciano. Peter Hirzog stood there glaring up at Luciano. Within seconds, Carrera rejoined them.
The energy shifted, the pleasant October afternoon turning frigid cold. As expected, Luciano stood there, a pillar of strength and fortitude. He was brimming with confidence, yet he wore his brand of sophistication like armor. If these two men were enemies, Luciano was keeping those feelings close to the chest.
Peter regarded her. “Do you know him?” The bite in his tone surprised her.
Simone stayed silent. It was none of his damn business.
To her surprise, Luciano’s lips split into a sinister smile. “What do you want, Hirzog?”
“Stay away from him,” Peter warned her. “He’ll ruin your life.”
“It’s your fault your ex went looking elsewhere,” Luciano bit out.
Whoa .
Hirzog swung at Luciano, but he grabbed Hirzog’s wrist, twisted it behind his back, forcing Peter to spin around. Wincing in pain, Peter, said, “You’re a motherfucking cocksucker, Santini.”
Luciano’s driver, Stuart, appeared. “I need to get you off the street, Mr. Santini.”
Simone had had enough. She had no idea what kind of bad blood had passed between them and she didn’t care. “I need to leave.”
Luciano released Peter, then turned to her. “Do you need a ride?”
While his composure remained intact, the fire in his eyes burned brightly. And she was drawn to that flame like a magnet. The connection between them made her shiver with delight. Never before had a man made her feel so alive.
Peter tugged down his suit jacket, glared at both Santinis. “I told you two to watch your backs, and I meant it.” Then, his angry eyes jumped to her. “This man is poison.”
On a growl, Peter bolted down the sidewalk, taking his fury with him.
“That was intense,” she murmured.
“Ride?” Luciano asked.
“I’m gonna walk this one off,” she replied before eyeing Carrera. “Later.” Then, she shot Luciano a smile.
As she walked down the street, she turned to look back. He stood on the sidewalk oozing power and determination while people bustled past him.
For reasons she couldn’t explain or begin to understand, he had drawn her into his web and she liked it.
She liked it a lot.
LUCIANO
Luciano seethed as they plodded through heavy DC traffic en route to Sin’s office in Georgetown. Seeing Hirzog did that to him.
Once on M Street, Stuart drove around the corner and parked in Sin’s private lot tucked behind his building. Inside, a man and two women waited at the elevators. One of the women checked him out, then offered a smile. He tossed her a nod, but said nothing.
His thoughts drifted to Simone. Smart, beautiful, and strong-willed was a combination he found captivating.
The elevator doors opened. He and Carrera waited for the others to step inside, then followed. On the top floor, everyone exited. Behind reception a large sign hung on the wall.
Develin And Associates
While the man and other woman spoke with the receptionist, the woman who’d checked him out, marched over. “You look familiar. Have we met?”
“No,” Luciano replied.
She stared at up him for several seconds, then said, “Well, we’re meeting now. I’m Sheila.”
“Luciano.” His smile made her cheeks flush.
“Mr. Santini and Mr. Santini,” said the receptionist, “Mr. Develin will see you now. Go on back.”
“Can I get your number?” Sheila asked. “Maybe we can have coffee sometime.”
Luciano whispered in her ear. “Not a good idea. I’m a very bad man.” He winked before he and Carrera headed through the expansive office.
As they passed the bullpen, several employees popped up from their cubicles like prairie dogs. They stopped in front of Sin’s closed office door and knocked.
The door opened and Evangeline Develin smiled at them. “Good to see you guys.” She hugged Carrera, then Luciano. “Luciano, why do you always look like you just got back from vacation on the Amalfi Coast?”
Luciano flashed a smile. “Ciao, bella. That color looks great on you.”
She was wearing a burgundy pantsuit from his WorkSmart collection and had paired it with a black camisole.
Sin appeared in the doorway. “Boys.”
“How was Miami?” Luciano asked.
“Fun,” Evangeline replied.
“We had a good weekend,” Sin said before addressing his wife. “Are you joining us?”
“Not for this meeting,” she replied.
Sin stepped aside so the men could enter. After shutting the door, he pulled a bottle of Santini whiskey from his credenza.
“It’s five o’clock somewhere,” Carrera said.
Luciano and Carrera sat on the sofa while Sin poured a finger’s worth in three lowball glasses, then eased into an upholstered chair. After tapping their glasses together, they tossed back the top-shelf liquor.
“Thanks for meeting in person.” Luciano set down the glass.
“What’s going on?” Sin asked.
“Gabriel and I flew to London and met with three men from Haqazzii’s terror cell. They were on their way here.”
“How’d that go?” Sin asked.
“As expected,” Luciano replied.
“Learn anything?” Carrera asked.
Luciano pulled the folded map from his breast pocket, opened it, and set it on the coffee table. “They worked for The Bomb Maker. These buildings could be his next targets?—”
“The White House, the Capitol, FBI, Justice, State, Supreme Court, the Pentagon, and the CIA.” A growl shot from Carrera. “This is bad.”
“Jesus,” Sin bit out.
“They had legit US passports and believable aliases,” Luciano said. “The Bomb Maker is here and they said he’ll kill us all.”
“He struck five years ago, then vanished,” Carrera explained. “Targeted buildings in LA, Chicago, New York, San Francisco, and DC. His base of operation for his terrorist team was in Arlington.”
“Government or civilian buildings?” Luciano asked.
“Both,” Carrera replied. “The larger the building, the better. He likes killing, and he likes wreaking havoc on a city.”
Sin poured more whiskey. “Once his house in Arlington had been located, Z and Luther sent ALPHA in to take them out, but the mission went sideways. The Bomb Maker had wired the house. Every Op—but one—was killed in a massive explosion. He even took out his own men.”
Luciano leaned back on the sofa. “Brutal.”
“What happened to him?” Carrera tossed back a mouthful of liquor.
“Vanished,” Sin answered.
A smile split Luciano’s face. “I’m going to like hunting this one down.”
Sin retrieved his laptop, got busy, then turned the computer around. “This is the only pic ALPHA has of him.”
Luciano and Carrera eyed the blurry photo of a light-skinned man dressed in dark clothes with shoulder-length brown hair and sunglasses.
“Could be anyone,” Luciano said.
“Average height, average build,” Sin said. “No tats, no piercings, nothing to help ID him.”
Carrera pulled the map off the table, studied it. “I don’t think this is a job for ALPHA.” He eyed both men. “Weigh in.”
“I agree and disagree,” Sin said. “Luciano takes the lead, but he can’t work this alone.”
“I’ll work it with my team,” Luciano said before folding up the map and tucking it back into his breast pocket.
“You need an investigator,” Carrera said. “Someone trained and experienced in tracking.”
Luciano’s phone rang with a call from his cousin Willie Boy. He silenced it, then checked the time. It was after six.
“Devo andare. I have to go.” Luciano stood. “No one from ALPHA knows about our business arrangement. Once your team finds him, mine will go in and finish the job.”
Sin shook Luciano’s hand. “I’ll talk to you,” Sin said.
“I’ll see you later,” Carrera said.
Luciano didn’t know what he was talking about. “Later?”
“You said you’d come for dinner,” Carrera replied. “G-ma’s probably been in the kitchen all afternoon.”
“Sounds like Elsa has a favorite,” Sin said.
“Definitely,” Carrera replied.
Luciano smiled. He adored his grandmother. “I’ll be there.” He tossed Sin a nod. “Ciao.”
On the elevator ride down, Luciano read the text from his cousin, Willie Boy.
Dante’s here. Where are you ????
He can fucking wait.
Luciano slid his phone into his pocket, exited the building, and strode toward the sedan, parked out back. Luciano ducked inside.
“Stuart, I need to stop at Willie Boy’s.”
“I’ll join you.” Stuart glanced in the rearview mirror, and Luciano replied with a nod.
Stuart wasn’t just his driver, he was Luciano’s security detail.
En route to Old Town, Alexandria, Luciano asked, “How’s your sister?”
“Much better,” Stuart replied. “Changing her doc at the hospital made a difference. Thank you for taking care of that.”
“Keep me posted on her health,” Luciano said. “I’ll arrange for in-home nursing care once she’s discharged.”
“Sir, you don’t?—”
“Stuart, let me do this for your family. Take off any time you need.”
Luciano’s phone buzzed with another text from Willie Boy.
Are you coming ????
On my way
He was doing this to honor his uncle. Unfortunately, Willie Boy didn’t know the difference between his ass and his elbow, but he was family. Family mattered to a Santini.
Stuart parked at Willie Boy’s restaurant in Old Town. The exterior looked like hell, but Willie Boy had told Luciano to butt out, so he had. Inside, Luciano glanced around. Willie Boy hadn’t done a damn thing to update the eatery. It was like stepping back in time thirty years. The place needed a complete overhaul. But the food was good, so customers kept coming back.
Luciano slid his sunglasses into his pocket. Stuart kept his on.
The hostess, beamed at them. “Hello, Luciano. Hi, Stuart.”
“Ma’am,” Stuart said.
“How’ve you been, Tara?” Luciano asked.
“No complaints.” She led them through the busy neighborhood restaurant, stopping in front of a closed door in the back.
Knock-knock.
“Yeah,” Willie Boy called out.
Tara opened the door. “Your cousin and his bodyguard.”
Luciano and Stuart entered. The stench of lager and cheese was undeniably the trademark odor of Willie Boy’s private room. The low-lit space consisted of four round tables and several framed family photos hanging on the walls. At the back, a swinging door separated the kitchen.
Willie Boy and another man were seated at one of the tables. His cousin glanced over, then grinned. After pushing out of the chair, he swung his arms wide. “There he is!”
Luciano kissed both his cousin’s cheeks, then patted his face. “You look like crap, Willie Boy.”
“Jeez. That’s how you greet me?”
Thirty-four-year-old Willie Boy stood at five-nine. Dark circles shadowed his eyes. His stomach hung over his belt, but his Santini Original suit jacket hid the flab. Though Willie Boy didn’t care about clothes, Luciano made sure his cousin dressed like a Santini. Willie Boy’s dark wavy hair had grown to his jawline, and he tucked both sides behind his ears. He had a strong Italian nose, a mouthful of crooked teeth, and diamond studs in his ears.
“Thanks for showing up,” Willie Boy said before acknowledging Stuart. “How you doin’ Mr. Fletcher?”
“Good, sir.”
Willie Boy smiled. “Mr. Fletcher calls me sir. I like him.” Then, he turned toward the man seated at the table. “This is Dante.”
The man stood, extended his hand. “Mr. Santini.” They shook. As Dante extended his hand to Stuart, Stuart crossed his arms.
Willie Boy dragged a chair over, gestured to Luciano. “Sit.”
As Luciano eased down, he spied Stuart pulling out his phone. Luciano trusted very few, but those he did trust—Stuart being one of them—he trusted completely.
“Dante is interested in doing business with you,” Willie Boy said.
Inwardly, Luciano cringed. His cousin was so fucking stupid. “Are you a clothing designer?”
“No,” Dante replied.
“An apparel distributor?”
Dante fiddled with his large diamond pinky ring. “Also, a no.”
“Are you in the spirits business?”
“Like ghosts?” Dante blurted.
“Whiskey.” Luciano bit back a growl.
“No, I’m not,” Dante said.
“Mr.—?” Luciano asked Dante.
Dante stared at him.
For fuck’s sake. “What’s your last name?”
“It’s Dante, just Dante.”
Luciano glared at his cousin. “Non farmi perdere tempo.”
Willie Boy raked his hands through his hair. “You know I don’t understand Italian.”
“You’re wasting my time, Willie Boy.”
“Mr. Santini,” Dante said, “I need a million counterfeit. When I told your cousin, he thought you could help me.”
Stupido idiota del cazzo. Stupid fucking idiot.
Luciano’s pulse didn’t jump, his blood pressure never wavered, but a growl ripped from his throat. He rested his ankle over his thigh, paused for a few seconds while he eyed the stranger across the table.
Dante parted his dark hair on the side and slicked it back with product. He’d made the bonehead move of wearing Luciano’s competition, but he’d come dressed to do business. The suit cost several thousand. While Luciano wasn’t impressed with Dante’s flashy pavé ring or matching diamond-stud earrings, he’d noted that Dante concealed his eyes behind rose-tinted glasses.
Luciano never trusted anyone who kept their eyes in perpetual shadow.
He regarded his cousin. “Willie Boy, how do you and Dante know each other?”
“Old friends,” Willie Boy replied. “We’ve known each other for—what—a few years now?”
“Yeah,” Dante replied, fiddling with his ring. “Sounds ‘bout right.”
Luciano exhaled a huff. He was getting nowhere with these two. “Have you done business together?”
“Have we done business together?” Willie Boy parroted back.
When Willie Boy repeated back a question, he was stalling. Yes, the two had done business. Maybe this Dante guy ran a money laundering business. Could have been any number of illegal activities. Or he could be undercover FBI, hoping to arrest Luciano for the white-collar crimes they could never pin on him. Whatever the hell it was, Luciano wasn’t taking the bait… and he was done with this bullshit meeting.
“Dante, I run Santini International. I can’t help you.”
Dante shot Willie Boy a cold stare. “Your cousin said you had money I could use.”
Luciano’s phone rang, he silenced it. “What would you use the money for?”
“My mother has hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of medical bills,” Dante said. “She’s well now, but the debt has stressed her out. I want to help her.”
Not buying that.
“Drugs? Prostitution? Human trafficking?” Luciano asked.
“It’s for my mother, Mr. Santini.”
Luciano rose, checked his phone. His personal assistant had called. “Like I said, I can’t help you.” Then, he glared at Willie Boy. “Don’t waste my time again.”
On the way out, he called Dominic.
“Mr. Santini, the initial shipment of couture holiday gowns arrived. The colors are all wrong and the design team is struggling with the mistake.”
“Get Ezra on the phone and call me back.” Luciano hung up.
Outside, Luciano slid on his sunglasses.
“Where to?” Stuart asked.
“Home,” Luciano replied. “Did you get his picture?”
“Yes, sir,” Stuart said. “I uploaded all of them to Truman CyberSecurity’s IDWare, but got no hits. I’ll forward you the photos.”
They got in the sedan. Before Stuart left the parking lot, Luciano’s phone dinged with a text from him. He scrolled through the pics of Dante, forwarded one to Sin and Carrera.
Recognize him?
Sin replied.
No. Should I?
He hit me up for a mil in C$
Carrera texted.
How’d he find you?
WB
Sin texted.
For what?
Mom’s med bills. I couldn’t help him. I don’t have C$
Of course he had counterfeit money. He had easy access to several million, with the ability to print more, if necessary. But every text, every phone call was traceable, which meant Luciano was always covering his ass.
Luciano’s phone rang. “Santini,” he answered.
“Luciano,” purred his head designer, Ezra. “The colors are terrible. I’m sending you pics.”
His phone binged. He tapped, then scrolled. “I’ve seen worse. Do they need to be redone or do we rethink the colors?”
“You mean go with these?” Ezra asked.
“Muted might work,” he said. “Instead of fuchsia, I see dusty rose.” Have a courier send over a few—this one, the pale green, and the charcoal—to Carrera Santini’s. I’ll review them there. How many were delivered?”
“Twenty-five thousand,” she replied.
“That’s a small run. Put through another run with the corrected colors. I’ll let you know about the muted dresses after I see them.” Luciano hung up.
“Lemonade,” he said under his breath. The couture gowns weren’t a problem.
His cousin blabbing that he could supply some shady business associate with a million in boodle?
That was a problem.