Ruin of the Mafia Shadow (Costa Vendetta #5)

Chapter 1

Reese

Frost coats the aluminum skin of the twin-engine helicopter in a stubborn layer.

My gloved hand scrapes the edge of the ice scraper against the metal, the harsh grating sound swallowed instantly by the howling wind.

I hate Chicago in November. The wind coming off Lake Michigan possesses a vicious, biting cruelty that cuts straight through the canvas of my flight suit.

Aviation fuel stings my nose, a sharp and chemical tang that grounds me better than a cup of strong black coffee.

The sky overhead is the color of bruised iron.

A massive storm system is rolling in from the north, threatening to ground everything at this small private airfield.

My helicopter sits on the tarmac, anchored against the gusts, waiting for a passenger who arranged a last-minute extraction run into the middle of nowhere.

A job is a job. Rent on the hangar is due.

The maintenance logs demand a fresh influx of cash.

Independence is an expensive habit, but owning the helicopter outright is the only luxury I allow myself.

My father died of a coronary when I was nineteen.

It was a random Tuesday. One moment he was alive, the next he was gone.

Brutal and final. The lesson stuck in my bones like the winter chill: do not rely on anything with a heartbeat.

People break. People leave. Machines, on the other hand, make sense.

Math and physics are honest. If you maintain an engine, it keeps you in the sky.

If you neglect it, you crash. Simple cause and effect.

I finish the pre-flight walk-around, checking the rotor blades, the tail rotor, the skids, and the fuel caps.

Everything is mechanically sound. The bird is ready to fly.

The insulated canvas of my flight suit bunches around my hips and thighs as I crouch to inspect the landing gear.

The wind bites my cheeks, turning the skin raw.

A black SUV rounds the corner of the hangar, its tires crunching loudly over the salted ice. The vehicle lacks any corporate logos. It rolls to a stop fifty yards away, the engine purring with a low, menacing hum.

Showtime.

I stand up, brushing the frost off my knees. Rich clients usually demand red-carpet treatment. They complain about the chill, the size of the cabin, the lack of luxury. I have dealt with arrogant businessmen, nervous politicians, and entitled heirs. They are all the same. Noise and ego.

The back door of the SUV opens. A man steps out onto the tarmac.

He stands tall against the freezing wind. He does not pull his collar up or hurry toward the helicopter. He simply stands beside the open vehicle door, a canvas tactical bag gripped in one hand.

The barometric pressure drops another notch, and the cold settles heavier across my shoulders.

I take a step forward. My boots hit the concrete with a solid thud, but the sound feels muffled under his presence. He is still. Most men fidget. They adjust their coats, check their phones, look at the sky. This man does nothing of the sort. He holds a stillness that borders on surveillance.

He begins to walk toward me.

Dark hair sweeps back from his forehead, threaded with stark, unforgiving silver streaks.

A meticulously trimmed salt-and-pepper beard shades an aristocratic jawline sharp enough to cut glass.

He wears a charcoal, tailored suit jacket over a lean, defined build—no overcoat, no concession to the brutal wind.

Dark eyes catalogue the runway, the helicopter, and finally, me. His unblinking stare passes through me like I am not even here. A gold watch peeks out from his cuff, the metal gleaming dully under the overcast sky. Just below the watch, faint scar tissue from an old blade marks his wrist.

He stops three feet away.

The wind shifts again, blowing directly from him to me. The scent hits the back of my mouth. Cold wind, old paper, and gunmetal. It is a scent that demands attention.

"Mr. Costa," I say, my voice projecting loud and clear over the wind.

"Ms. Calloway." His voice is low, even, and stripped clean of warmth.

"We need to board immediately. The front is moving in faster than anticipated. If we don’t lift off in ten minutes, we’re grounded until tomorrow."

He does not argue. He does not ask about the safety record of the helicopter or the weather conditions at our destination. He simply gives a single, sharp nod.

I turn and lead the way to the boarding steps.

My boots hit the metal rungs. The cabin is small, designed for efficiency rather than luxury.

Four passenger seats in the back, two up front.

I expect him to take one of the rear seats, putting as much distance between us as possible.

Instead, he follows me directly into the cockpit and folds his frame into the co-pilot seat.

The space instantly shrinks. His shoulders block out the gray light from the starboard window. His thigh, encased in dark slacks, rests inches from the center console. The metal at his wrist catches the faint green glow of the instrument panel.

"You can sit in the back," I suggest, flipping the master battery switch. The dials spring to life.

"I am fine here."

His tone leaves zero room for negotiation. I am not about to argue with a man who looks capable of dismantling the helicopter with his bare hands. He places the canvas bag between his feet. He waits until I’m seated to buckle his seatbelt, a subtle assertion of command.

"Suit yourself," I mutter, strapping myself into the pilot's seat.

The harness pulls tight across my chest. His gaze tracks the movement, lingering a fraction of a second too long before returning to my face.

The look is analytical. He is not undressing me with his eyes; he is assessing me as a variable in his environment.

I hate it. It makes my skin prickle with hot, uncomfortable awareness. I prefer the arrogant businessmen. I can mock them. This man gives me nothing to work with. He exercises absolute emotional restraint. Present in the room, but operating on a different frequency.

"Destination coordinates are locked," I say, tapping the navigation screen. "It's a long flight. Deep into the northern wilderness. There’s a rough landing zone near the coordinates you provided, but it’s nothing more than a clearing and a windsock. It will be rough."

"Understood."

I bring the left engine online, then the right. The rotors begin their slow, heavy chop above us, building into a brutal rhythm that shakes the cold out of my bones. I grip the cyclic, check the gauges, and ease the collective up.

The tower clears us for departure. I lift the helicopter off the pad and angle us into the storm.

The wind buffets the sides of the aircraft, rocking the airframe.

Most passengers clutch the armrests at this point.

Santi Costa rests his hands loosely on his thighs.

The faint scar tissue on his wrist remains steady.

"Hold on," I say, pushing the throttles to the firewall.

The engines scream. The helicopter rises hard off the pad, shuddering as the wind slams into us.

The ground drops away beneath the skids, and the gray storm swallows the windshield.

We punch through the low-hanging cloud cover, the gray mist swallowing the windshield.

Rain lashes the glass, turning into sleet as we climb higher into the freezing atmosphere.

The turbulence is brutal for the first twenty minutes. The helicopter drops and bucks, fighting the storm. I keep my hands locked on the cyclic, muscle memory and training taking over. This is where I belong. Up here, fighting gravity and weather. Up here, I'm in control.

I glance to my right.

Santi is staring out the window at the impenetrable gray clouds. He has not moved a single muscle. The turbulence slams the helicopter hard to the left. My teeth clack together. Santi just rides the motion. He could be sitting in a leather chair in a silent room.

He is not afraid. He is calculating.

"You handle the turbulence well," I project over the engine noise.

He turns his head slowly. "Panic serves no purpose."

"Most people can't control their biology. Adrenaline spikes whether you want it to or not."

"Biology can be trained."

The statement is cold, factual, and incredibly bleak. He has survived situations that make a turbulent helicopter ride irrelevant. The gunmetal scent wafts across the console again, mixing with the smell of my own aviation fuel. The two scents clash and tangle in the small cockpit.

We break through the top of the storm system. The sky opens up into a brilliant, blinding blue. The sun pours into the cabin, harsh and unforgiving. Below us, the clouds form an endless white ocean.

I trim the controls, leveling the helicopter at cruising altitude. The autopilot engages with a soft beep. I finally allow my shoulders to drop an inch, flexing my stiff fingers.

He stares at the instrument panel, his dark eyes tracking the dials.

"You chartered a flight to a stretch of wilderness with zero infrastructure," I say, crossing my arms over my chest. "No roads. No towns. Just miles of pine trees and rocks. Hunting trip?"

"Business."

"Must be a hell of a business meeting."

"It involves a dead trail that started moving again."

The words are spoken with total sincerity. I stare at him, trying to find a trace of humor in his sharp, bearded face. There is none. His cheekbones look carved from granite.

"I don't fly ghosts back," I tell him dryly. "Company policy."

The corner of his mouth twitches. It is a microscopic movement, a fraction of a millimeter, but it transforms his entire face.

For a single second, the flatlined shadow in the co-pilot seat looks dangerously alive.

The heat from that tiny shift in expression crawls straight up my neck.

I look away immediately, staring out the windshield.