Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Vita
It’s been a shit-tastic morning with a call from my employer.
Demanding fucker that he is wants to know why he got reports that Alejandro made it onto his jet home looking just fine.
“Sir, my disguise was as a stripper. Where exactly was I going to hide the needle while I was naked?” He doesn’t need to know I had a plan.
“I hired you for your beauty and for your many talents. You should’ve gotten Alejandro alone.”
I don’t need him to spell out what he means by talents. I would’ve fucked Alejandro because I wanted him that much, not because of my job. My talents aren’t being a good lay, even if my asshole employer makes it sound like they are. I may not have many limits, but I’m not a prostitute for anyone.
I’ve played the part of a stripper before. I’ve had to get naked in front of informants and targets as well, and it took me a while to get over how embarrassing and intimidating it was to be that vulnerable. But work is work, and sometimes you just gotta get on with it.
That said, I’ve always drawn a line. I might let someone kiss me or get a little handsy like the douche on the boat the other night, but I’ve never had sex with someone I’m dealing with for work.
I haven’t given any blowjobs or been eaten out by informants or targets either.
That’s why it shocks the shit out of me that I would’ve been willing to violate my cardinal rule for Alejandro.
“Yes, sir.” There’s nothing to gain if I say anything else.
The next threat is inevitable. “I won’t pay you if you don’t accomplish the job. I’ll out you to the Diazes.”
“I understand.”
I hear my temporary boss’s voice drone on, but his inflection tells me he just asked a question. I need to pay closer attention to the conversation. I try to think what he just said. He wants to know what I’m going to do next since I missed my chance.
“I’m headed to New York. I’ll come up with another identity or persona to justify being near Alejandro. I’ll change up my accent, wear a different wig, and be a different character.”
That’s what it feels like in this life I didn’t exactly choose but wound up in.
It’s like being an actress. I play a different character depending on the assignment.
I have a wig collection that’s worth a fortune since it’s made from all real hair.
They’re fitted to me perfectly, so it’s impossible to tell they aren’t my actual hair.
“You’re going to have to get close to him again. You know that, right?”
“I do. You know I’ve dealt with worse and gotten the job done.”
However, I can’t let him see me until the moment I strike. It’s the only way I can drug him. It’s not like I can throw a dart at him.
“Yeah, but you haven’t dealt with a man like Alejandro Diaz before. You know women and children are usually off limits, but he’ll defend himself to your death before he gives in.”
“You pay me good money because of what I can do. Have I ever failed you before, or have I killed every man you’ve hired me to?”
This guy’s a broker—a matchmaker. If you want someone killed, you go to him. He hires the mercenary and passes along the money after he takes his cut.
“True, true, true, and yes, some jobs have taken longer than others. I’ll be patient for right now, Vittoria, but not much longer.”
I grit my teeth. Much longer, asshole? I only got the job five days before I met Alejandro. It barely gave me time to get to the U.S. and find and get the job as a stripper, which was no easy feat.
The man who hired me discovered Alejandro was headed to Chicago because of some shit that happened with some Boston cartel.
I don’t know the details behind it. Once I knew who I was hired to target, I started digging around to see if I could guess where he’d be.
It wasn’t me who discovered Alejandro’s plans.
It was my employer’s chief intel gatherer who did.
The Mafioso who hired the dancers was the douchey one who also chartered the yacht and wanted to show me his micropenis.
Then from there, I checked out blabbermouth’s social media.
He posted about it. I hacked his email and phone to figure out what entertainment he hired, since I could tell he was definitely the type who’d want strippers at a bachelor party.
Once I was in Chicago, I made a beeline for the company and got myself hired on.
I told a sob story about how I needed the money because my dad got into some trouble with the Rizzos, and I wanted to give my portion of the pay directly to them that night.
The guy who manages the stripper company bought it and gave me the job.
“I’ll keep you posted and let you know when I’ve accomplished the mission, sir. You can wire me the rest of the money.” He can be rude, but I’ll remind him he’s paying me for it.
“All right. Don’t forget you don’t have much longer. If you don’t complete the assignment, it’s not like you just get fired.”
“Yes, sir, I know. I know Alejandro’ll find me and torture me before he kills me.”
“Right.”
There’s more he leaves unsaid. My employer will kill me rather than risk I’ll run to the Diazes and tell them what he hired me for. He hangs up without another word. That’s fine because I have nothing else to say, and he has nothing else I want to hear.
I may not have flown on a private jet to New York five days ago, but at least it was still first class.
I’m paid well for travel expenses on top of money for my work.
I watched a movie on the way to the city but spent half of it praying no one in the Cosa Nostra discovers I’m in New York.
That would be a fucking disaster and a half.
There’s no way I’d fucking survive that.
I’m not working entirely alone in New York. I have a couple of informants my employer connected me to, and they’ve given me a heads-up on where Alejandro’s headed today. I’ve been observing him for the past four days, so I’ve got a feel for what I believe is his routine.
He goes to work out at his uncle’s house in New Jersey every morning. All the men gather there. Yesterday morning, I had to duck low in my seat as Enrique’s wife, Elodie, pulled out of the gated neighborhood.
The last fucking thing I need is for her to spot me. I won’t live to take my next breath if she recognizes me. That woman’s got a colorful past.
Right now, I’m following five car lengths behind his motorcycle as we head toward Jackson Heights. It’s a Colombian neighborhood in Queens, and the Diazes’ unofficial New York headquarters. They conduct most of their business there.
I make sure I stay far enough behind that Alejandro won’t notice me following him.
The upside of letting him get ahead of me is that there’s enough room for me to see which turns he takes without missing my opportunity to take them too.
Once we’re in the Heights, I struggle to find a parking spot even though I’m in a compact car.
I can’t circle the block a bunch of times without men spotting me. I’m sure they’re his guards. I end up pulling into a lot and paying. Fucking prices aren’t cheap here, that’s for sure. But it means I haven’t lost sight of him. As I get out of the car, I look around.
Fuck my motherfucking life.
The Diazes own this parking lot.
Of course, they fucking do.
They own half the fucking shit around here. The other half pays them protection money.
A truck passes in front of me as I wait to cross the street. By the time it drives past, Alejandro’s disappeared.
Fuck.
I glance around to make sure no one’s paying attention to me.
Many people from northern Italy have lighter coloring than many would expect of people from a Mediterranean country.
While I’m not naturally as dark as people from the southern regions, I tan really well.
That means between what’s natural and what the sun does, I can pass for many ethnicities.
I can pull off most hair colors without looking fake.
Right now, I’m sporting a wig with long, black, wavy hair.
It’s much darker than my natural color and much thicker than the one I wore on the cruise.
Since I have a tan from my last job in Greece, I can blend in as a Latina here.
Maybe not Colombian, but I’m passable. I speak fluent Spanish, so I’m not scared I’ll be a deer in the headlights if someone speaks to me in the language.
I notice men in suits standing outside a bodega, so he must be there. I’m unprepared for him to walk out so soon and hand an envelope to one guy. I duck into a store before he can look in my direction. I don’t notice what the place sells until the door closes behind me.
Thank God it’s not a butcher or a baker.
Instead, it’s a cell phone store. I pretend to look around, making a beeline for a particular brand of phone.
I keep my back mostly to the door and windows and bend over a display, but from the corner of my eye, I watch him walk past. Thankfully, the advertisement plastered to the window makes it difficult to see in or out clearly.
I feel him looking at me. If he can even see me, I’m certain it’s just my outline, so it’s not obvious I’m looking at him too.
A sales associate greets me, but I’m quick to let him know I don’t see what I wanted.
I try for a brief thank you, no thank you, but he starts his sales pitch.
I cut him off—I know I’m rude—but I don’t have time to waste in here.
I slip out the door and pretend to be rummaging in my purse for something as I check the sidewalk in both directions.
I put on sunglasses and follow Alejandro, who’s a block ahead of me.
He leads me toward the parking lot, so I head to the car rather than follow him.
Once I’m inside, I lock the doors and pretend to scroll on my phone.
With the sunglasses on and my chin tucked, I’m still able to see what’s going on around me.
I’ll wait for him to make his next move, then follow him without him noticing.