Dark Angel (The Santini Assassins #4)

Prologue

ITALY

One day before Gabriel Santini returns to the US for the family holiday party at Santini Ristorante.

GAbrIEL

Gabriel Santini loved going dark. Dropping off the grid was a necessity… like breathing. Yeah, he loved his family, but the last few months had been too much.

Too damn much.

When he’d returned to the States to help his brother, Luciano, he’d brought the trouble home with him. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. If there was anything he liked, it was trouble. While most moved away from conflict, he charged forward like his life depended on it. He had no fear.

None.

It was four in the morning. Like most nights, he couldn’t sleep, so he pushed out of bed, covered his naked ass in a pair of Santini Original silk lounge pants, slipped into the luxurious silk robe.

With his CANiK 9mm pistol in hand, he opened the balcony door and breathed deep.

December in Italy. The cold air rushed his lungs, chilling his warm skin.

His villa was perched on an elevation, and he gazed out at the city’s twinkling lights. Rather than sit, he stood in the shadows.

Watching, listening.

The life he’d built for himself meant the enemy could be lurking nearby, waiting for the right time to strike. His upscale neighborhood was quiet. Just the way he liked it.

He’d been back in Milan for days, but he hadn’t stopped by Santini International Euro.

Instead, he’d sent his trusted friend, his loyal ambassador, his underboss, Angelo Moretti, to make the rounds.

According to Angelo, the multi-billion-dollar clothing empire was purring like a kitten.

For the past few months, Luciano had stepped in.

Unlike his older brother, Gabriel ran things tight, kept an eagle eye on each and every department, every single person.

Luciano—Lulu to the fam—had been like that, but his new wife had brought a calmness that had rubbed off on him.

Pussy-whipped fool.

Rather than send Angelo to his Tuscan winery, he’d gone his damn self.

Santini Vineyards was one of the few places on earth that soothed his raging soul.

Once there, he walked the sun-drenched slopes, then tasted several varieties of Chianti, a Cabernet Sauvignon, and a Sangiovese from his Super Tuscan collection.

It had been a good day.

His buzzing phone snapped him back to the moment. Gabriel left the chilly balcony, returning to his darkened bedroom. Angelo Moretti was calling.

Gabriel answered. “You okay?”

“My nonno died,” Angelo said, his voice low.

“What happened?”

“What is wrong with you?” Angelo bit out. “My grandfather died. You’re supposed to show a little compassion—”

“Relax, fratello.” Relax, brother.

“It’s not me, G, it’s you,” Angelo said.

“Now, you’re pissing me off.”

“Short fuse. I gotta head home.”

“Take my jet,” Gabriel said.

“You need it.”

“I’m hiding out like a fugitive in my own city, waiting on some Russian nobody who’s a no-show.”

“Patience, Gabriel.”

Gabriel chuffed out a laugh. “You’ve known me since we were kids. Patience is for people who’ve got nothing better to do than wait.”

Angelo chuckled.

“Was he shot?” Gabriel asked.

“Who?”

“Your nonno.”

“He was ninety-six, G. He died because he was old.”

“Long life. Where’s the funeral?”

“My mom’s throwing him a celebration of life thing at the house. She said something ‘bout cremating him and keeping the ashes. I’m still waiting for you to express your condolences.”

“Le mie condoglianze. My condolences.”

“Yeah, that sounded as sincere as a bucket of fucking hair.”

“Watch your back.”

“You watch yours,” Angelo said. “Ma asked me to hang around, so I’m not coming back.”

“I’ll schedule a pilot to fly you back.”

“Thanks.”

Gabriel killed the call, checked the security system at his villa. If someone had breached the compound, the alarms would have wailed. Even so, he reviewed the live feed.

All good.

He picked up his CANiK, strode the hallway, then down the stairs to his first floor. The luxury Italian stone flooring chilled his feet as he padded into the kitchen. There, he made himself an espresso. While it brewed, he read his texts.

His phone vibrated in his hand, the screen changed to an incoming call from Private. He answered.

“What’s the word?” Gabriel asked.

“The package arrives today,” Z replied.

Z—real name Philip Skye—had co-formed a top-secret organization as an extension of the FBI.

As the group grew, it became an independent off-the-grid powerhouse that chased down the country’s most dangerous criminals.

Though Z had retired from ALPHA, he hadn’t walked away from the missions.

Gabriel had worked with Z before. If Z was involved, the job was off the radar and below the chatter.

Though slight in stature, Philip Skye wielded a lot of power.

“Took long enough,” Gabriel said.

“We had to make sure you weren’t being tailed.”

“How?”

“Satellites,” Z explained. “You went to your winery.”

“I’m a caged animal,” Gabriel bit out. “Where and when?”

“The delivery is coming from Moscow, routed through several countries. A driver will drop it at the far-left entrance of the Duomo di Milano, four in the afternoon, local time.”

Gabriel raked his hand through his hair. “No, not Milan Cathedral. Too risky. He needs to stay at the airport.”

“I can’t get word to him.”

Agitation slithered down his back and he released a growl. He hated not being consulted. Yes, he was working with intelligent people but, at the moment, Z sounded like an idiot.”

“Why is he even leaving the airport?” Gabriel bit out.

Silence.

Yeah, Z, you fucked up.

“Does he know what I look like?” Gabriel asked.

“No, it was too dangerous. Use the password sentence.”

“Which airport and what time is he landing?”

“Milano Malpensa, two-thirty.”

“I’m out.” Without waiting for a reply, Gabriel hung up.

On a grunt, he called Angelo.

“The driver got pulled over for speeding,” Angelo said.

“The package arrives this afternoon. You’re flying back with me.”

“The driver is fighting with the poliziotto. If he doesn’t shut up, he’s gonna get arrested.”

“Handle it.” Gabriel hung up, collected his pistol, and strode back upstairs.

“Why do I always have to fix fucking everything?” Gabriel growled as he returned to his bedroom to get ready.

THAT AFTERNOON, Gabriel and Angelo waited on the other side of Customs at Malpensa, Milan’s international airport.

He glanced over at Angelo. Like Gabriel, he wore a Santini Original suit, white shirt, no tie.

His black dress shoes polished to a perfect sheen.

Angelo wore his short, dark hair slicked back, every strand in lockdown.

“You got yourself here,” Gabriel muttered. “You did good, Ang.”

“So, you can say somethin’ nice.”

“I’m glad I didn’t have to bail your ass outta jail.”

“It turned into a cluster. The driver would not stop arguing. He got hauled away. I almost got arrested, but I paid off the cop. I’m bleeding money like a stuck pig over here.”

Gabriel chuckled. “I pay you good. You could hand out money to everyone in the airport and still have plenty to piss away. Point is, you handled it, you got yourself here. All we need is the package.”

“Who is this guy anyway?”

Gabriel glanced around. The airport was packed with holiday travelers. “Dr. Misha Laskin is a leading Russian scientist. Expert on power grids. He wants to defect. In exchange, he’s helping with some top-secret project.”

“Since when are you a delivery service?” Angelo asked.

Gabriel shrugged a shoulder. “This is important and they needed the best.” After a pause, he added, “I’m the best.”

Angelo chuckled. “And humble.”

A large group of people made their way toward Customs. Gabriel scanned the group. “The mad scientist is here. Fourth in line.”

“I’ll tell the pilot.” Angelo stepped away to make the call.

Gabriel eyed the older Russian. He looked like someone from the 1940’s. Dark winter coat, black shoes, black dress hat.

He looks more like a gangster than I do.

A tall, attractive woman sauntered over, blocking his view of Laskin. “Are you here to welcome me to Italy?”

Gabriel shot her a smile, and her sigh floated in the air above him.

“Benvenuti in Italia,” he said.

“I’m not meeting my group until later,” she continued. “Can I buy you a drink? Start my vacay off with a bang… or a whimper.” Her sly smile made him chuckle.

He glanced over her shoulder as Dr. Laskin made his way through Customs.

“Not today, beautiful,” Gabriel said before making his way to the scientist.

When Laskin looked his way, hope sprang from the older man’s eyes.

Gabriel stepped close. “The gate was left open.”

“And sheep ran out of the pen.” Misha Laskin’s thick Russian accent sliced through the air.

“We’re taking a private jet,” Gabriel said.

“This is good,” Dr. Laskin said. “I am anxious for America.”

As Gabriel escorted the scientist toward the terminal for chartered flights, Angelo fell in line beside him.

“I have a car waiting to take us to the private terminal, Milano Prime,” Gabriel explained.

A flash of fear shadowed Laskin’s eyes. “Yes, yes. We hurry.”

They exited the main terminal, made their way to the waiting sedan parked at the curb. The driver exited, strode around to open the back door.

BANG-BANG-BANG!

Gabriel whipped around, extracted his pistol. Angelo did the same. The scene around them was mayhem. People were screaming, running inside the building, or ducking low.

Dr. Laskin dropped to the ground.

Fuck, no.

“Find the shooter,” Gabriel ordered.

Angelo took off running while Gabriel knelt beside the Russian.

“I—I can’t breathe,” Laskin gasped.

Gabriel cradled the man, while blood gushed from the back of his head and pooled beneath him.

The driver knelt down. “He needs hospital.”

“My watch,” Dr. Laskin said.

“What?” Gabriel asked.

“Take watch, right pants pocket.”

Working quickly, Gabriel unbuttoned Laskin’s long, winter coat, reached into his pants pocket, and extracted a vintage gold pocket watch. After shoving it into his own coat pocket, he said to Laskin, “You’re losing a lot of blood. I need to roll you over and put pressure—”

“You will know right time to use it,” Laskin said.

“Dr. Laskin, I need to stop you from bleeding out,” Gabriel insisted.

“I’m dying,” Laskin whispered.

Despite those words, Gabriel rolled him sideways. Laskin cried out, then stilled.

A bullet had ripped through the back of his head and a second had torn a hole in Laskin’s coat. A direct hit to his lung.

Jesus, no. Don’t take him.

Two airport police rushed over. “An ambulance was called. How many were hit?”

“Just this man.” Gabriel returned his attention to Laskin. “Che Dio ti accompagni. Possa la tua anima riposare in pace.”

Go with God. May your soul be at peace.

Gabriel closed Laskin’s eyes, gently removed his arms from the dead man’s body, and rose.

A man had been murdered in cold blood while in Gabriel’s care. His soul felt heavy, the weight of his failure crashing down on him.

Never before had he lost someone he’d been tasked with protecting.

The wail of the ambulance grew closer until the shrill sound pierced his ears, then it went silent. Two paramedics rushed over with a stretcher. Gabriel waited while they tried reviving him, but the defector from Russia was dead, killed by an assassin’s bullets.

“We’re taking him to the hospital,” said the medic.

Gabriel nodded. It was pointless to argue. They could try, but he’d seen this man take his last breath. He got the name of the hospital from the medic as Angelo ran back over.

“You can follow us,” said the other medic.

Gabriel should have ducked into the sedan and let the driver whisk him and Angelo to the chartered terminal, but the gunman wasn’t after either one of them. If he had been, they’d be dead too.

This was a targeted hit. Someone did not want Laskin to get to America.

After the ambulance loaded the body, they pulled into traffic.

“Should we follow?” asked the driver.

“Take us to Milano Prime,” Gabriel said. “The private jet terminal.”

“Yes, sir.”

Gabriel and Angelo slipped into the sedan. Twenty minutes later they were boarding the Santini jet. As the airplane taxied down the runway, Gabriel stared out the window.

He’d fucked up. That never happened. Ever.

As Gabriel replayed the event, he acknowledged the outcome would have been the same if he and Angelo had met the scientist at Milan Cathedral. The shooter would have gunned Misha Laskin down and he would have died alone.

Gabriel’s hands curled into fists. Fists he wanted to put through a damn wall. Even with the last-minute shift, he couldn’t protect the scientist.

Laskin was destined to die.

Gabriel shoved out of his seat, raked his hands through his hair.

He could obsess over this for days, even months, but he couldn’t change the outcome.

He had energy to burn, but he was a caged animal—again.

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his cashmere coat, his fingers landing on Laskin’s pocket watch.

He lifted it out as Angelo—seated across the aisle—glanced over. “When’d you get that?”

“Laskin gave it to me.”

“Does it work?”

Gabriel opened it. On the left, a small black and white photo. A man and a woman stood behind two young boys. They wore no smiles and dressed in simple clothing from another era.

Laskin as a child?

Gabriel’s blackened heart dropped.

I fucked up.

He could have brought in his Cosa Nostra to ensure his safety. Truth was, it was very easy to take someone out. Even if he’d gone to extreme lengths to protect Dr. Laskin, those bullets would have found their mark.

A killer on a mission does not quit.

Gabriel knew that better than anyone.

Laskin had already changed the time to local time in the DMV—DC, Maryland, Virginia.

A jolt of pain sliced through his chest.

Gabriel snapped the watch shut, shoved it into his pants pocket. “Did you see anyone?”

“The airport was total chaos,” Angelo said. “People were running in every direction. The hitman coulda been any one of ‘em. He coulda been watching out a damn window. I looked more suspect than he did, running around like a crazy man with a gun in my hand.”

Gabriel chuffed out a laugh.

“How is that funny, G?”

“It just is.” Gabriel glanced toward the front. “You want a drink?”

“No.”

“Time for a shot of something.”

Gabriel opened the cabinet, poured himself a finger’s worth of Santini Whisky, and tossed it back. The liquor burned its way to his stomach. His empty stomach. But he couldn’t eat. He’d been sent to bring someone important back to the States. He’d been trusted to get it done, but he’d failed.

“Failure will get you killed,” his father had told him, again and again. “In our world, when you fail, you’re dead, son.”

Even from the grave, his father’s words haunted him.

You were right, Papà. My failure got him killed.