7. Marco
Marco
S o it happened–we made love.
Now I can't stop thinking about it, and there's no way in hell that I'm ever going to let anything bad happen to Olivia. She's my world, my responsibility, and I'll do everything in my power to keep her safe.
She admitted that something's up but requested that I give her some time to get her shit straight. That's what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna let her speak up at her own time.
But while she's at that, I'll keep making sure nothing is out of place. I've doubled my security, and I'm even more alert now than ever. However, while doing my routine check in her office, I stumbled across something suspicious.
My instincts had led me to inspect her desk and as I did that, my fingers felt a device attached underneath her table. It was a state-of-the-art audio bug, capable of picking up even the faintest of whispers.
As I stare at the tiny device in my hand, my eyes narrow, my mind reeling from the fact that someone's actually spying on Olivia. But who? And of course, why?
My brows knit together as one name pops into my head. I'm almost certain that it's him, considering the sophistication of the device. But there's only one way to find out.
I tuck the bug in my pocket and head out of the office with one destination in mind—Matteo.
The warm lights of his office envelop me as I walk inside, approaching his desk.
“Marco,” he says, his eyes narrowing his brows. “I wasn't expecting to see you here—everything alright?” skepticism laces his tone.
“Yeah…” I drawl lazily, halting before his desk. “Sorry to drop by unannounced.”
“Please, take a seat.” He gestures toward the visitor's chair.
I sink into it, unbuttoning my coat.
“What’s going on, Marco? It's not like you to drop by for a social visit,” he says, going straight to business.
“I need your help,” I reply, my eyes pinned on him.
He squints, wonder flickering in his gaze. “With what?”
“I need you to help me set up a meeting with Viktor Petrov,” I say, my voice tinged with confidence.
Viktor Petrov is the Pakhan of the Bratva. People know him for his ruthlessness, cruelty, and strategic mind. He has more eyes and ears in the streets than every other powerful man in the city.
Matteo's brows arch, a light chuckle, especially his lips. “You can't be serious,” he says, his expression darkening slightly.
“Never been more serious in my life,” I respond.
He watches me in silence, then leans forward, elbows on his mahogany table. “Listen, Marco, Viktor Petrov isn't someone that you can decide to set up a meeting with on a whim.”
I edge closer. “I know. And I wouldn't ask this of you if it wasn't important.”
“Does this have anything to do with my sister?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“What's going on, Marco?” he demands, looking right at me.
I don't say a word yet, I just stare blankly. Whatever's going on, Olivia is keeping it hushed because she doesn't want anyone finding out. She's going through a lot of trouble to keep it quiet. I can't say anything.
“I'm not sure yet,” I reply. “But perhaps this meeting with Viktor Petrov will help set things right.” I adjust in my chair. “Look, I know I'm asking a lot, but this is urgent, and I just need you to trust me. Please.”
Matteo's eyes are locked on me as he thinks for a moment before responding. “Petrov owes me a favor. He should meet with you.”
I nod, gratitude flashing in my eyes. “Thank you.”
“I just hope you know what you're doing, Marco,” Matteo says, his voice dripping with caution, his suspicious gaze fixated on me.
_________
True to his word, Matteo set up the meeting and Petrov agreed to see me in his office.
I'm seated across his desk as he reclines in his chair, a stick of cigarette between his lips. A thread of smoke swirls around him and the air is thick with the scent of Cuban cigars. A half-filled glass adorns his table and a bottle of vodka stands large beside his laptop.
His long curly hair is styled in a bun and his green eyes seem to simmer in the light. He releases a puff of smoke and says, his voice deep and husky, “Matteo tells me that whatever you have to say is…important.” His Russian accent cuts deep in his tone.
“It is,” I reply, placing the bug on his table and sliding it over to him.
Petrov picks it up and examines the device. “What's this?”
“I was hoping you'd tell me,” I say, watching how he studies the bug with squinted eyes.
“This is a high-tech audio bug—very effective and also very rare,” he says without taking his eyes off the device. “There's only one person I know that has access to such equipment.”
Now, we're getting somewhere.
“Who?” I ask, my voice calm and devoid of desperation.
He shifts his gaze from the device and looks at me. Petrov stares like he's trying to read me, his eyes narrowing, but I maintain a blank expression.
“Nova Koslov,” he says after a short while as he sets the device on the table. “The man's a highly skilled independent operative who specializes in information warfare and assassination.”
I know who that fucker is. But why the fuck is he spying on Olivia? What business does he have with her? It doesn't add up. Something's missing.
“Nova is a bastard,” Petrov continues. “The selfish asshole has been selling mafia secrets to our rivals and the Bratva have been after him for a while now.”
Nova is a mutual enemy, fantastic.
“It's interesting to know that we're after the same person.” Petrov picks up a file and slides it over to me. “Check it out.”
As I flip through the pages, I realize it's a collection of photos taken of Nova. From the angles of the shots, I believe these are spy photographs—the Bratva really is looking for this guy.
"They have trained Nova to hide in the shadows, but we'll get him... someday," Petrov says.
My eyes narrow on a photo of Nova and Hunter Calderon—they're both standing across from each other, discussing. The more I flip through the pages, the more images of them I see.
This only proves that they're working together. But why? What does Nova stand to gain from all of this?
The door opens, and a tall tattooed man waltzes in, “Pakhan…” he calls Petrov's attention and says something in Russian.
I raise my head and watch him hand his boss a USB drive.
Petrov accepts it and inserts the device into his laptop. A smirk plays on his lips as his eyes stare at his lit screen. Soon, his attention shifts to me and asks, “You work for the Bellanti, da?”
I nod slowly, suspicion creeping into my gaze.
“You might wanna look at this.” He turns the screen in my direction.
There's video footage playing on the flickering screen. In it, a red car hits a man I recognize to be Enzo DiMartino. The video has no sound, and the time stamp indicates the incident happened 7 years ago. The car door opens, and that's when my eyes narrow and my breath hitches in my throat.
I watch Olivia step out of the vehicle, her hand over her mouth, her face a mask of horror.
She looks around to be sure that no one saw her and then rushes to check Enzo's pulse.
She's crying, her chest is heaving rapidly, and her hands are ruffling her hair.
She looks confused, afraid—terrified. And then seconds later, she sprints back to her car and drives away.
Whoever sent this video—Hunter or Nova—must be trying to cut a deal with the Bratva and my gut says this can only be Nova.
I sit back in my chair, a thousand thoughts overlapping in my mind. This is what she's been hiding—the accidental murder of Enzo DiMartino. That explains a lot.
My phone chimes in my pocket; it's an alert. Olivia's security has been tampered with. My heart skips a beat, and I immediately dial her number. It rings, but she doesn’t pick up.
Finally, she answers.
“Ollie, are you okay?” I ask, my voice laced with urgency.
“Ollie can't come to the phone right now,” a distorted, static voice says. “She's mine.”
My jaw tightens, and my blood boils with fury.