Chapter 8
M y fingers hover over the keyboard, the familiar rush of adrenaline flooding my system as the laptop recognizes the USB drive.
The first security gate appears on screen—a seemingly simple pin entry field, but I know better.
Raymond's security system is military-grade, with multiple authentication layers.
"This will take a minute," I murmur, more to myself than to Alessio.
The first pin is a six-digit code that changes every twelve hours based on an algorithm. When I accessed it in Raymond's study I discovered the pattern—it's tied to stock market closing numbers from the previous day. Elegant but predictable if you know what you're looking for.
I pull up a simple command prompt and start typing code to bypass the pin generator. My surroundings fade away—the locked room, Alessio's watchful presence, even my own body becomes distant. There's only the code, the challenge, the digital puzzle waiting to be solved.
Lines of text scroll across the screen as my program runs, testing combinations based on yesterday's market closings.
I feel my breathing slow, matching the rhythm of the blinking cursor.
This is where I belong, where I make sense.
Not in glittering ballrooms or at the head of a wedding aisle, but here—in the clean, logical world of code where problems have solutions if you're smart enough to find them.
The program stops, displaying a sequence: 835721.
"Got it," I whisper, entering the pin.
The screen flashes green then transitions to the next security layer. Relief washes through me—the first gate is open. But there are three more to go before we can access the files.
I glance up briefly, catching Alessio's intense gaze. For a moment I'm jarred back to reality—the weight of what we're doing, the lives at stake, the danger surrounding us. But I can't afford to dwell on that now. I need to stay in this flow state where my skills work best.
"One down," I say, turning back to the screen. "Three more to go."
My fingers return to the keyboard, already working on the next security measure—a more complex authentication that requires both a password and a biometric override. Raymond's paranoia created multiple failsafes but his arrogance left exploitable weaknesses.
I lose myself again in the code, in the digital hunt. The world outside the screen ceases to exist as I chase the next solution, following digital breadcrumbs through encryption walls and security protocols.
"How much time do you need?" he asks, his voice cutting through my concentration.
I look up from the screen, a laugh escaping before I can stop it. Not the polite laugh I perfected for society events, but something raw and bitter that scrapes my throat on the way out.
"Days," I say, watching his expression harden. "If it was hours, don't you think I would've done it before the wedding? Then I wouldn't be locked in a room with a man who's looking for the first opportunity to kill me."
His jaw tightens, that muscle in his cheek jumping. "If I wanted you dead?—"
"I know, I know. I'd never have woken up." I wave my hand dismissively, turning back to the screen. "You've made that abundantly clear."
The truth is, I need uninterrupted time with this drive.
Raymond's security system has layers upon layers of encryption, each requiring different techniques to bypass.
The outer shell was simple enough to crack in his study—just enough to glimpse the horror inside—but the complete contents remain locked behind walls of code and authentication.
"Days," Alessio repeats, his thumb moving to his bottom lip, eyes never leaving my face. "That's not acceptable."
"Well, the crypto wallet doesn't care what's acceptable to you.
" I gesture at the screen where another authentication window has appeared.
"This isn't like breaking into someone's Facebook account.
It's military-grade security protecting hundreds of millions in untraceable currency and evidence of crimes that would put half the city's elite in prison. "
I can see the calculation happening behind his dark eyes, weighing the urgency against the reality of what I'm telling him. The Ferretti timeline versus the immovable wall of Raymond's security measures.
"Every shortcut I take increases the risk of triggering failsafes," I add. "If that happens everything on this drive self-destructs. All that evidence—gone. Is that what you want?"
Alessio's brow furrows as he studies the screen over my shoulder.
"I don't understand," he says finally, his voice rough near my ear. "How can both money and files be on the same device? Money is money. Files are files."
I pause my typing and turn slightly to face him, surprised by the question. His expression is deadly serious, those unfathomable eyes fixed on me with genuine confusion. It's easy to forget that not everyone lives in the digital world I inhabit.
"It's not physical money," I explain, keeping my voice neutral. "Cryptocurrency exists as digital code. Think of it like... a bank account number and password but instead of connecting to a bank, it connects to a digital wallet that exists on a blockchain."
His eyes narrow slightly. "Blockchain?"
"A digital ledger," I simplify. "Imagine a book where every transaction is recorded but instead of one person keeping the book, thousands of computers all have copies. That makes it nearly impossible to fake."
I point to the screen where the authentication window waits. "This USB drive contains the keys—essentially the passwords—to access Raymond's crypto wallets. Those wallets hold over four hundred million dollars in Bitcoin and other currencies."
Alessio's expression shifts from confusion to calculation. " Yes I remember the four hundred million you told me it contains. Digital money that can't be traced."
"Exactly. Perfect for illegal operations like organ trafficking.
No paper trail, no bank asking questions.
" I turn back to the screen. "But the drive also contains evidence files— maybe photos, transaction records, victim information.
I broke the system partially. I only had time to access the surface level. There's much more buried deeper."
"Keep going," he orders, his tone hardening again. "How long until you reach the next level?"
I turn back to the keyboard, fingers already moving. "If you stop interrupting me? Maybe three hours for this layer. The next will be even harder."
The authentication window fills with my code as I work, diving back into the digital puzzle before me. Beside me, I feel Alessio's presence like a physical weight, watching every move I make.
The technical shit she's spouting might as well be a foreign language but I understand the value of what she's doing.
But for a moment my focus shifts from the screen to her. The way she leans forward, completely absorbed in her work. The curve of her spine, the way her hair falls forward when she concentrates. She's tucked her legs beneath her on the bed and the position pulls her clothes tight across her ass.
Merda . That ass.
My mouth goes dry as I take in the full shape of her. All soft curves where it matters—hips made for a man's hands to grip, tits that would fill my palms perfectly. The kind of body that makes a man think filthy thoughts in the middle of a fucking operation.
I imagine bending her over that laptop, watching her grind the mattress as I take her from behind. How that perfect ass would feel against my hips, how she'd arch her back and gasp my name when I…
Cazzo. I need to focus.
I shift my weight, forcing my eyes away from Melania's curves. Watching her work shouldn't be this fucking distracting. But it's been weeks since I've been with a woman and my body's reminding me of that fact with painful clarity.
Women have always been easy for me. A look across a crowded club, a drink sent to their table. They come to my bed willingly, eagerly. No attachments, no complications. Just a night of pleasure before we go our separate ways.
That's how I like it. Clean. Simple. I take what I need, give them what they want, and we part satisfied. Sometimes they want more but I make the rules clear from the start. One night. Maybe two if they're particularly skilled with their mouth or know how to move their hips just right.
I've never brought a woman to my actual home. Hotel, their apartment, the occasional back room at Omertà when I couldn't wait. But never somewhere they could learn anything about the real me. Never somewhere they could become a liability.
The last woman I fucked was some model at a social event three weeks ago. I can't remember her name now. Don't need to.
That's how it works in my world. Sex is just another bodily function. Release the tension, clear the mind, move on to the next task. Damiano jokes that I fuck like I kill—efficiently, without mercy, leaving no witnesses. He's not entirely wrong.
I watch Melania work, memories crawling up my spine like unwanted hands. The intensity in her eyes reminds me of Violet.
Violet. Haven't let myself think of that name in years.
Six months. That's all it took for her to crawl under my skin. An American art dealer with honey-blonde hair and a laugh that made people turn their heads. She knew nothing about my world—thought I ran security for high-profile clients’. Technically true.
What we had was... different. Clean. For those six months I'd leave the blood and violence at the door of her Manhattan apartment. Inside those walls I was just a man. Not Damiano's weapon. Not the monster that makes grown men piss themselves when I walk into a room.
"Could I have some water, please?"
Melania's voice snaps me back. She's looking up at me, those amber eyes narrowed slightly. I've been staring at her. For how long?
"What?" My voice comes out rougher than intended.
"Water?" She raises an eyebrow.
I nod once, turning without a word. My thumb traces my bottom lip as I head for the kitchen, my mind still half-trapped in memories.
In the kitchen I grab a bottle of water from the fridge.
My eyes catch on a plate of cookies Ettore left.
The old man's always baking something, claiming the safehouse needs to ‘smell like a home, not a prison’.
I don't have much of a sweet tooth but I remember reading somewhere that sugar spikes concentration.
I take one cookie, then add another.
I return to the room, water bottle in one hand, cookies in the other. Melania doesn't look up when I enter, still absorbed in whatever the fuck she's doing on that laptop. Lines of code scroll across the screen, meaningless to me but clearly making perfect sense to her.
"Here." I place the water bottle on my chair beside her. Then, almost as an afterthought, I drop the cookies next to it.
She glances up, surprise flickering across her face. "Thank you." Her eyes dart to the cookies and I briefly detect an expression other than calculation or fear. Something almost... human.
I drop into the chair across from the bed, stretching my legs out in front of me. The room feels smaller than it did before, the air more sullen. I watch as she reaches for a cookie, still typing with one hand.
She takes a bite, and then—"Mmmmm."
Her moan goes straight to my groin. Low, throaty, pure pleasure. Her eyes close for a moment as she chews, savoring the taste.
My cock stiffens instantly. Fuck.
I shift in my seat, trying to ease the hard pressure against my zipper. That sound. That fucking sound. It's the same noise a woman makes when you graze exactly the right spot inside her. When you curl your fingers and press that place that makes her back arch and her thighs tremble.
She takes another bite, oblivious to what she's doing to me. Another luxurious sigh escapes her lips.
My mind fills with images of those lips wrapped around my cock instead of that cookie. Her eyes looking up at me as I grip her hair, guiding her movements. I'd be gentle at first, let her set the pace, but then?—
"These are incredible," she says, reaching for the second cookie. "I haven't eaten anything this good in days."
I grunt in response, not trusting my voice. My pulse hammers in my throat, blood rushing south. I cross one ankle over my knee, trying to hide the obvious bulge in my pants.
She licks a crumb from her lower lip and I have to look at the floor. Fuck.
"Did you make these?" she asks.
"No." My voice comes out gravel-rough. I clear my throat. "Our cook. Ettore."
She nods, turning her attention back to the laptop. But now I can't focus on anything except the way her mouth moves as she finishes the cookie, the delicate curve of her throat as she swallows, the way her tongue darts out to lick at a stray crumb.
I need to get the fuck out of this room before I do something stupid.