Chapter 8 Augusto
Augusto
My pulse is raging.
Maybe I shouldn’t have spoken to her that way. I’ve certainly never spoken to another woman that way, but every word of it was true. I couldn’t fucking think straight.
I stand outside the Rusty Anchor, lighting a cigarette I don’t even want, watching smoke curl into the night and trying to ignore the inconvenient knot in my chest.
Fuck me.
Been a long time since I did that for a woman.
Been even longer since I made the completely unconscious decision to want a woman.
Ever since she walked into me in the coffee shop, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her. Every small interaction—even when she sent back the shirts I bought her—makes me feel curiously alive.
It isn’t just the way she looks, though she’s easily the best looking woman to cross my path in years, with shoulder-length hair the color of wheat, a cute button nose, and wide blue eyes that expose both her fragility and her strength.
It’s her quick wit and her feistiness.
Something tells me she’d give me a run for my money in a way no man would ever dare.
And since that day, I’ve felt this really fucking weird caveman-like urge to protect the damn woman.
That’s a problem.
And the problem with that is, I like problems.
I go to stub out the cigarette when my gaze falls to the guy who felt her up. I’ve a good mind to shove him into the road and let nature—or drivers too intoxicated to spot a lump on the ground—handle it, but my compulsion gets the better of me.
He’s curled on his side when I approach. Bending at the knees, I check for a pulse, knowing it’s unlikely I killed him. It’s weak but it’s there.
I move his left arm back a little, pull his right knee up and tip back his head.
Then I open his mouth, checking for anything that might block the flow of air into his lungs.
Once I’m happy he’ll survive, I straighten and put a call into 911.
Just as I hang up, my phone buzzes with a message from Cristiano.
“We have intel.”
Despite the early hour of the morning, I type out a reply. “I’m on my way.”
“We’re at the penthouse,” comes the response.
Excellent. Benito’s club is just uptown and there’s hardly any traffic at this hour.
I glance one more time at the guy who touched something that wasn’t his to touch, then make my way to my car.
The penthouse is an open plan meeting space that sits several floors above our consigliere’s thriving club, Arena. There’s no décor, just concrete floors, a table and chairs, an old but fully stocked bar, and flickering fluorescents.
Cristiano is leaning back in his chair, tapping a pen against his lips. Benito is behind the bar pouring three glasses of Glenfiddich. He reaches for a fourth when he sees me approach.
The door to the restroom bangs and Nicolò saunters out dressed in nonchalance and yet more expensive shoes.
I settle on a chair opposite Cristiano and wait for the others to sit.
“Sounds serious,” I offer.
“It is.” Cristiano slides a folder across the desk. “We got more intel on the Russians’ latest project.”
I flip it open and see inside a pile of documents with names and signatures, discreet and grainy black and white photos, and… a brochure.
Winter Pines Lodge – A Luxury Retreat for Couples.
I smirk. “Is this a joke?”
“I’m afraid not. On the surface, it’s a married couples retreat. One week filled with wine tastings, golf, yoga...”
I glance sideways at him. “And beneath the surface?”
“It’s a setting for the negotiation of a major international arms shipment, covering Eastern Europe and the Middle East. Black market stuff that could seriously destabilize half the region.
It has Bratva written all over it, so the authorities will catch on eventually, but it won’t just be the Russians who pay. ”
My jaw grinds as I absorb the information.
Cristiano’s right. This is stupid and risky.
As the soon as the Feds get wind of this, they’ll crack down on all organized crime.
We’ve been able to fly under the radar for many years, but this could spell the end, not just for the Russians, but for the Italians, the Irish, the Polish, the Chinese.
Anyone with an oath to abide by and an underground living to make.
“Why does this concern us?” Nicolò cracks his knuckles. An outstanding capo but too young to have seen this kind of bad decision play out. Unfortunately, I don’t have that problem. I’ve seen plenty, and none of it good.
Benito approaches from the bar. “First of all,” he starts, placing the loaded lowballs on the table, “they will need to go through Italian-controlled ports. That involves us whether we like it or not. Second, destabilization will screw us for future trade.”
He places his palms flat to the table and pans his gaze across each of us.
“And third, it’s large-scale arms trafficking.
Shit like that doesn’t go unnoticed. Especially when the Bratva get behind it.
Those fuckers couldn’t lower their voices if their lives depended on it.
It will trigger the CIA, FBI, Europol, Interpol.
Even if we’re not involved, the Bureau doesn’t care. They’ll sweep everyone.”
Cristiano murmurs in agreement. “It’s too big, too loud and too fucking immoral.”
I arch a brow. Pot calling the kettle black and all.
The boss lifts the glass halfway to his lips. “We’re criminals, not terrorists.” Then he tips the lot down his throat.
I drop my gaze to the brochure and feel my jaw tighten. “Who’s on the guest list?”
“Private investors, shady officials, old oligarch money.” Cristiano taps one of the photos. “This is one of Morozov’s men entering the resort, preparing for the negotiations, we believe.”
“Just one?”
Benito slides a glass across the table to me. “We only have confirmation of one. There might be several.”
I feel my blood heat. “You want me to find out who they are?”
“Not exactly,” Cristiano says. “I want you there. At the retreat. On the inside. I want you to be a part of the negotiations. I want to know who is selling, who is buying, what type of arms, what quantities, how they’re being transported and when.
Once we have all that information, we sabotage the deal. ”
“By leaking information to the Feds?”
“Not directly,” Cristiano says, to my relief.
There’s only so ‘cozy’ I like to get with those assholes.
“We’ll utilize our friends in government.
That way there’ll be less of a trail back to us.
Not that it will matter. If you do your job right, they’ll put the whole of Morozov’s organization behind bars before the Russians can retaliate. ”
“Okay…” I look at each of the men, wondering why they haven’t stepped up to spend a week on a luxury retreat doing the kind of dirty work we all live for. “Why me?”
I don’t mind, of course—I love this kind of task. But there are younger, more spritely kids in the family who would relish a week away doing undercover investigations.
Cristiano folded his arms. “Your face isn’t as recognizable as others’.”
He arches a brow as his gaze skates over Benny and Nicolò. The two pretty boys of the family, along with their bombshell girlfriends, have attracted a few column inches in recent months.
“You could easily go under cover. And the other capos… None of them have your experience.”
I close the folder, slowly. “Okay then.” I have nothing to lose—no family, no wives, girlfriends or independents, and this is precisely why. “I’ll do it. What’s the angle?”
“You’re no longer Augie Zanotti.” Cristiano reaches into his jacket pocket then drops a new ID onto the table. “You’re August King. Hot shot hedge fund manager. International money. Looking to invest in… unconventional markets.”
I scan the fake passport. “Arms specifically?”
“Among other things.” Cristiano nods. “You’ll need to hint at political connections overseas, contacts in the Middle East.”
I lean back, considering it. “All sounds doable. I can sell that.”
“There’s just one problem.” Cristiano says, rubbing his fingers over his jaw. “Only married couples are invited.”
I roll my eyes while something inside me deflates. “I need a partner.”
Nicolò drums his fingers on the table. “That won’t be a problem for you, silver fox daddy,” he grins.
I shoot him a glare that says if he calls me that again I’ll give him a silver fox ring around his eye.
This is tough. I haven’t dated in years, preferring the no-strings, hassle-free alternative of a few trusted escorts. The problem is, they’re fairly high profile. The Russians might not recognize me, but they’ll recognize the hookers.
“My regular girls aren’t an option. Too well-known and not convincing enough to play wife for a week.”
Cristiano nods. “And the Russians will sniff that out in five minutes.”
I release a long breath.
Benito runs a finger around the rim of his glass, sending a soft trill into the air. “Tess might do it. I could ask her.”
Nicolò cracks more knuckles. “No, not the sisters. The paparazzi loves them.”
I tip my head back and stare at the ceiling. How can this be so difficult? It’s not like I’ve been impersonating a hermit the last few decades.
“So, I need a woman nobody would connect to me.”
Cristiano sighs. “Exactly.”
Silence stretches. Then it hits me.
Soft eyes. Sharp mouth. Attitude for days.
Erin Applebaum—a proven wife and mother—would be perfect.
I laugh to myself. “Oh, but what a terrible idea.”
Cristiano raises an eyebrow. “What is?”
I lower my chin and look back at them all.
“There’s this woman. Erin. Single mom, going through a divorce. Working at a dive bar on Rivington.” My lips curve and I shake my head. “But she’ll never agree.”
“Why not? She sounds perfect,” Cristiano says, frowning. “No criminal ties. No history. Completely off the radar.”
“She’ll kill me.”
Cristiano smiles. “I thought you liked danger.”
I rub my jaw, giving this serious contemplation. She’d be perfect for the role, if only she were willing to play it. “She already thinks I’m an asshole,” I murmur.
“Good.” Benito rubs his hands together. “Married couples fight. Makes it believable.”
I stand and scrub a sweaty palm down my face. “I’m going to need a miracle.”
“No,” Cristiano corrects. “You’re going to need to convince a woman who thinks you’re an asshole to pretend to be your wife.”
“Yeah.” I pick up the folder—my brief. “Piece of cake.”
But my pulse has kicked up beneath my heavily inked skin. Because navigating a room full of armed Russians is easy. Convincing Erin Applebaum to pretend to be my wife for a week? That could be the hardest part.