Chapter 25 Augusto
Augusto
There’s a predictable tension in the air when we enter the lobby.
Waiters are already clearing away the breakfast plates, and guests are heading in different directions to start their day.
A scene unfolding at the welcome desk catches my attention.
The Russian’s wife is trying to speak to the hotel staff, but they’re not understanding her.
She’s gesticulating wildly, her face getting redder and redder.
She’s panicking because her husband hasn’t shown up for hours.
A memory of the way he held Erin with a gun to her head fills me with resolve.
Sure, it’s going to make the negotiations tense and even more dangerous than they were, but he fucking deserved to die.
Feeling the tension in her arm, I bend to her ear.
“It’s better that people don’t know about your hidden skill,” I murmur.
“Right.” Her reply is stoic but I can sense the underlying guilt. She knows she can help the woman, but she also knows what’s at stake now. And who that woman is.
I’m the one who deserves to feel guilty. I’ve brought her fully into this now. The secret’s out. What I’m struggling to believe is why she’s still here. She knows the truth about who I am, what this place is and what I’m here to do, and she’s stayed.
I don’t deserve this incredible woman, but if she’s happy to stay by my side through this, I’ll take whatever I can get.
“They’ll find the body soon, surely,” she whispers up at me.
“No they won’t.”
“But won’t it still be there, where we left it? It wasn’t even ten minutes from this building.”
“My man moved it, disposed of it. It no longer… exists.”
Her complexion turns a little puce until I take her hand and stroke my thumb softly over her knuckles.
People are already moving toward the boardroom.
I bend my head toward Erin’s ear. “What are you going to do today?”
She flushes at the closeness, igniting sparks across my skin. “I might go horseback riding again. It’s a little stressful all this, and being outdoors relaxes me.”
Ugh. I stop walking for a moment, bow my head and grip the bridge of my nose between a finger and thumb.
I feel her hand on my arm. “Are you okay?”
My sigh is louder than planned. “I’m not made of stamina, Erin.”
“What?” she asks, confused.
“Seeing you in those breeches and leather boots undid me. I’m not sure I can hold back again.”
She smirks at me. Smirks. “So, don’t.”
Then she walks away leaving me feeling not in the least prepared to face a room full of mobsters with a half-mast cock.
No one looks up as I enter the room and take a seat at the table. The tension in the air feels like an electrical storm, yet no one’s talking about why. No one has mentioned the missing Russian—maybe they don’t yet know he’s missing.
One thing is clear though. Three days in and most everyone in this room has stopped pretending this is a holiday. They’re moving with purpose now, eyes tracking one another in reflective surfaces, their conversations clipped and coded.
But Nicholas is late.
Late to an elite criminal round table isn’t sloppy. Late is deliberate, or, as I well know, out of his hands.
No one says his name but his absence hums like a central heating system, setting the teeth of these black-as-night men on edge.
Five minutes pass and more coffee is served. Ten minutes pass and people start reaching for their phones.
Then, the door opens.
It isn’t ‘Nicholas’ who walks in, of course. It’s someone else.
The man who enters is forgettable by design. Mid-forties, wearing a neutral suit and a neutral face. He’s the sort of person I wouldn’t be able to summon from memory an hour after meeting him.
He remains standing, then says evenly, “Nicholas Parker won’t be attending.”
A low murmur ripples through the room.
“He sends his apologies.”
Interesting, I think, that he was able to do that from beyond the grave.
“You have my assurance this operation will continue without him.”
“Who are you?” I ask.
The man’s gaze slides to me. “I am just a messenger.”
I lean forward in my chair, hands clasped between my legs. “Nicholas was coordinating the deal. Who will oversee it now?”
He barely takes a breath. “I can assure you, oversight remains intact.”
I lean back, folding my arms. “From where?”
He looks back at me but his eyes are hollow, as if devoid of human emotion.
“From the source, of course,” the man replies.
Does he mean Morozov? Surely that would be too easy, and too close to home for the Pakhan. There must be someone else—another middleman between Morozov and Nicholas Parker.
“That’s a little cryptic,” I challenge. I don’t want to make it too obvious I’m there to dig around for answers but these are the sort of questions any self-respecting criminal would ask.
He nods once. “The less you know, the safer it will be for all of you.”
Ah, plausible deniability. Helpful if we should ever be tortured.
“Let’s dispense with the pleasantries,” the Brit says. “We need confirmation of delivery windows.”
The forgettable man turns to him. “The shipment cleared Polish transit forty-eight hours ago. It’s already been broken into smaller consignments.”
Fuck. It’s on the move.
The Floridian looks up. “Which routes have been agreed?”
“Multiple. Baltic ports first.”
I bristle. This is where we could be tainted by association. The Cosa Nostra has a presence in those ports, whether we’re directly involved in the deal or not.
“Secondary transfers by road through Romania and Serbia. Final distribution will be handled locally.”
Now that the Russian has gone, it seems everyone is talking. I listen, I catalogue, I memorize it all.
And now, I know.
The Eastern European black market is selling. Specifically, a faceless entity representing suppliers across a number of territories, selling ex-military, surplus stock, private defense assets.
The buyer is a Polish middleman operating on behalf of fragmented cells, among them terrorist groups and cartels.
The Brits and the Floridians are cleaning, handling and moving the cash—because you can’t simply wire fifty million for illegal weapons.
And Turkish intermediaries are handling distribution that has been deliberately decentralized to avoid seizure.
“What about the borders?” Todd asks, his pasty skin evidence he still hasn’t gotten his nerves under control.
The man smiles faintly. “It is all handled.”
I know what that means. Customs are on the payroll.
All I need now is to find out who this man reports to. Who is really orchestrating this deal. Nicholas was evidently dispensable, as—I suspect—this man is too. It’s the final piece of the puzzle. If I take the time, the place and the product to the Feds, they’ll shrug. They need a name.
“Anonymous leadership creates instability,” I say calmly. “People like to know who they’re working for.”
The man’s eyes find mine again, and this time they’re sharper.
“You’ll receive further instructions when necessary,” he says. “Any deviation from the agreed terms will be considered interference.”
There’s a subtle emphasis on the last word.
Threat noted.
He checks his watch. “That’s all.” Then he leaves without waiting for questions and the door shuts behind him with a soft, final click.
For a moment, no one speaks. Then, as if nothing untoward has just happened—a Russian hasn’t just gone missing, a nothingness man hasn’t just issued our orders and we haven’t just been told an anonymous puppet master none of us have met is orchestrating this entire charade—the room resumes its regular chatter of strategies, logistics and next steps.
I sit quietly and listen.
Because I have almost everything I need.
More importantly, I know there’s an unknown entity at the center of it all—someone who thinks remaining unseen keeps them safe. They’re wrong.
The only person I’m interested in keeping safe—now and as far into the future as I can see—is Erin.