43. Lorenzo
LORENZO
Francesco disappears eight days before the newspapers finally admit it.
By then, everyone already knows.
Headlines always arrive late.
I stand in my office with a cup of black coffee while the television mounted on the far wall runs through another morning report.
“...authorities continue searching for Francesco Ricardo, who was reported missing by family representatives earlier this week...”
A photograph of Francesco fills the screen.
Expensive suit.
Confident smile.
The same face that walked into a hotel room carrying a gun.
The reporter continues.
“...police have not confirmed foul play...”
I switch off the television.
Silence returns.
The city outside my windows is already awake. Traffic crawls through the streets below. Boats move along the river. Men hurry into offices where they pretend business and crime never sit at the same table.
No one accuses me.
Not publicly.
That would require courage.
Or evidence.
Most men have neither.
But I know what they say behind closed doors.
Francesco is gone.
Lorenzo is expanding.
The timing speaks loudly enough.
My phone vibrates.
A message from Mateo.
Port agreements completed.
Three new warehouse contracts signed.
North district representatives accepted terms.
I type one word.
Good.
The work continues.
That is what people never understand.
They expect violence to change everything.
It rarely does.
Paperwork changes more.
A signature can move millions.
A frightened businessman can shift an entire supply route.
A missing rival can make negotiations much easier.
Since Francesco disappeared, meetings have become shorter. Arguments end faster. Men who once demanded concessions now arrive asking what terms remain available.
They understand reality.
Those who do not understand it are already being escorted from conference rooms.
The streets come later.
Boardrooms come first.
That is where decisions are made.
The door opens.
Hugo walks in carrying a leather folder beneath one arm.
He looks tired.
That gets my attention.
Hugo rarely looks tired.
Lawyers survive on caffeine, deadlines, and the stubborn refusal to die before a contract is signed.
“You look terrible,” I say.
I gesture toward the chair.
“Sit.”
He does.
The folder lands on my desk, but he does not open it right away.
Another bad sign.
I lean back.
“What is it?”
Hugo studies me for a moment.
Then he says the words.
“Victoria’s mother.”
Every thought in my head changes direction.
“What about her?”
Hugo opens the folder.
Several photographs slide across the desk.
I pick up the first.
Restaurant patio.
Outdoor seating.
Two people sharing lunch.
One of them is Isabella.
The other man is unfamiliar.
Mid-sixties.
Grey hair.
Dark coat.
No expression.
The kind of face people forget seconds after seeing it.
Which usually means they should not.
I look at Hugo.
“Who is he?”
“Mikhail Volkov.”
The name means nothing.
Then Hugo continues, and the room changes with it.
“Francesco’s uncle.”
Silence settles.
I look down at the photograph again.
The man pours Isabella a glass of wine with a polite smile. He looks normal. Harmless.
The sort of man mothers trust.
The sort of man I never trust.
“Explain.”
Hugo removes another photograph.
Different restaurant.
Different date.
Same man.
Same woman.
Then another.
And another.
Months apart.
Years apart.
My jaw tightens.
“How long?”
“Five years.”
I look up.
“Five years?”
“At least.”
I let out a slow breath, trying to make sense of it.
Victoria knows about Mikhail and her mother.
There is no question in my mind.
A relationship lasting five years does not stay hidden forever, not from a daughter who notices as much as Victoria does.
What I do not believe is that she knows who he really is.
If she knew he was connected to Francesco, she would have said something. Asked questions. Reacted. There would have been some sign.
There was nothing.
No recognition.
No understanding of what his name meant.
“Keep talking.”
Hugo folds his hands.
“Mikhail Volkov is Francesco’s uncle through his mother’s side.”
I say nothing.
“He isn’t active in the traditional sense anymore.”
“Meaning?”
“He doesn’t lead soldiers through streets.”
He slides another document toward me.
“He owns shipping companies.”
Another page.
“Investment groups.”
Another.
“Construction firms.”
I read the names.
Most are legitimate.
Which makes them useful.
“He built distance between himself and the Volkov organisation years ago.”
“Officially.”
“Officially,” Hugo agrees.
The distinction matters.
Official records lie beautifully.
Real life keeps its truth elsewhere.
I continue reading.
Then I stop.
The same name appears three times.
Volkov Syndicate.
My eyes lift.
“Hugo.”
“Yes.”
“How much of Francesco’s operation came from him?”
Hugo does not answer right away.
Instead, he opens another section of the file.
Bank transfers.
Trust accounts.
Corporate loans.
Private financing.
The numbers run for pages.
I understand before he speaks.
“All of it.”
“Most of it.”
I set the paper down.
Francesco never had enough money.
Not truly.
He spent too much.
Started too many fights.
Made too many mistakes.
Yet cash always appeared.
Now I know why.
Mikhail.
The old bastard was paying the bills.
“Sources in Moscow believe Francesco answered to him more than he answered to his own father.”
That makes sense.
More than it should.
Francesco never behaved like a man building his own future.
He behaved like a man spending someone else’s money.
I stand and walk toward the window.
Rain drifts across the glass.
The city looks calm.
It rarely is.
“What else?”
Hugo joins me.
“Several years ago, Mikhail turned on sections of the Volkov Bratva.”
I look at him.
“Turned how?”
“He sold information.”
That gets my full attention.
“He gave up routes, assets, and people.”
“For what?”
“Influence.”
I nod slowly.
That answer sounds familiar.
Men rarely betray only to survive.
Most betray because they want more than they have.
Hugo continues.
“Our sources believe Francesco wasn’t the goal.”
“What was?”
“You.”
I face him fully.
He does not blink.
“Mikhail backed Francesco because Francesco gave him access.”
“To my territory.”
“To yours.”
The pieces begin to fit.
Francesco chasing Victoria.
The pressure.
The attacks.
The money that kept appearing.
None of it began with Francesco.
Francesco was merely loud enough to be noticed.
The old man behind him stayed invisible.
Until now.
“What was the endgame?”
Hugo answers at once.
“He wanted both organisations.”
The oldest motive in the world.
I look back at the photographs.
Isabella laughing over lunch.
Mikhail smiling across the table.
Victoria’s mother sitting beside a man whose fingerprints stretch across half the problems in my life.
“Does Isabella know?”
Hugo shakes his head.
“I don’t think so.”
I study the photograph again.
No.
She does not.
If she knew, she would not look that comfortable.
“Victoria?”
“Nothing suggests she knows either.”
That is almost worse.
Because Victoria was just there.
With Olivia.
Walking straight into a situation she could not even see.
My phone is already in my hand.
Matteo answers before the second ring.
“Don.”
“Pull every file we have on Mikhail Volkov.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
His voice hardens.
“Understood.”
I end the call.
Hugo watches me.
“You think he’s moving already.”
I pick up the photograph and study it again.
“He started moving years ago.”
Preparation happened long before anyone noticed.
What I am seeing now is the result.
I return to my desk, open my laptop, and begin issuing instructions.
Surveillance teams.
Financial reviews.
Property records.
Border activity.
Private flights.
Known associates.
No one argues.
No one wastes time.
If there is a threat, I want to understand it before it reaches us.
An hour later, Matteo arrives with fresh reports.
Three hours after that, Dante calls from the docks.
By evening, I know where Mikhail eats, where he sleeps, which driver takes him to meetings, and which company launders part of his money.
I even know about the apartment he keeps for women who are not Isabella.
Useful.
Not enough.
After dark, another report lands on my desk.
I read it once.
Then again.
My jaw tightens.
Matteo notices immediately.
“What is it?”
I hand him the page.
He reads in silence before looking up.
“When?”
“Two hours ago.”
“Nobody saw him leave?”
“No.”
The answer sits heavily between us.
Men like Mikhail do not abandon routines without a reason.
I walk to the window.
The city moves below me as though nothing has changed. Traffic crawls through the streets. Restaurants fill. News stations keep talking about Francesco.
No one realises another problem is already taking shape.
My phone is in my hand before I fully decide to reach for it.
I think of Victoria.
Then Elsie.
Then Isabella, unaware of how carefully this man plans everything.
I call Dante.
He answers immediately.
“Don.”
“Double Victoria’s surveillance.”
A brief pause.
“Problem?”
“Potentially.”
“Understood.”
I end the call.
Matteo waits until I set the phone down.
“What happens now?”
I look at the report again.
The final line is simple enough.
Mikhail Volkov failed to arrive at tonight’s meeting. Current location unknown.
I set the report aside and reach for my coat.
A visible enemy can be watched.
A missing one cannot.
And tonight, Mikhail Volkov is nowhere to be found.