15. Getting Closer #3
Hunt down the predators and annihilate them.
Gabriel stood. “You have my number for anything, day or night. Angelo is at the same funeral home as his grandfather. I’m taking care for the service and the director knows.”
Mrs. Moretti stood.
“I need to speak with Mr. Moretti,” Gabriel said.
Her grief-stricken eyes met his. “I’ll tell him.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I failed Angelo. I failed you.”
From the sofa, Nonna said, “Don’t own this one, Gabriel. It will end up killing you.”
Mrs. Moretti walked him to the door. “Let me know when you finish the job, Gabriel.”
“Hai la mia parola.” You have my word.
As he made his way to the street, he reached beneath his jacket and wrapped his hand around his pistol. He had no idea how he’d find Angelo’s assassin, but he had every confidence he would.
The killer was days away from his or her last breath. And he knew that in the depths of his evil, wicked soul.
HALSTON
Halston spent the morning in a meeting translating for the ambassador and his American visitors.
Though she was paying attention, she kept sneaking peaks at her watch.
Never before had she been so anxious to leave.
When the meeting ended, she escorted the attendees to the lobby and returned to her office.
As she was catching up on email, the ambassador entered her office.
She forced a smile. “Excellent meeting, Mr. Ambassador.”
“Yes, very good. It is good to meet successful Americans with deep pockets and much power.”
When he didn’t leave, she said, “Is there anything else I can help you with, sir?”
He sat in the guest chair, steepled his fingers. “I asked you to stop in Milan for thumb drive.”
This oughta be interesting.
“Yes, sir.”
“That person been tracked here. Bob Smith has been assigned to find him. Once we know more, you will meet him, get close to him. Search for thumb drive at his home.”
“Who is he?”
“A career criminal named Gabriel Santini. Extremely dangerous. When Bob finds him, we strategize how you and Bob handle job.”
He knows too damn much.
“Of course, sir. Whatever you need.”
“Speaking of Bob, how was your evening?”
Here we go.
“Very nice. We had drinks at Krov bar. Have you been there?”
“No. No I haven’t.”
She leaned forward. “He asked me to call him Pavel,” she murmured as if she were sharing a great secret.
The ambassador didn’t move. He just continued staring at her. A chill slithered around her heart. Never before had she felt uncomfortable around her boss.
“Um, Minka, I heard from Dmitri Petrov. Bob Smith—Pavel—was supposed to meet Dmitri today, but he didn’t.”
No, he didn’t.
She said nothing.
“Did you go somewhere after Krov?”
She furrowed her brows. “I went home. Why?”
“Did Pavel join you?”
Up went her eyebrows. “At my apartment?”
“Yes.”
“You forced me to have a drink with him. I did, out of respect for you. Now, you’re asking if I had sex with him—”
“Minka—”
“Mr. Ambassador, I think you’ve crossed the line.” She stood, walked to the doorway. “I am insulted and disgusted that you would ask me a personal question.” She gestured for him to leave.
With his mouth set in a hard line, he rose, crossed his arms, and stared down at her. “Pavel was murdered by armed militia.”
She waited a beat, pretending to let his words sink in. “What do you mean murdered?”
“A military man with machine gun went on killing spree at private club.”
She swallowed down the bitter bile. “I’m sorry he’s gone.”
“Do you know this club?”
Her desk phone rang. She ignored it, but it didn’t stop. “Excuse me.” She answered. It was one of her translators. “I will be right up.” She hung up, shot the ambassador a cool stare. “My team needs me.”
But she would not walk out on the ambassador. That would be a sign of disrespect. She knew her place, wouldn’t cross that line, especially now. For all she knew, someone had snapped a photo of her, clothed or in her underwear. Maybe even Donskoy himself.”
“I know Krov bar,” she said. “I don’t know a private club. Was Pavel with anyone?”
“Dmitri Petrov is asking around.”
“Let me know how I can help,” she said.
With a tight nod, he left.
A shiver skirted through her. With Dmitri Petrov questioning the clubbers, there was a strong chance someone had seen her and could describe her to Petrov.
This is not good.
Dmitri Petrov’s like a rabid dog with a bone.
With her small crossbody bag strapped across her chest, she hurried out.
She needed to access the ambassador’s laptop and upload everything she could find.
Without the latex finger from her brother, she was a sitting duck.
It might be days—could be hours—before someone identified her as the woman who entered the Russian sex club with Pavel Donskoy but left with the armed militia.
Never before had she felt the intense pressure as she did in that moment.
As she climbed the stairs and hurried down the hall toward her team, she glanced at the security camera mounted in the ceiling.
Am I being watched?
For the first time since taking the assignment, she did not feel safe at her place of work.