Chapter 41 Lorenzo
LORENZO
Scotland
How had I let her go? I braced my forearm against the wall above the single-pane window. From our rented room above the pub, I glanced over a stretch of rolling green. Below, the dirt lot sat empty, waiting for drinkers to crawl in.
Rain and I hadn’t left the cargo hold until hours after the MacKenzies departed the plane.
She was concerned that we wouldn’t be able to locate their residence.
Jamie had once mentioned a small cottage in the area that he visited during summers while growing up.
But we never expected the MacKenzies to move into a castle.
Would that make extracting Natasha without their knowledge easier? More rooms, less chance of those good old MacKenzie boys jumping on me like a dog pile. Less chance of breaking the trust between Jamie and me.
I sat wide-legged on a tattered brown couch, writing in my journal: She will be mine. She will be mine. She—
Ideas popped into my head.
“Have the Russians found the body yet?” I scrubbed a hand over my face. Would make my job easier if Vassili Resnov discovered Borya and took that as an additional sign of betrayal and initiated a surgical strike.
I’d exfil Natasha while they terminated each other. Troppo facile. A grin formed on my face. Way too easy.
Enzo, why the hell are you speaking Italian in your head?
Because Vassili stripped me of my identity.
Because the world applauded him for a fight he didn’t even win—my father’s fists rained while my mother cowered in the audience, pregnant with me.
Gotti won, but he beat Mama that night, bruises wrapped around her ribs tighter than his championship belt.
She told me that story in whispers. How the fans screamed Vassili’s name as if my father didn’t exist. As though he hadn’t won.
Papa never forgave her. He never forgave me. He left her in blood and silence, and when she couldn’t take it anymore, she abandoned me too.
And so I wear his ghost—sometimes in his tongue, sometimes in his charm. Il padre perfetto. My father, the great Italian fighter.
“Just a sec.” Rain sat against the bed, laptop in front of her.
After a few clicks of her fingers, she said, “While Resnov’s hired help continue to play dumb because they weren’t paying attention, the police have uncovered a body from the LA River.
Let’s hope it’s our guy and not another LA murder. Yet to be identified.”
Antsy, I crouched onto the ground and opened the case to my MK22 sniper rifle. The black velvet interior gleamed like a coffin lid peeled back. Piece by piece, I laid the weapon onto the sticky carpet. Barrel, scope, stock—each click and lock, a hymn to my obsession.
“What did you do with the voicemails from Natasha to her dad?” I asked.
“Scrubbed,” she muttered while my fingers ran along the barrel—nice and slow. I’d be all over Natasha like this, soon.
“And his calls to them?”
“There were so many. Erased all of his to Lachlan, but I left one voicemail accessible to his daughter,” she mumbled.
Huh. She left one on Natasha’s phone. The stroking ended, and I lifted the stock against the pocket of my shoulder. Beautiful. This wasn’t a perfect fit for all. For me, though? Yep. Perfection. I muttered as much in Italian. “Perfetto.”
“Here we go, the Italian lover.” Rain rolled her eyes.
I sited perfectly, muzzle aimed. Right. Between. Rainita Howard’s eyes. “Come again?” I asked, voice as smooth as the fine caresses I’d offered this beauty.
Through the scope, I readjusted the dial, narrowing my eyes onto Rain.
From a creamy tan blur to live, vivid, and fearful …
I caught her in my crosshairs. Her pulse quickened.
The visual so sharp, I counted her inhales.
Shallow, shaky, fast. Those much too-small breasts—not Natasha’s size—heaved faster.
“I can’t”—I reached above the grip and clicked off the safety—“hear you. Got any suggestions for my Italian accent?”
“It-it sounds genuine.”
“I know. Perfected it myself. Now, you said something about leaving a call from Vassili available on Natasha’s phone.” A lethal threat laced my tone. “Make me understand.”
“I’m sorry.” Her voice was more breathy than audible. “I’m sorry, Enzo. For authentication reasons, I didn’t wipe all Vassili’s voicemails from Natasha’s phone. By now, she’s aware of her father’s concerns. He’d call her. She knows that.”
“So true.” With a twist of the dial, I blurred her face against the scope’s glass, reducing her to obscurity. “This is such a lovely mind game. My father used to do that, Mama said. Disappear behind a charming grin, until his fist snaked out.”
“I th-thought you said he only hit her once? She went into labor?”
Ugh. Mama. Her story constantly changed. But I preferred the beauty of him only hitting her the one time. To. Meet. Me. “Why are you asking me questions and not answering mine?”
Rain picked at her fingers. “Va-Vassili … can’t reach her. She can’t dial him on her phone or Lachlan’s. Anytime they call, fake rings precede the usual voicemail prompt.”
“What about the cousin?” I asked.
“What’s her name?”
“I told you her name, Corporal Rain Howard.”
Her voice became a soft stutter. “I-I’m sorry. I forgot. Please tell me again.”
“First, you ask me a question. Now, you want me to repeat myself.” Chuckling, I pulled the trigger.
“Ahhhhh!” Rain’s eyes snapped shut.
“You are so silly. There’s no magazine in the stock, cara. You practiced with these guns, right? Before going to cyber ops?”
“I-I …”
At this point, I doubted her ability to think coherently, let alone speak.
My father used to tell Mama she wasn’t allowed to forget things either.
And when she did … well, she showed me pictures of her in long sleeves during summer.
After her death, a therapist mentioned how she suffered from some …
diagnosis. Something where her mind got confused during stress.
Utter crap! Nothing was wrong with Mama!
I’d walked out when the therapist muttered something about genetics.
My thoughts went haywire. Italian curses. I cleared my throat. “Mirror Simona’s voice,” I began. “Call Natasha. Let her know—as Simona—that she’ll handle Natasha’s father. I don’t want Natasha worrying.”
Rain caught my eye, a sign of defiance. “Okay.”
“Good. Let’s make her feel better?”
“Okay. This will work if Simona has a personalized voicemail. Can’t process a deepfake without a sample of her voice.”
Let’s hope so. I rolled my eyes.
As Rain made the call, she attached her phone to the laptop’s USB port. She better not disappoint me. Or … herself for that matter.
“She has a short callback message.” Rain sighed. “Not many word choices. My program is analyzing Simona’s voice, and with such a short voicemail prompt, it’s creating probable inflections based on her tone.”
“Use speaker when you call. I need to hear Natasha’s voice.” I glared at the cursive in my journal on the couch. She will be mine.
I didn’t need her in my life. I wanted her … for a day or two. A little while later, Rain made the call.
“Sima? Hey, you haven’t answered me.” Natasha’s voice rang through the speaker, hopeful, sweet. Like Mama’s apology and hope that I’d make something of myself before her breaths became shallower because of the pills.
Rain typed a message that would transcribe Simona’s voice. I waited, pulse matching Natasha’s cadence through the static.
And I smiled, because Father left Mama. But me?
I’d never let Natasha go.
Even if it killed her.