Chapter 13
RAFAELLE
I’m buckling a thigh holster over my cargo pants when the secure phone pings – three short vibrations, one long.
Nightowl’s signature. The only soul outside my bloodline who can find me anywhere on earth and still vanish before sunrise.
I thumb the message open. As always, it’s a riddle:
Salt on skin. Steel underfoot. The water sings tonight.
‘Fanculo,’ I mutter, already typing back on the encrypted keypad. Either they’re going easier on me or I’m getting more adept at Nightowl speak.
I’m not even going to bother to think about how Nightowl knows about a clandestine mission sanctioned from the super-secret bowels of an organisation that’s not supposed to exist. I’m not going to question it though.
So far, our little hacker has been all asset, zero liability. And I’m not checking this free fuck for warts.
My target’s villa’s empty, isn’t it?
Monsters in tin palaces. Sea legs advised.
Tin palace. Lupo’s yacht?
The Nerissa.
Gianfranco Lupo, the silver-tongued heir to a Tuscan dynasty, far too adept at tech laundering, crypto wash pools, and the part that makes my trigger finger itch – child trafficking. A year ago I ghosted his lieutenant in Marseille; the man’s Rolex turned up in a shark’s belly weeks later.
Lupo doubled protection, dove deeper underground and started staging his auctions last-minute with locations switched at a moment’s notice.
I’m not surprised he’s moved this one from his villa to international waters.
A quick check with shady sources shows he’s anchored off Larvotto like a shark in a koi pond.
I slide the phone into an RF-block pouch. Sofiya doesn’t know Nightowl exists, and I intend to keep that advantage.
Across the suite, she’s seated on the sofa, combat boots in her lap, tugging the laces tight. Too slow. Testing my patience – or more likely, baiting me for a reaction.
‘Change of plans,’ I say, strapping my second blade behind my back. ‘We’re going maritime.’
She looks up, eyes narrowing. ‘Since when?’
‘Since five seconds ago. Lupo’s shifted to his yacht.’
‘Source?’
‘Unimpeachable.’ I hope. I zip a duffel and toss her a black dry-bag. ‘I’ll adapt,’ I say, checking the rounds in my Beretta. ‘You keep up.’
She stands. Chin high and defiant. ‘I’m not a rookie, Enforcer.’
I give her a look. Cool, precise and deadly.
‘To me you are, until I say otherwise.’
Her face tightens.
I close the distance between us in three steps and tilt her chin with two fingers.
‘You can take offence if you want. But you’re young.
Still figuring out where to draw your lines.
You chased breadcrumbs but left a trail that I found within ten minutes.
What the hell do you think the people you’re looking for will think of that? If they exist.’
‘Let’s drop the act. We both know they do.’
‘You still think you have a choice in how this plays out. You don’t. I have all the power in this, or it doesn’t happen. I lead, you follow. Simple as. Capisci?’
She’s glaring at me when I continue.
‘Change of entry means change of kit. Dive gear underneath, formal on top you can ditch when we get to the water. Minimal metal.’
She unzips the bag, pulling out a sleek wetsuit and a small, custom PPK with an integrated suppressor. ‘Nice toy.’
‘Stainless. It won’t malfunction if you end up swimming.’
Her brow lifts. ‘Planning to push me overboard?’
‘Only if you slow me down.’
I shrug on a tactical black dress shirt – reinforced button placket with knife plate sewn between the shoulder blades. Over that, a charcoal blazer that drapes just loose enough to hide the holster.
Sofiya disappears into the bathroom with the wetsuit. By the time she returns she’s zipped to the collarbone, curves poured into matte neoprene. She tosses her clothes on the bed and peels another jumpsuit from its hanger.
I whistle. ‘Careful there, tigra. You’ll bankrupt the wrong men wearing that.’
‘Focus, Enforcer.’ She steps into the dress, shimmies it up, then pulls her hair into a sleek knot. ‘How are we getting aboard? Guards will scan invitations.’
I sling a dry-bag over my shoulder. ‘Side service ladder. Yacht’s galley offloads provisions at twenty-thirty.
We’ll neutralise two stewards, steal the uniforms, stroll straight to A-deck ballroom.
’ I grab her chin between thumb and knuckle – gentle, but not soft.
‘Stay where I can see you. This crowd buys girls less prettier than you. If someone touches you, I break fingers before I break skulls.’
Her pulse kicks under my grip. ‘You assuming I need rescuing?’
‘I assume everyone but me is a liability.’
She exhales a shaky breath, but her gaze doesn’t waver. ‘Baseline trust?’ She echoes my words.
I nod. ‘I have your back, you have mine. Don’t get cute and deviate.
Run and I will track you. Get yourself hurt’ – I lean closer, letting her feel the steel of my promise – ‘and I’ll carve souvenirs from whoever drew your blood, after I lock you somewhere you can’t bleed again.
And I fuck a seven-day apology out of that virgin pussy. ’
A tremor flickers across her lips, maybe fear, or desire, or adrenaline. Fuck, probably all of the above. ‘If you go down?’
‘Drag my gorgeous corpse out before the sharks get a taste.’ I grin. ‘And mourn me for a dozen years. At least. Because make no mistake. I’ll make a mean and fuck-hot ghost. And I’ll haunt the shit out of you.’
She chokes on a laugh – half scandalised, half aroused. I love that sound. It makes me want to hear what she moans like.
I toss her a thigh sheath for the PPK. ‘Over your cute-ass hardwear.’
‘Pervert.’
‘You noticed.’
Larvotto Marina – 20:45
Wind carries the scent of salt and engine diesel. Below the pier, a black inflatable with a silent motor idles.
I help Sofiya down the ladder. The jumpsuit adds an extra layer of sin, reminding me of the one she had on when she shot me in the fucking chest; every step flexes neoprene over skin, and my cock’s been a steady ache since she zipped it.
We skim across moonlit water, light spray in our faces.
The Nerissa grows from shimmer to hulking white fortress. Four decks and two helipads. Strings of Edison bulbs trace her silhouette and music drifts over the water, a jarring symphony of smooth saxophone and the brittle laughter of deviant assholes.
We cut engines fifty metres off the stern. Two catering tenders bob beside the loading platform. One security guard, pissing about on his phone.
A pop from my silencer and he drops into the water with barely a splash.
Perfect.
I toss a grapnel hook and limb.
Sofiya follows, knives at the ready as two crewmen step out, cigarettes glowing.
‘Delivery’s late,’ one grumbles in French. ‘I’m going to catch shit from the fucking diva chef.’
I answer with a palm strike to the trachea. He collapses without a sound. Sofiya slits the other’s femoral, her hand clamped over his mouth; the man bleeds out in seconds, eyes wide with a plea to a god who isn’t listening.
She meets my gaze, surprisingly steady with no rookie tremble now – and something hot twists in my gut.
Battle-ready looks fucking good on her.
We ditch our clothes, strip the bodies, don white steward jackets over our wetsuits, slip into polished loafers. Blood wipes off the deck with seawater.
Less evidence than a spilled bottle of rosé.
A-Deck Ballroom – 21:37
From shore, The Nerissa glowed. Inside, she dazzles with the over-gaudiness of a fat pervert with too much money and zero taste.
Crystal chandeliers sway with the tide. A string quartet plays Debussy while waiters glide with Dom Pérignon. Guests wear satin masks – anonymity for auction night. Predators always dress in flourishes and glitter and perfume to hide the rotting underbelly.
I drift past oyster towers, scanning.
Lupo isn’t on this deck, but VIPs watch from the upper gallery until bidding begins.
Beside me, Sofiya balances a silver tray, moving like she’s born for service, though her eyes flick, counting exits, cameras, guards.
We pass a knot of sheikhs. One pinches her ass.
I spin, crack his wrist sideways. A pop of cartilage and he yelps. His guards move. I flash my Beretta under the tray cloth and they step back fast.
‘She’s mine,’ I murmur in Sicilian. ‘Hands off.’
Sofiya shoots me a look, half gratitude, half fury. ‘You don’t own me,’ she hisses when we’re clear.
‘Then explain the hard-on I’ve had since you shot me, tigra,’ I whisper, delighting in the pink stain climbing her neck. ‘Business first, hmm?’ I add, slipping a micro-camera under the buffet rail, patching feed to my phone. Then we wait.
Three minutes. Five.
Two burly guards weave their way through the crowd, murmuring to guests. One by one, the sleazy players drift towards double doors, their final destination for the auction.
I nod at Sofiya.
We ditch the trays, ascend a maintenance ladder behind velvet drapes and enter a mid-deck corridor.
Lupo’s study is ahead.
Sofiya draws, whisper-quiet. Sexy and efficient.
A part of me admits I’d hoped she wouldn’t be this good. That I’d have no choice but to make a definitive decision about her, even before she’s delivered her grandfather.
And now?
I push the whole fucking thing away and breach.
Behind the desk, Lupo lounges in a silver tux, wolfish grin. Counting money he’ll never spend in this life. He’s flanked by two ex-GIGN mercs.
They’re immobilised in under a minute, and my breath barely rises above forty-two bpm.
I perch on the side of his desk as Lupo reaches for his hidden gun. Another pop and his right wrist disintegrates.
‘Buona sera, signore,’ I hiss. ‘Auction’s cancelled.’
He opens his mouth to scream. I clamp my hand over it, the butt of my gun shoved under his ribs.
He gurgles, eyes darting. Pleading.
I drop the gun on the desk and reach for my trusted knife as Sofiya empties his safe. USB drives, ledger, stack of passports the size of a Bible.
I glance down at his left wrist. ‘Nice watch. You’ll be pleased to know your time of death is… 21:49.’