9. Victor
VICTOR
The Mediterranean sun burns through the tinted window of the car, turning the leather seat warm beneath me. I shift, adjusting the collar of my custom linen suit, a pale cream color. The fabric breathes against my skin, light and expensive, nothing like the heavy wool I wear in Bucharest.
Sanremo unfolds outside the window in layers of buildings stacked against the hillside. Palm trees line the streets, swaying in the coastal breeze. The air smells of the sea and a hint of citrus. Better than the exhaust fumes and concrete of Bucharest.
Everything here has a hint of wealth to it, polished and pristine.
My driver, a local hire who speaks very little English and whose only loyalty is to the euros in his pocket, navigates the winding coastal road from my hotel to the casino.
I glance down and check my white gold Patek Philippe, and it reads 1:43 p.m. A little later than I wanted it to be, but it's fine.
I look back out the window and think.
Here, I'm not Victor Ionescu, future politician and fixer for the Romanian underworld.
I'm Stefan Radovi?, a wealthy investor from Montenegro with too much money and too little sense.
The kind of man who throws chips around at baccarat tables and buys bottles of champagne for strangers because he can.
The kind of man nobody looks at twice because men like him are everywhere on the Italian Riviera.
The act won't be difficult; it's exactly who I was ten years ago. The memory of that kind of recklessness doesn't sit right with me anymore, so I push it away.
The car passes the harbor, where large yachts bob in the water, their white hulls bright under the sun. I've never seen the appeal of yachts. Spending millions to isolate yourself on the water seems like a failure of imagination when you can control the room from the inside.
We finally pull up to the casino entrance, and I step out into the heat. The building rises high, a masterpiece with ornate balconies and tall arched windows. A doorman in white gloves opens the door, and I nod without speaking.
Inside, the air conditioning hits you so fast you almost shiver.
The marble floors gleam under the light of massive crystal chandeliers, each one dripping with thousands of individual pieces that refract the light.
The scent of expensive perfume and cigar smoke lingers in the air, mingling with flowers from arrangements like the towering vases near the entrance.
My brothers would hate this, especially Matei. All the wealth, the performative displays of status. He'd sneer at the champagne-sipping crowd and call them soft. Lucian would find it pointless and uncomfortable, and Adrian would probably get into a fight within an hour.
But this is my element.
Money and luxury are the best camouflage for murder.
I move through the lobby with that kind of confidence only money buys. My Italian leather shoes make no sound on the floor. A cocktail waitress slides past carrying a tray of champagne flutes, and I pluck one without slowing, taking a sip as I survey the room.
High-stakes tables line the main floor, their green felt surfaces surrounded by well-dressed men who are accompanied by women in slightly revealing dresses.
Dealers shuffle cards as chips are tossed onto the tables. Somewhere, a woman screams and then laughs as the man she's with wins a hand.
It all seems fun, but I'm not here for the games.
I circle the perimeter, my gaze sweeping across the space. Security is heavier than I expected, and tomorrow it'll be even tighter.
I notice a few men in dark suits walking around, pointing and talking. They look like the private contractor type and are probably prepping for tomorrow night's gala.
Looking up, I spot cameras mounted in the corners, their lenses tracking movement across the floor.
There are blind spots, but not many. I note a narrow corridor near the restrooms where the angle doesn't quite reach.
A service door partially obscured by a potted palm.
Small openings, but enough to be comfortable.
If it was anyone else, I'd probably abandon things and wait for another opportunity.
That, however, isn't an option, so I turn and keep walking.
The VIP floor is accessed by a grand staircase at the far end of the room.
Velvet ropes block it off, guarded by two men who look like they bench-press small cars for fun.
I don't approach, not yet. Instead, I drift toward the bar, settling onto a stool and ordering an Aperol Spritz because that's what Stefan Radovi? would drink.
The bartender slides the glass across the counter, and I take a slow sip, letting the bitter orange flavor linger on my tongue. From here, I have a clear view of the main floor and the staircase leading up.
As I'm sitting there calculating things in my head, I hear footsteps and men speaking Russian.
I turn and glance toward the source of the noise and see him.
Dimitri fucking Volkov.
He's shorter than I expected, stocky and broad-shouldered, with salt-and-pepper hair slicked back from a face that looks like it's weathered one too many Russian winters.
He's wearing a dark suit and a lot of gold jewelry. He seems too flamboyant for a don, but that must be how the Bratva does things.
Four guards flank him, their bodies angled to create a protective diamond formation as they move.
I set my glass down and shift slightly in my seat to watch him. My heart rate spikes, but I keep my breathing steady. I'm just another wealthy patron enjoying a drink. Nothing suspicious. Nothing worth noticing.
Dimitri stops near the center of the floor, speaking to a man in a hotel uniform. His voice carries, though I can't make out the words. He gestures toward the staircase, then toward the private rooms off to the side. The hotel manager, I assume, nods rapidly.
I zone in on Dimitri as he talks. This is the man who allowed his son to take Elena.
Who took Cornel's money, my father's money, and looked the other way while the love of my brother's life was beaten and terrorized.
Who now, apparently, has decided the Ionescu family is a problem that needs solving.
I watch him, memorizing every detail. The way he holds himself, shoulders squared, chin up. The way his guards move in sync, never more than two steps away. The way he...
My thoughts stall.
Dimitri grabs something from under his arm and flips open a cover. It's a tablet. He taps the screen with one thick finger, his eyes confused as he reads whatever is displayed there.
He doesn't put it away when he's done talking, and the hotel staff walks away.
Instead, he glances at it again, scrolling with his thumb, checking something, verifying it, and then speaking to his men, who nod and pull out their phones.
It's like that little tablet is his lifeline.
I take another sip of my drink, and my mind shifts into overdrive. If Dimitri Volkov is this protective of that tablet, keeping it and referring to it, then it's not just a toy. It's a key. The key.
Shit, what could be in that thing?
It could hold financial routes, blackmail files, supply lines, payroll. Hell, even politicians on the take. Every dirty secret the Volkov Bratva has buried over the years could be right in that damn device.
Killing him cuts off the head.
But stealing that tablet?
That gives us the power to dismantle their entire syndicate. To expose their operations. To turn their own network against them.
Damn, the things we could use to grow our empire. Delivering this to Lucian would surely take the sting away from making this kill without cluing him in.
I take another sip of my drink, the bitter orange fizz barely registering on my tongue now.
New plan.
Kill Dimitri. Take the tablet.
I look back and watch as Dimitri moves toward the staircase, his guards closing ranks around him. The velvet rope is unhooked, and he ascends, disappearing from view.
I wish I could follow and kill him here and now, but that's suicide.
Tomorrow night, when the gala is in full swing and the champagne is flowing and the guards are distracted by a hundred different moving parts, that's when I'll make my move.
But even as I refocus on the tactical details, the blind spots, the escape routes, the timing, something nags at the edge of my awareness.
I scan the room again, slower this time. My gaze moves across the tables, the bar, the balconies overlooking the main floor. I check the mirrors lining the walls, looking for reflections, for movement.
I tell myself I'm searching for additional security. For threats I might have missed.
But that's a lie.
I'm looking for her.
The blonde Russian with the cold blue eyes. The woman whose lips were close enough to kiss before she drove her knee into me and vanished into the night.
But facts are facts. Since Dimitri Volkov is here, she won't be far behind.
He's the don. She's his cleaner. His elite operative. The one who handles the jobs too delicate or too dirty for anyone else.
She'll be here. Somewhere. Watching. Waiting.
And I want to see her again.
The realization settles in my chest, hot and uncomfortable. I should be focused on the mission. On Dimitri. On the tablet. On securing my family's future.
But instead, part of me is scanning the crowd, searching.
I remember the way her gaze locked on mine, defiant and sharp, even with my gun pressed to her sternum.
She's a distraction. A tactical liability.
And I want nothing more than to see her again.
I drain the rest of my drink and set the glass on the bar. The ice shifts, water pooling at the bottom.
Tomorrow night.
Dimitri's life. The Volkov tablet. And the blonde Russian who thinks she can outsmart me. Maybe I’ll get lucky and have her pinned to the sheets before the night is over.
Three targets. One night.
I push away from the bar and head toward the exit, moving through the casino floor with the same easy confidence I arrived with. The doorman opens the door, and I step back into the sun over the Mediterranean.
My driver is waiting at the curb, and I approach as he opens my door.
"Hotel," I say and slide in.
He nods. "Yes, Mr. Radovi?. Also, I get ticket from front desk," he says, pointing past me.
I turn to the empty seat next to me as he shuts my door.
I see my alias, Stefan Radovi?, embossed on the heavy cardstock envelope. I tear it open. One VIP ticket to tomorrow night's gala.
I smile as my driver pulls into traffic.
I lean back against the leather, letting my eyes close for a moment.
Tomorrow night, when the gala is over and the blood has been spilled, I'll walk away with everything I came for.
And she'll finally understand that she should have killed me when she had the chance.