Priest is pacing my office, his usually calm façade seething with rage. “Is Cantarelli a rat, a traitor, or just a stupid motherfucker?”
It’s a question we can’t answer until we meet up with him. Giuseppe Cantarelli is one of our capos. He’s also the common denominator in what went down at the drop last night. Cantarelli organized the shipment with the cartel. He wasn’t at the wedding reception or the deal, and he sent some low-level soldiers in his place. Those men were all ambushed, along with Ricky Notaro who went along for the ride, a last-minute decision that ended up costing him his life.
“If he’s a rat or a traitor, then he’s also a stupid motherfucker,” Saint points out. “He had to know this would come back to him.”
Cantarelli was supposed to be the one receiving the shipment, but we’ve learned that he backed out ten minutes before the cartel was supposed to show. Lucky pulled up his bank records and found a recent hefty deposit that’s unexplained.
Andriani soldiers were waiting at the drop, the cartel showed up with the shipment, and then shit hit the fan. The money and the drugs are gone. The cartel is furious. Not only did they lose their product and the money they were expecting in exchange for the shipment, they lost men as well. They’re threatening to cut ties with us, which would strangle our ability to meet the demand on our turf.
The whole thing leaves us in a precarious position in more ways than one.
“Can you see where the money came from?” I ask Lucky, referring to the deposit Cantarelli made.
“Not yet. They’ve been clever about it and covered their tracks.” He frowns at his laptop screen, tapping away on his keys. “But it looks like he’s trying to move it into an offshore account this morning, one that’s in his wife’s name.”
“That makes everything look even greasier than it already did,” Saint mutters.
“Does he think I’m a fucking idiot?” Priest rages. “Luck, divert that blood money to one of our accounts. Make sure it doesn’t get to where he’s trying to send it.”
“On it,” Lucky says, making some clicks with his mouse, concentration etched on his face.
“In the meantime, I want eyes on Cantarelli,” Priest orders Saint. “Find out where he is and put a tail on him.”
“Good call.” Saint picks up his phone and hits a contact, striding to the far corner of my office as he instructs one of our crew to put eyes on Cantarelli. “Call me when you know where he’s at, and don’t let him see you.”
I go back to scrolling through camera footage on my computer, determined to find proof that the Bratva was involved in this one way or another. Priest is pacing like a lion in an enclosure at the zoo, Lucky’s clacking away on his keyboard, and Saint is hammering down the details of keeping tabs on Cantarelli so he can’t give us the slip. Chances are high that he’ll try to run, especially knowing he’s attempting to send a million dollars to an offshore account.
As I’m watching the footage, I can’t help admiring Katya every time she comes into the frame, her wedding dress hugging every inch of her lithe curves. Damn, she’s beautiful. I hit pause and study her for a beat, then click play and watch as she talks with Svetlana, the stepmother who raised her. Her smile is genuine, her posture relaxed. She’s every bit as gorgeous when she’s subdued as she is when she’s spitting fire. Watching her move is like looking at the ocean—she’s naturally graceful. It’s the same way she looks when she’s dancing on a stage. Effortless, stunning, like she was born there.
“Ogling your wife,fratello?”
Saint’s voice gives me a jolt.Cazzo, is that what I’m doing?
“Looking for Sidorov in the frame,” I lie, cutting a glare in his direction before I click and let the video continue.
This obsession I have with my wife is getting out of hand. I’ve never wanted to fuck a woman as badly as I do her. Chiara texted me a picture of her cleavage this morning and told me she misses me.
But the thought of touching Chiara leaves me feeling numb. She’s not the one who’s been driving me crazy with her saucy mouth and her toned ballerina legs. She’s not the one who smellslike ripe summer berries, the one I’ve been jerking my cock to ever since I pulled her off the street.
More time ticks by as I comb through the footage. Saint’s phone buzzes, and when he answers and is on instant alert, I know why without having to ask.
“You’re sure?” he bites out. “Don’t let him out of your sight, and don’t let him see that you’re tailing him either. Let me know if anything changes.” He hangs up and then looks to Priest. “Cantarelli just left his house. They’re trailing him, and I have a live pin.”
“Thank fuck.” Priest glances my way. “You up for this?”
The distraction is exactly what I need.
“Always,” I tell him, ready to go. “I found one shot of Sidorov on the phone at about quarter after eight. It could be the call we’re looking for.”
“We won’t know until we have more information. Grill Cantarelli. Do whatever you have to do. But you shouldn’t go alone.”
“Count me in,” Lucky offers.
I get out a burner phone and fire it up. “Send me the location for the tail.”
The less we can be traced, the better. Today isn’t going to end well for Giuseppe Cantarelli. We’re going to find out what that bastard knows if it’s the last thing we fucking do.
Katya