Page 125 of King of Omen

I rang off, thoughts whirling.

A few weeks ago, one of my European contacts, hearing about my woes trying to find reliable security in Sydney, mentioned a local private entity, the Sovereign Group.

I called out for Alessio, even as I typed up their details and searched for their website.

I found an elegant, discreet page with just a paragraph and a phone number - signs of high-level discretion.

Hell, these types of firms needed an introduction.

I growled as I dialled my Euro contact, not caring what damn time it was in Paris.

He answered at once even as Alessio dashed into my office, dragging on a shirt and jeans, eyes bleary.

‘Che cosa?’ he groaned.

The fucker was still dealing with jet lag.

I barked my question to my associate in Paris, and he mumbled back in acquiescence.

He promised to call straight away, the urgency in his voice evident as I stressed my need in no uncertain terms.

I gave him Mia’s address and asked my connection to request a representative from Sovereign to meet us there.

I hung up and turned to Alessio. ‘Shoes on. I’ll catch you up on the way.’

Nabbing weapons, ID and wallets, I led him to the garage, where a second set of wheels waited.

We jumped into the dark silver Range Rover Sport and took off with squealing tyres.

Although we had speed and the blessing of Alessio’s advanced driving skills, our journey to locate Mauri was a joke.

Alessio and I were two clowns, with my brother behind the wheel and me riding shotgun.

We shouted at each other, neither of us with much experience navigating Sydney’s one-way streets and confusing labyrinth lanes.

Car horns blaring, brakes screeching, and yells of frustration serenaded us to the Inner West as we made a myriad of crazy, chaotic dodges and slid by near misses.

Alessio’s hands gripped the steering controls, his knuckles turning white as he tried to maneuver the tight roads and dodge oncoming traffic while my fingers tapped with some angst on my phone screen, checking and rechecking the GPS directions.

Alessio, bless him, grew committed to the ask, leaning forward and squinting at the street signs and map, his face tense and concentrated.

Still, I repressed curses as he drove like a drunken, lost driver weaving through the tumultuous madness of Sydney’s urban sprawl.

With dogged persistence, we pressed on, making our way through the metropolitan chaos until we got to Mia’s address, where we found Mauri slumped on the front sidewalk.

I exploded from the car before Alessio skidded to a halt.

‘Hey,’ I called out as my consigliere glanced up.

One eye was purple, showing promise of turning even darker in hue.

I sucked my teeth. ‘You look like shit.’

‘Fuck off, ‘ Mauri mumbled.

Standing over him was a sizeable man who turned to face me with slow precision as he tagged my approach.

I slowed my roll, taking all of him in.

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