Page 11 of Gilded Saint

Back at the hotel, I stop at the bar and order a bourbon on the rocks. It’s no Macallan, but it’s needed. What a long fucking day.

Before Nick knocked them down a peg, the Lupi Grigi were the most formidable of the Italian mafia. The Russians, as a whole, are worse, but they’ve been preoccupied with war in recent years. They’ve also been forging alliances with China and Iran. Gagliano’s expansion into the shadow fleet means the Russians are bolstering European alliances too.

There was a time when the mafia and cartels stayed in their own cities and most of their income was derived from alcohol or drugs. Now they hold influence across every political spectrum. In some countries, they are the leadership. Powerful leaders, the ones who influence events under the banner of maintaining a strong worldwide economy, will never eradicate them, because they serve as soldiers on the ground.

“Would you like another?” The bartender asks.

“Si, grazi.” I have another while catching up on the news. There’s a television behind the bartender, but I don’t watch it. I can’t stand talking heads who dilute a complex issue into a thirty-second sound bite. In-depth articles, if written well, provide the details needed for any understanding of the reality of a situation.

“Would you like another?” the bartender asks. I’ve no idea how much time has passed.

“No.Grazi.” After scribbling out my room number, I push back, ready to call it a night. Three drinks are plenty. A headache in the morning would make tomorrow unbearable.

As I approach my room, I slow. The wire I laid out is broken. The Do Not Disturb sign dangles off kilter from the knob where I left it. And I don’t have my fucking gun.

I knock on the door and announce in my best Italian, “Room service.”

I give the intruder time to hide, press the plastic key to the door, stepping to the side should bullets fly, and push open the door with my foot. My SIG rests on the entry table where I left it.

No one is behind the door, no one down the hall. I step in, snatch the gun, check the chamber, and my muscles relax as my fingers wrap around the smooth grip.

If someone’s in here, they’re a novice. Would explain the broken wire. Maybe it’s a common thief.

I’m in a suite, but since I’m by myself, my carry-on is open on the bed. I checked in this afternoon. Nothing appears out of place.

A rustle near the curtains has me flicking the lights. Behind the drapes.Common thief.

I whip the curtain back.

A blood curdling scream rips through the room.

Hands thrust sky high.

Blonde hair.

Floral dress.

It’s the girl from earlier.

“Why are you in my room?” I lower my gun, but I’m not about to set it down.

“I need to talk to you.” Fear ripples through those wide eyes.

She’s pressed herself against the glass, as if I’m going to strike and she’s trying to get as far away from me as possible.

“So you broke into my room?”

She tracks my gun. In the moonlight, earlier tonight, her irises had appeared black. Under the fluorescent lights, they’re bright blue against flawless, milky skin.

She’s young. What the hell is she doing breaking into my room?

She’s too slight to be much of a risk. I stretch my fingers, holding the piece with my thumb and index finger, pointing it to the side of the room, a universal symbol for “I’m not looking to blow your brains out right now.”

“Why are you in my room?” I step back, giving her space but still unwilling to set the gun down just yet. “And how’d you do it?”

“One of the hotel staff was doing turn down service. I asked if she’d open my room for me. I told her my father had a migraine, and I didn’t want to wake him, but I’d lost my card.”

“And she let you in?”

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