Page 4 of Gilded Saint

As for Nick’s sister, nothing will ever happen between the two of us. Leo Sullivan exists on paper only. I’d never bring a decent human into my fucked-up world.

“Spoken to Ivy?”

Ivy’s a college classmate of Nick’s. We ran into her at a bar a week ago. Nick went home with an escort, and he believes I went home with Ivy.

“No,” I answer before sipping and savoring the most expensive whisky that’s ever crossed my tongue. It’s smooth and rich like butter. Worth two hundred thousand euros? Fuck, no.

A light flashes on his desk. Nick pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes, wincing.

“Tick tock,” I tease.

“Bloody fucking hell.” He rises, highball glass in hand, and returns to his desk. He has several secure communication devices displayed on the credenza, and a security team ensures none are being traced. The flashing light translates to disaster. It’s the only time someone would dial that number.

Chapter2

Sam, aka Leo, aka Saint

St - Bkgrd on I Lupi Grigi

Pre-2023 Bust, Lupi Grigi owned 25% of the European heroin supply. Current estimate at 15% of mkt. The new leader, Massimo De Luca, is under pressure for growth but lost market share in Europe, and sources say he’s working to break into the US market. As you’re American, they may see you as a valuable contact. Play along. Alessio Gagliano, a Lupi Grigi member, owns Titan Shipping. Sources claim he is expanding into the shadow fleet, specifically doing business on unmarked carriers with Russia, Iran, North Korea, and Syria. Confirm.

I delete the file and the history. Remove and crush the SIM card. There’s a deadness in the air. No, the weight isn’t in the air. It’s in the eyes staring back at me in the glass reflection.

I check the chamber in my Glock out of habit. A gun isn’t required. These men would never fuck with the syndicate. They’ll be schmoozing, throwing drugs and tits my way.

There’s no thrill. Not one iota. That’s the deadness. If playing the world’s fiercest criminals no longer thrills, I’m truly fucked. Not even forty, and I’m bored with life.

I can’t forget why I’m doing this. The mission is critical. But is it really? Five years on this damn op, and has anything changed?

I shuffle through the hotel lobby and climb into the waiting taxi. Two minutes later, the taxi stops in front of another hotel.

Shit. If I’d paid attention, I could’ve walked and gotten some fresh air.

Alessio Gagliano, the shipping titan, is hosting the weekend’s engagement celebration festivities. Nick’s assistant sent an engagement gift. I don’t know who the fuck is getting married, nor do I care. With luck, we’ll do the meet and greet tonight, negotiate tomorrow, and I’ll be free Saturday evening.

The hotel lobby is as grand as the one I’m staying in. The woman behind check-in smiles, and I look away, sending a message that I don’t need her help. There’s a framed pedestal that in Italian reads the celebrated couple’s names with the name of a terrace. My boots and shuffling gait grate against the marble floor. A man in a black suit carrying a tray of bubbly offers me one. I decline, step out onto the terrace, and take in a stunning view of the Mediterranean.

The stone railing, weathered through the centuries, cools my skin. The sense of permanence anchors me. The centuries-old structure underscores the fleeting nature of my life.

A sprawling lawn extends below the balcony, and a woman stands before a similar railing, looking across the sea. Her light blonde strands shimmer in the sunlight, and her sundress flutters around her calves in the breeze. Her slight frame, the wind-tousled waves in her hair, and maybe her dress’s youthful floral pattern remind me of my youngest sister, and an ache pulses.

I squeeze my eyelids shut, burying the weakness. I have a mission. A purpose. Two deep breaths and I open my eyes.

A young man with black hair stands beside the woman. He tilts his head back, laughing. Perhaps they’re the happy couple, although if he’s the one getting married, I’m definitely getting old. The gangly kid looks like he’s sixteen, tops, but my perception of age has been fucked for years. The blonde glances over her shoulder. She’s young as fuck, too. She’s got the curves of a woman, but she’s young.

The Italian mafia families are infamous for marrying young. A few years back, I attended a wedding celebration where they hung the bloodied bridal sheets to prove she was a virgin. Nick said not too many families follow the old ways these days, but now, nothing surprises me. She could be fourteen and her groom fifteen and it would be another day in a fucked-up world.

“Leo Sullivan. Is that you? You don’t have a drink. I need to fire someone,” Massimo De Luca says in perfect English.

Italian conversations buzz all around me, but there’s an understanding that unless an interpreter accompanies me, they should speak to me in English.

I force a chuckle and take Massimo’s hand, then Italian-man-hug and arm slap him. I met him before he claimed the leadership position. Sources say he stepped into the position as capo with little opposition.

Massimo raises a hand, scanning the terrace for the waitstaff.

“They offered,” I say.

He lowers his arm. “You don’t drink. I forget.”

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