Page 111 of King Of Order

It seemed he shunned subtlety in favor of leaving mega-digital footprints everywhere. He stopped at a famous café, ordered a drink, and paid with a credit card.

I called Mauri, and within minutes, he had remote-hacked the cafe and obtained the plastic money digits Nicco used.

The false name linked to his purchase was enough to lead to his hotel.

He was staying at a luxury resort on Ischia Island, off the coast of Naples.

I felt a cold satisfaction settle over me as I went to the private docks, where a sleek speed boat awaited.

The VanDutch 32 came complete with its minimalist and iconic lines.

It was registered to one of our Calibrese shell companies and was always available when my brothers and I needed it.

I considered my next steps as I leaped into the elegant, ergonomic vessel, turned the engine on, and pointed the axe bow towards the sea.

Nicco had chosen to threaten Chiara. I’d let him walk away to avoid a confrontation in front of my women. I was also sure he was planning to return with more muscle, but I had no concept of letting that happen. Likewise, he was dead wrong for mistaking me as a forgiving man.

The sun was starting to dip below the horizon as I neared The Montparte Resort & Spa. A famed resort on the shores of Ischia Island.

The rays of dying sunshine bounced off the water, casting a soft golden glow on the yacht as I motored into the bay.

The retreat loomed ahead, a five-star sanctuary perched above the sea, surrounded by lush Mediterranean gardens. The sprawling luxury hotel was the kind of place where people come to forget their lives, not to resolve the darker corners of them.

Its grandeur was undeniable—rustic charm blended with modern opulence, white stucco walls, and contemporary finishes—but I wasn’t here for a getaway.

I maneuvered the speed boat to a stop at the hotel’s marina.

I docked and strode towards reception like I was going to war.

A pair of concierges welcomed me, asking whether they could help.

Professionalism and auto smiles wreathed their faces, reminiscent of the service only a place like The Montparte provided.

I waved them off, and they must have sensed I meant business as they nodded and smiled.

I swept past them, through paths that wound through three hectares of parkland, with sweeping views of the Bay and the Gulf of Naples.

It was breathtaking, but it didn’t distract me from the fact that I needed to find out where Nicco was staying.

The marble floors gleamed under the lobby’s golden lights, and an air of quiet sophistication clung to everything. I walked up to the front desk, where a young man in a sharp uniform smiled at me, oblivious to the storm I had brought with me.

‘Buonasera, signore. How can I help you?’

‘Nicco Barbieri,’ I said, leaning in over the counter, letting my tone do the heavy lifting. ‘Which room?’

His smile faltered, but he held his composure. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but we don’t disclose—’

I didn’t have time for bullshit. ‘Listen, you know exactly who he is, and here’s a tip: Barbieri isn’t the type of guest to be fucking with, and neither am I. Now, I’m only going to ask once. Which room is he in?’

My utterance was guttural, no shits given, and the receptionist’s nerves showed in his eyes. He was only a kid, caught between his job and Nicco’s reputation for ruthlessness.

The young man’s fingers fidgeted, and he typed furiously into the computer. ‘He’s in room 318, sir. Please don’t—’

‘I need a card.’

His eyes bugged out until I tilted back enough for him to glimpse the butt of my Wilson.

His face blanched as he scrabbled for one, coding it for Nicco’s room.

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