Page 143 of The Wild Charge

Toly nodded, and left, snagging an abandoned bit of charcuterie on his way through the kitchen. He munched pepperoni and fired off a text one-handed on the sidewalk:It’s done.

~*~

Taylor Bruni had been dubbed Topino by his old employer, a nickname that set anxiety squirming in his belly. When he’d first prospected, he’d made the mistake of sharing it with his would-be club brothers, and they’d taken it up – but they’d said it then and now with nothing but good humor and affection, and so it had become his road name, was inked under his left shoulder blade, and it had become a name that fit him warm and cozy as a well-loved sweater.

Tonight, he wore his favorite leather jacket over a hoodie, the hood shielding most of his face. Hands in his pockets, 1911 jammed in the back of his waistband out of sight, he approached a food cart that had no business being open this late. The scent of baked, greasy pastry floated toward him, and as he neared, the cart’s operator lifted his head lazily from the paper he was reading by streetlight.

“Good evening,” he greeted without enthusiasm, his Russian accent light, but detectable. “Pirozhki?”

“Sure.” He fished out a bill and offered it between two fingers. “I’ll take whatever’s on late-night special.”

The man stilled, tension stealing through him. His gaze sharpened, and fixed on Topino’s face. He didn’t recognize him, because of course he didn’t; that was the reason Topino had been the one sent on this errand. His gaze shifted then to the offered money – a clean, new $100 bill.

A beat passed, then the man nodded. “Tonight’s special is beef and onions.” He withdrew a pen and a scrap of paper. Jotted down a number and passed it over.

“Smells delicious, thanks.”

He walked around the corner before he dialed. An equally bored, accented voice answered on the second ring. “What?”

“I’ve got some valuable information for your Pakhan,” Topino said, and the other end of the line went silent, not even a rustle of breath. “The Espositos are planning on hitting you tomorrow, but Gino isn’t really the decision-maker in that family. He answers to his cousin, Sal Moretti, who doesn’t like to get his hands dirty. My advice would be to clear your people out, and strike first. Forget Gino: go after Moretti. He’s trying to take over the Kozlov Abacus loans for himself. He’s hosting a business lunch tomorrow with some VIPs. Clara Luna restaurant at two.”

Before he could receive an answer, he ended the call. He pulled out a cloth, wiped his prints off the burner cell, and tossed it in the nearest trash can. Then he walked back to his bike.

~*~

Trap: set.

Thirty-Nine

Ian finished tucking a pale blue pocket square into Tenny’s breast pocket, then stepped back, rested his chin on his knuckles, and gave him a critical once-over. “The wig…could be better.”

“It’s the best we can do on short notice, and it wasn’t cheap,” Raven said, arranging the ends of it and giving them one last pass with the flat iron.

“I know. All told, not bad. The suit fits well, at least.”

Tenny was no stranger to fittings with tailors, with measurements and cosmetics and being fussed over like a bride, all in the name of altering his appearance for an op. This was no different…in the sense that it was an op. But having Ian and Raven primp him felt much more intimate, and also…relaxing, in an odd way. These weren’t handlers or techs; one was his friend, the other was his sister (even if he didn’t want to admit it), and all of it felt a bit surreal.

Ian took his shoulder and turned him toward the mirror. “Have a look.” His lips quirked, threatening a smile.

A jolt moved through Tenny when he caught sight of his reflection. In one of Ian’s dove-gray suits, blue shirt, pocket square neatly tucked, with a long, auburn wig, Ian’s watch, and Raven’s deft application of a little makeup, he hardly recognized himself.

Ian stepped in close, so their faces rested beside one another. His hair had been carefully braided and tucked up into a black beanie, paired with a slouchy black turtleneck and skinny jeans. Tenny searched their faces, wondering if the disguise would hold. Ian’s nose was a little larger and sharper than Tenny’s, and Tenny’s eyes tilted upward at the outer corners. But that freshwater blue was passably similar, and they both had the finely-bred bone structure of an aristocrat. They were of a height and build. Ian’s hands and feet were larger, but that wasn’t the sort of thing a potential business partner would make note of.

Tenny reached to tweak a lock of his wig, tucked it behind his ear, and let out a deep breath.

“Nervous?” Ian asked, tone sympathetic.

“Only that this thing won’t stay on.” He lifted his nose to a haughty angle. “I’m never nervous about my acting.” He shifted his posture, curved his lips in a mocking little smile, and affected one of Ian’s more elaborate hand gestures. “Darling, I’m afraid I can’t concentrate on a word you’re saying while you’re wearing thatdreadfulhat.”

Ian grinned.

Raven let out an unladylike snort as she stepped up next to him. “God, you’ve even mastered the voice.”

Tenny tossed his head and sent his long, auburn hair shimmering back over his shoulder. “Nothing to it, really.”

Raven rolled her eyes. “It’s a good thing you’re useful, because you’re an insufferable brat. Both of you,” she added, as she turned away.

Ian affected a bewildered expression. “I’ve no idea what she means by that.”

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