Lib Novel Page 5
Chapter 2
Two weeks earlier
De Santi Estate, near Taormina, Sicily
“I’m so sorry for calling this early, boss,” my IT specialist says on the other end of the line. “But, it happened again.”
I rear back, my cock slipping out of my latest hookup. She’s sprawled in front of me on the desk, her red hair spilling over the edge. I squeeze the phone at my ear. “What?”
“I don’t understand how,” Mitch continues in a slightly hysterical tone. “We reinstalled all the firewalls, and I had four guys spend the entire night trying to breach them. Everything seemed solid.”
“It wasn’t fucking solid if someone got into our system again,” I snarl.
“Rafael? What’s going on, love?” Constanza pants, looking at me from between her widened legs. Her lips are parted in a flirtatious smile. However, instead of my face, her eyes are fixed on the spot just above my collarbone.
“Get dressed.” I turn around and walk across my office to the open balcony doors. “What did they do this time, Mitch?”
“Created a payment order that initiated a wire transfer from our marketing account to a children’s church choir in Seattle. But it was only twenty dollars, hardly an inconvenience, yes?”
My hand tightens on the balcony doorframe. “We’re the largest personal security company in this part of the world, and someone has been hacking into our systems for months, making us look like morons. You consider that a minor inconvenience?”
“Yes . . . I mean, no. Of course not.”
My gaze passes over the treetops and the lush greenery of the garden below, all the way to the horizon where the early morning sunlight reflects off the endless expanse of the sea. Further down the coast, my two yachts are anchored in a small marina, swaying on the gentle waves.
When Guido and I fled Sicily twenty five years ago, we had no paperwork to be in the US, so there was no means for me to get a legal job, especially as a minor. Pickpocketing on the streets, I’d barely been able to feed my brother. My only choice was to reach out to the local Albanian clan. They agreed to take me and my brother in. But, they set very clear terms. They’d provide the necessary IDs, a roof over our heads, and food so we wouldn’t have to scrounge for scraps, and, in return, I’d have to do their bidding for the next five years, no questions asked. By the time I accepted Dushku’s offer, I hadn’t eaten in nearly two days. Everything I “earned” went toward rent for the room in the rickety garage that served as our home. Faced with either starvation or accepting a deal from the devil, I picked the latter.
At first, I was given errand jobs—running messages too important to risk sending electronically, dealing coke, or making dead bodies disappear. Then, I got assigned to Jemin, to be his backup. As one of Dushku’s enforcers, Jemin was more than happy to take a back seat and have me do all the dirty work for him. Beatings. Torture. And of course, eliminating whoever Dushku deemed expendable, whether they were inside his own organization or someone on the outside who simply stood in his way. I bartered five years of my life and a large part of my soul, to make sure Guido never again went to bed hungry. And then, I spent the next fifteen years building my empire.
It took me two decades to get where I am now. From pitiful scum living on the streets, surviving on crumbs and whatever I could lift from an unsuspecting pocket, to a man whose name demands respect. And inflicts fear. I did it all with my own two hands—clawing and taking—literally stepping over corpses. I might have left my home country as a beggar, but I returned as a ruler. I’m not going to let some goddamned cyberpunk make a fool of me.
“Did you manage to locate the bastard?” I ask.
“No. He’s been using VPN and IP address scramblers, pinning his position all over the globe.”
“And it’s always a different location?”
“Yes. Tokyo. Manila. Chicago. Panama. The Hague. Once, we got a pin in Patagonia. There were nine separate incidents, at different locations every time. Except . . . just a second.” The clicking sounds of fingers rapidly working a keyboard come across the line. “The first incursion six months ago and this latest one both show an IP address in the Chicago area. It”—more typing—“appears that these hacks were done from an internet café. But not the same one.”
The tapping of heels on the wooden floor resonates behind me. I throw a look over my shoulder to find Constanza standing by the couch. She’s wearing the same short red dress I peeled off her an hour ago. One that barely covers her ass and reveals her mile-long legs. Her hair is down, each strand in its place, framing her classically beautiful face. Drop-dead gorgeous. My fucks always are. I’m used to having beautiful women by my side. Money can buy what appearance alone cannot. That’s the reality.
“I’m being interviewed on TV Thursday afternoon.” Constanza’s lips widen into a beaming smile. “There’s this amazing black gown I saw at Albini’s . . . It would be perfect for the occasion.”
I’m sure it would. Albini’s is the most expensive clothing boutique in this part of Europe. But before I let her spend thousands of my money on a dress, she’ll have to learn to look at my face while we talk. And fuck.
“No. You can get a dress at one of the regular shops. Tell them to put it on my account.”
The smile on Constanza’s face wavers, but she quickly hides the slip. She closes the distance between us in a few heel-clicking steps and rises on her toes to kiss me. “Thank you, love.”
There’s a barely detectable flinch as her lips brush mine, and I have to give it to her—she’s probably the best actress out of all the women I have screwed. They all try damn hard to hide their disgust. Some manage better than others. As good as she is, though, like the rest of them, Constanza can’t stomach looking at my face, even in low light.
I don’t mind the fact that the only reason my hookups remain with me for any length of time is for the extravagant trips and lavish gifts I shower them with. Unrivaled luxury—compensation for being subjected to having a beast at their side. It’s a fair compromise. Some chicks can tolerate it for longer. Most can’t.
A few years back, I picked up a woman at a club. Or rather, she picked me up. A well-known socialite from the mainland, she was in Sicily vacationing with her friends. One of them probably told her who I was. She was flying high on life—or maybe it was something more and I didn’t realize it at the time—and was clearly celebrating something that had champagne flowing freely at their table. By the time we made it to a suite at my hotel, she was singing the latest chart-toppers and could barely keep her hands off me. We fucked. Several times. She begged for more. I know how to please a woman in bed. The poor thing even asked me to marry her. But the following morning, when she woke up sober, but definitely hungover, and saw my face, she screamed. Two minutes later, she ran out of the room and straight into a taxi I called for her.
“When are we going to see each other again?” Constanza chirps.
“I’ll call you,” I say, then gesture toward my suit coat she has draped over her shoulders. “Take off my jacket.”