Page 70 of Precious Hazard (Perfectly Imperfect #11)
Adriano
Ruffo Enterprises headquarters
Seaport District
The constant skull-pounding pain throbs in my temples, making my damn brain feel like it’s turning into mush under the pressure.
I squeeze the bridge of my nose and lean back in my office chair, hoping this latest migraine will pass quickly if I keep absolutely still.
Just as I settle in for an agonizing hour, a sharp knock on my door sends my misery into overdrive.
“Great,” I sigh.
Considering the late hour and the strange, muffled wails that can be heard even behind the closed door, this could only be one person. My courier.
With another squeeze to my nose and then my temples, which accomplishes fuck all as far as my migraine is concerned, I straighten in my chair.
“Enter.”
The door opens to reveal a middle-aged man with greasy shoulder-length hair and a stringy gray beard. And a sniveling bastard curled up at his feet. Somehow, despite the dirty rag stuffed into his mouth, the roughed-up man’s whining sounds like thunder in my head.
“I have your package,” the bearded guy declares. His voice is tinged with a slight French accent; the articulation is crisp and utterly at odds with his unkempt looks. “Here you go.”
As if to underline his point, he grabs the whining guy by the scruff of the neck and shoves him over the threshold. The poor bound and gagged schmuck rolls across the floor.
I cock my head, assessing the state of my newest acquisition. He seems to have passed out. My gaze shifts to the courier, scrutinizing him from head to toe. By the condition of his dirty, torn clothes, I’d guess he spent at least a week sleeping on the streets. I wonder if he actually did.
“That’s new.” I shift my gaze toward his hair, to the tresses that look as if they haven’t seen soap and water in at least a month. “And I especially like the fake beard.”
The man’s eyes narrow into slits. They are the only flaw in his disguise.
One can change many things about themselves, but the look in their eyes usually gives them away.
The courier’s eyes are clear. Young. Very young.
Staring back at me with fire shining in their depths.
Wild flame. He hasn’t yet learned to control his emotions.
Which only emphasizes his astonishing skills of deception.
That includes the expertly applied makeup on his face.
The crafty mask makes him appear more than twice his actual age.
“So? Are we even now?” he growls.
“Yes. We’re even, Zacharie.” I nod, immediately regretting it when a piercing pain shoots behind my eyes. “Did you have a chance to reconsider my offer to work for me full time?”
“No. I’m satisfied with my new employer.”
I tsk . Bullheaded. Just like his father. And loyal. I should have tried harder and beaten that damn Sicilian to getting the boy out of the Chinese prison. “Alright, pass my congratulations to DeSanti. He gained himself quite an asset.”
The kid’s eyes flare in surprise. “That’s not the kind of information that has been made widely known.”
“As long as there are agents willing to sell intel and parties with means to pay for it, all information is obtainable. Remember that.”
Once Zacharie Allard departs, I head over to the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out at the Boston skyline lit up at night. My delivery is still curled up in the center of my office, stinking up the place with the stench of fear.
It took months and a small fortune, but my sources finally found Tobias Katrakis hiding in some dump in Athens.
Another chunk of cash went to arrange a private flight to get him on this side of the Atlantic.
It was worth it. The old loan shark has plenty of connections in New York that could prove useful, and the information I can get from him makes up for all the money I spent to hunt his ass down.
And then there’s the added bonus. The Cosa Nostra underboss wants the Greek’s head for almost killing his wife.
I’m still contemplating how to wield that leverage, but it’s a good card to have up my sleeve.
I glance at my wristwatch. It’s very tempting to stay and start on the first round of questioning right away.
However, my priorities seem to have changed recently.
Taking my phone out of my pants pocket, I send a text to the security guard downstairs.
My staff knows that I expect prompt action, so he’ll be here momentarily to collect Katrakis.
The Greek is starting to come around, something I cannot allow. Can’t have him getting any crazy ideas at this time.
I approach the semi-conscious man and squat beside him. Young Zacharie Allard roughed him up quite a bit, but there’s still a risk when it comes to Katrakis. And I understand all too well the value of mitigating residual risks.
Grabbing ahold of his foot with my right hand, I lay my left just above his ankle. Some pressure, and a loud snap resonates through the room. Immediately followed by the scream of a poor dumbass unlucky enough to suffer a broken bone.
That’ll do.
Straightening up, I stride across the office, collecting my jacket on my way to the door.
I’ve always been pragmatic. Unhealthy fixations, desires, and petty delusional feelings have never existed in my life. Those are for the common man who cannot aim higher to reach his ambitions. Too easily swayed, distracted, and turned useless, incapable of separating fiction from reality.
Which makes it impossible for me to comprehend my new, inexplicable, and all-consuming obsession.
This fascination I’ve developed and can’t seem to shake off no matter how hard I try.
Like a junkie, I keep thinking that one more fix will be enough to break me out of my addiction. Only to be proved wrong.
It all started with a single cellophane-wrapped confection. An Italian cookie. Half-squished when she offered it to me. Yet, the tri-colored layers of the filling were still distinct. Still tempting. Magical.
Rainbow.
The symbol of her name.
Iris.
The End