Page 17 of Ruthless Sin
The folder resting under his palm belongs to Marco’s intelligence network. Pale blue. Three sheets of surveillance printout at most. I already know what’s inside before he flips it open.
I drink the liquor slow, letting the burn settle.
He turns the folder around.
Two grainy surveillance photographs slide into view. A man standing at the New Orleans commercial port, checking his watch near a shipping container. The same man at a different angle, taken from a hidden lens two days later. Russian shoulders, built for freezing docks. A coarse beard grown in to blur his jawline against a standard security camera.
“He’s asking after a girl,” Dante says. “Russian nationality. Early twenties. Slight, compact build. Light hair.”
The description is not specific enough to warrant an execution on sight.
It is enough to ruin my pulse.
I take a second swallow, keeping my hand steady.
“They don’t have a name,” I say. “They have a face. A Russian girl who walked out of the Benedetti basement and straight into the wrong fucking news cycle.”
“And by next week?” Dante asks.
“They’ll have a name.”
Dante watches me across the desk, his gaze unblinking.
So I say it for him. “You want me to accelerate the timeline.”
“Yes.”
“How.”
“Transport,” Dante says, tapping his knuckles against the desk. “Gia’s prescribing group therapy for the survivors at Casa Lucia. Tuesday. Eleven. You drive them. You do not step foot inside the clinic building. Ninety minutes total. You wait in the vehicle and you bring them straight back.”
I lean back into the leather of my chair and my hand goes to the back of my neck, where the skin is smooth, and my fingers find the place and stay.
“How’s the acclimation going,” he says, and it isn’t a question.
“She’s in the house,” I tell him. “She hasn’t stabbed anyone. She’s eating half the food Maria brings up to her quarters.”
“Half.”
“Half.”
“That’s not acclimated, Niccolò. That’s surviving.”
“She’s been here weeks, Dante. In our world, surviving is the win.”
“Not anymore. This changes the entire grid.” He taps the folder again, the sound sharp in the quiet study.
“We need her comfortable leaving the compound. Comfortable being in an SUV with you for the round-trip. Comfortable enough that if we have to move her to a safehouse tomorrow, she doesn’t claw through your skin to get away.”
Fuck.
“Dante—”
“Don’t Dante me. Is this assignment going to be a problem for you.”
“No.”
“Because if you can’t handle this girl, tell me right now. I’ll put another brother on the logistics.”
