Page 15 of Mafia Obsession

“Worst case?” I ask.

“It’s the signature of an entity we haven’t mapped yet.”

“Should I be concerned?”

“Yes.”

My blood goes cold. Daria doesn’t do false alarms, and if she can’t place the ink with her covert expertise of crime rings, I’m opening a door to an unknown world by pursuing this woman.

Or David Sinclair could just be a tool who thought it was cool to get a neck tattoo with the same symbols used by a criminal organization. With his blond hair and fair eyes, he didn’t look Russian. He had no discerning characteristics that would make me think he’s another one of Yuri Volkov’s bastard sons.

Maybe Sinclair works for them. Or was trying to get a job from Kirill. A favor. Make an offer. His wife…

Pacing, I snap the pencil I didn’t even realize I picked up off my desk.

“She has a mark, as well,” Daria says, redirecting my focus. “On the inside of her wrist.”

“I noticed that, too.” I toss the pencil pieces into a wastebasket and return to her. “Any idea of its origin?”

“That’s an ownership mark,” Daria adds.

My jaw tightens. “You’ve seen that exact one?”

“Not exact,” she admits. “But close enough. Variations show up in controlled environments like cults and trafficking rings. It’s not decorative, Ares. Most likely, the husband made her get it.”

Anger heats my blood now. “It means that piece of shit Sinclair thinks he owns her beyond a damn piece of paper.”

“Or he wants someone specific to believe he does,” she says evenly.

“Someone specific?” I say, surprise rising in my tone.

Daria looks up at me. “I’ll research the tats some more.”

The feed continues to play out, and I watch the momentDavid grabs her wrist.

Not protective. Not affectionate.Impatient.

I grind my molars. “I need to know who Sinclair works for. Who made him get that tattoo and who branded his wife?”

“What if it’s another mafia house like the Vitales?”

“You mean the Borgias.” I remind her.

The Vitales collapsed under Julian Vitale’s gambling debt and penchant for high-priced prostitutes.

Nico Scava, the Borgia Don of Las Vegas, wiped out millions in debt for Vitale’s New York holdings. The fact that no one’s seen Julian Vitale in a year either means he’s dead or in hiding somewhere.

“I need a home address,” I say to end this.

“Hell’s Kitchen. One-bedroom. The lease is in her name.”

That gives me pause. Hell’s Kitchen is a cauldron of men like David Sinclair.

“And the company, Juniper Trading?” I ask, ridding my mind of that man.

“Office in Midtown.”

“Give me a full dossier on Nathan Craig.” I turn away to stare out at the sky. “And a hook into his network. I already have an idea.”