Page 1 of The Broker
1
VALENTINA
When you’re a hacker working for the Venetian mafia, there aren’t many opportunities for field missions. It’s mostly desk work—shoring up our defenses against incursions, accessing people’s information, that kind of thing. Most of the time, I work out of my home office. I’ve been here for almost ten years, and I’ve never been out in the field, not even once.
Today’s the exception.
It’s a bright November day. The sun shines down on us, summer seemingly reluctant to relinquish its grip on northern Italy. I’m sitting in a car on the outskirts of Bergamo, palms sweating and nerves on edge, waiting to get the all-clear from our security chief before I embark on my first field mission.
I’m here to steal Salvatore Verratti’s computer.
Verratti is the head of the Bergamo Mafia. He seems to have formed an alliance with a Russia Mafia outfit to smuggle guns through Northern Italy into France and the UK. This makes no sense. A partnership with the Russians is the first step on a road that will end with thebratvataking over Verratti’s territory, and he knows it.
But something’s made him desperate. Either the Russians have something on him, or he’s broke.
After weeks of searching, I’ve tracked down the location of the Verratti server to a ramshackle farmhouse just outside Bergamo. The answers I seek are in there.
Now, I just have to go in and get them.
Andreas, an up-and-coming soldier in the Venice mafia, drums his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel and gives me a sideways glance. “You look nervous,” he says. “There’s nothing to worry about. Verratti isn’t there. The only person in the farmhouse is an old caretaker. My baby sister could take him, and she’s the same size as you.” He grins. “Maybe I should call Cecelia. She lives close by and can be here in less than ten minutes.”
“I’m not nervous,” I lie, tamping down my irritation. Andreas is concerned. His voice isn’t condescending, and he’s not hinting that I’m not strong enough for this. Not like Dante would. I tap my earpiece. “Leo, what’s the holdup? It’s almost twelve. Are we good to go?”
Leonardo Cesari, our security chief, answers immediately. “Not yet.”
Every noon, the caretaker leaves to eat lunch at the local pub, and he’s gone for an hour. That’s our window, and it’s tightening every minute we sit here. “Why not? We’re ten minutes away from the farmhouse, and I’m going to need all the time I can get.”
“I have orders to wait,” Leo replies calmly.
“Orders from who? The padrino?”
Leo hesitates for an instant too long before answering my question. I immediately have a bad feeling about this. If Leo doesn’t want to tell me why we’re stalled, it means that the order to wait didn’t come from the padrino.
It came from Dante Colonna.
The Broker.
Second-in-command of the Venetian Mafia, my daughter’s uncle (it’s complicated, okay?) andmy personal nemesis.
Ugh.
I’m about to open my mouth and say something cutting and unwise when I glance in the rearview mirror. A vintage cherry-red Ferrari roars toward us and screeches to a stop in front of our Fiat. The driver’s door swings open, and Dante gets out.
He’s wearing a white linen shirt and expensive jeans that hug his muscular thighs. His dark hair is styled perfectly, and his smoky gray eyes are hidden behind sunglasses. He looks like he stepped out of a fashion magazine.
The devil has no business looking this good.
He strides toward us and opens Andreas’s door. “I’m taking over,” he says to the foot soldier, his voice a low rumble. “Head back to Venice.”
Andreas was hurt this summer, and he told me on the drive here that he’s been looking forward to getting back in the field. But when Dante gives him his marching orders, he doesn’t say a word in protest. Traitor. Instead, his eyes dart to the Ferrari. “Should I drive your car back?” he asks, a little too eagerly.
Dante gives him a long glance. “No. Find a different way back.” He finally deigns to look at me. “Hello, Valentina.”
I wait until he puts the car in motion to reply. “Dante,” I reply shortly. “How’s Andreas going to get back? Walk? Would it kill you to let somebody drive your precious car?”
“No, but if he damages it, I might have to kill him.”
What? My eyes fly to his expressionless face. I have no idea if he’s joking, and I don’t want to find out. “What are you doing here, anyway?”