Page 7 of The Broker

Revenant isn’t the man’s real name, of course. It’s his hacker handle, the same way mine is Sparrow. He isn’t a stranger to me. On the hacker forums, he’s most likely to leave a scathing reply when a newbie asks a question. He posts long screeds about random topics, implies he’s leaps and bounds ahead of the rest of us, and generally acts like an obnoxious asshole.

Unfortunately, it’s not all bluster. Revenant really does know his job.

But he made a mistake branding his work. Now that I know it’s him, I can comb through every one of his posts. If he’s ever expressed a preference for an algorithm or endorsed a product, I have a way in.

I’m deep in source code on Thursday when my phone beeps with a message from Antonio Moretti. He wants to meet me in his office in an hour.

This is. . .unusual.

Did Dante snitch on me? Is Antonio going to yell at me about the farmhouse expedition? Damn it all to hell.

The padrino is something of an enigma. He’s very private and rarely volunteers information about himself. But he’s a good boss, fair and reasonable, and even if he weren’t, I’d still work for him. Antonio killed Roberto so my daughter wouldn’t have to grow up with a violent and terrifying father, and that’s a debt I can never repay.

I board the ferry and take the short ride to our headquarters in Giudecca. From the outside, the building looks like every other palazzo in Venice—slightly rundown and crumbling under the weight of its own history. Inside is a different story. The walls are made of steel-reinforced concrete; the windows are covered with bulletproof glass, and it’s equipped with a panic room that cannot be breached.

Stefano and Goran are guarding the front. Stefano waves me inside. “He’s expecting you.”

That’s not ominous at all.

I open the door and almost collide with a broad chest.

Dante.

He’s dressed in his customary tailored suit. Today’s outfit is charcoal gray, with a narrow pinstripe running through it. I don’t know fabric as well as Rosa, but I’m pretty sure his suit cost more than a year’s tuition at Angelica’s frighteningly expensive private school.

“What are you doing here?” I snap, and then my brain catches up with my mouth. I’m not being smart. First, Leo heard us squabble yesterday, and now there’s a chance the padrino will overhear us. Bad idea. Men can rage and carry on, and somehow that’s macho, but if I let someone glimpse how irritating I find Dante’s hovering overprotectiveness, I’ll be considered shrill and emotional.

I get my expression under control and smile at Dante, a smile so sweet it sets my teeth on edge. “I didn’t think I’d see you here. What an unexpected pleasure.”

Dante’s eyes laugh at me. “Likewise, Valentina,” he says. “Antonio’s waiting for us.” He gestures to Antonio’s office with a wide sweep of his hand. “After you.”

4

DANTE

Antonio is already in his office. He glances up as we enter, studies Valentina, and then me. “Everything all right with the two of you?”

Valentina opens her mouth, but I interject before she can say something. “Everything’s fine, Padrino. You wanted to see us?”

“Yes.” He waves us to our seats. “The more I think about this Bergamo situation, the more uneasy I get.”

He’s not the only one. Something about this feelsoff. Verratti inherited the organization from his father seven years ago when Federico retired. Since then, he’s made no attempt to expand his territory, no attempt to reach new markets. He’s also not the sharpest thinker in the world, nor is he possessed by burning ambition. So why ally with the Russians?

“He might be hard up for money. It’s rumored that he’s putting up his 1973 Jaguar in an auction next month.”

I can tell from the surprise that flashes across Valentina’s face that she didn’t know that particular tidbit of information. She recovers quickly, though. “Of course, you’d keep track of auto auctions,” she says sweetly, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear, her sarcasm buried under a thick layer of sugar. Today, blue streaks twine through the blonde tresses. Last month, it was purple, matching the frame of her glasses. “I’m assuming you have an alert whenever a classic car comes up for sale. Six cars in a city where you can’t drive should be enough, but—”

“Seven,” I interrupt, my lips twitching. Bantering with Valentina is always fun. “It’s seven cars, not six. Although I don’t buy Jaguars. Too English for me.”

She pushes her glasses up her nose with her middle finger—a subtle fuck-you—and I almost laugh out loud. “Isn’t your suit from Savile Row? Ted Baker, if I’m not wrong.”

Her observation takes me by surprise. Dressed as she is in her customary gray sweatshirt and olive-green cargo pants, I had no idea Valentina paid attention to fine suiting. Her friend Rosa’s influence, no doubt.

That’ll teach me to underestimate her.

Antonio clears his throat. “If the two of you are done squabbling,” he says acerbically, “perhaps we can get back to the problem at hand. The Russians cannot gain a foothold into Bergamo. I will not allow that.”

I snap into alertness. “You want to take over Verratti’s territory.”