Page 70 of The Broker
I need Dante.
33
DANTE
Ifinish up work and start the short walk back to my house. On the way, I pass a bistro. Light spills out of it, warm and inviting, as does the appetizing smell of tomatoes and garlic.
Two weeks ago, Valentina was teaching me how to cook while teasing me about my lack of survival skills. Those days are in the past. There’s no food at home; my refrigerator is bare.
Bare and cold and empty. Just like my life.
“Colonna,” a familiar voice calls out. It’s Bruno Trevisani.
I stare at him with barely concealed dislike. Leo’s right. I was responsible for what happened. But that doesn’t mean I have to like Trevisani. The man is a born troublemaker, the kind of person who likes to stir shit up and watch the resulting chaos with glee.
I keep my temper under control. “What?” I snap.
Trevisani raises an eyebrow at my tone. “I never heard back from you about the background check you had me run,” he complains. “I thought it was urgent. And you never paid me either.”
“It’s not an issue any longer,” I say, my voice clipped. The longer he stands here, the greater the odds are that I’m going to punch him. “You’ll get your money.”
He nods expansively. “You found out it’s a cover, then? It was well done, I’ll admit. I almost thought everything was okay, but—”
I go very still. “What do you mean, it’s a cover?”
“It took me a while to spot it. The driver’s license, identity card, and passport all looked legit. All came up in the databases, no issues. But then I looked at the photos. You know what I found?”
“Get to the fucking point, Trevisani.”
He frowns at my tone but is too intent on telling me how clever he is to take offense. “He was wearing the same outfit in all the pictures,” he says. “Three different photos, same clothes, as if all the photos were taken on the same day. So, I dug harder. The ID documents are real, but they belong to one Nicola Sardone, an eighty-seven-year-old man living in Milan. Neil Smith or someone close to him must have hacked into our databases and swapped out the details.”
Someone hacked into the national identity database, which is not an easy task. Someone skilled. Someone who’s successfully evaded our every attempt to find him.
Revenant knew Valentina’s name.
It’s all adding up to one inescapable conclusion.
My phone rings, loud and shrill. “Dante,” Valentina says, her voice shaking. “He’s got Angelica.”
34
DANTE
I’ve never moved so fast in my life. It usually takes twenty minutes to get to Dorsoduro from Giudecca; I get there in seven, taking a boat and speeding across the lagoon, breaking several traffic laws along the way.
Leo’s with me. We race into the bácaro. Valentina is seated at a corner table, and her friend Rosa has her arms around her. Several people give the two women curious looks. “Empty the place,” I order. I crouch next to Valentina. Her face is pale, her eyes wide and staring. She’s in shock. “I’m here,” I say, wrapping my hands around hers. “Tell me everything.”
“Angelica had a sleepover at Mabel’s. Silvio came to get her, but they never got there. Zadie called me.” She takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I called her phone, and a man said that I had a hundred million euros of his money, and if I didn’t return it, I wouldn’t see Angelica alive again.” Her grip on my hand tightens. “Dante, I think it’s Neil. Neil Smith is Revenant.”
“I know,” I say grimly. Leo’s on the phone, finding Mabel’s address. “Bruno Trevisani came to tell me his ID was fake. You have a way to track Angelica’s phone. Have you tried it?”
Her bleak expression is answer enough. “It’s okay, we’re going to find her. What time did Silvio leave with Angelica?”
She looks at her phone. “Thirty, no, thirty-five minutes ago. They set out, and I came here. They were going to walk along Campo Santa Margherita. Mabel lives on the other side of the bridge, on the east side of Campo San Pantalon.”
Two of Leo’s guys set off in a run.
Rosa is still here. She shouldn’t be. I’m going to do whatever it takes to find Angelica, no matter how bloody and violent, but she doesn’t need to see it.