Chapter 7

Gozo, Republic of Malta.

“Harra.” Ruzar swore in Maltese.

His head pounded, grounding him into the mattress, as he seethed with mounting rage. She’d turned her back and walked out the door—like he’d meant nothing. Like the last week was a waste of her time. Charlotte was his Firefly, a light dancing in his dark world, with dazzling energy and blazing hair. She’d made him smile and laugh, and he hadn’t done that in a long while. The door swung open, and Ruzar turned his aching head, praying she’d come back.

His father stood on the threshold, flanked by three bodyguards and his second in command.

Ruzar knew this moment would come, and he clenched the white sheets as his father looked him over. Luca Comino was a good-looking bastard who’d produced handsome sons. Ruzar felt grateful for at least that. If daddy dearest disowned him, Ruzar still had his looks. He waited patiently as the alpha fucker walked to the window. Two men remained outside as the third scanned the room for bugs. His father then turned, looking down at his prone son.

“I give you one job—one small fucking job—and you screw the family over.”

“Papa—”

“Don’t talk when I’m speaking.” Luca Comino’s profile spoke of ageless power as he stared out the window. “Your mother is a wreck. Thanks to you, her third cousin is dead.”

“Andrej was an idiot. I told him to hold off. Told—”

“You told him shit. Literal shit is all that comes out of your mouth. Like manure from a cow’s ass. Andrej called me, the day before and told me you had second thoughts about killing the American women. Said you’d acted like a pussy.”

“The location was all wrong. You shouldn’t have dragged the family into it! I work alone. You forced me to depart from what I do by bringing my imbecile cousin and his sidekick into my business.”

“Your business? Your shit-hole business? Do you think I don’t know what your plans are? You work for the family, and any killing gets done through the family. Except you don’t see it that way. You want to go off—half-cocked—and become an infamous assassin asshole. Why can’t you be like your brother?”

The prodigal son. Ruzar had tried for many years to be like his perfect sibling, but no-one could be that much of a brown noser.

“I killed for you—last year—blew up that detective, and I eliminated those two Russians last month. Investigations have never traced any of our kills back to the family. I’m precise and never leave a trail. Now, you want to lick Serbian ass, merge the two families, and bring in their idiot son?”

His father spoke carefully. “That was your cousin. The body, now lying in the morgue is family. You chose some red-haired bitch over blood—over Andrej who’s not even left in one piece? They couldn’t recover all his smashed-up body parts at the bottom of the damn cliff. And look at your face. The bitch marked you.”

Ruzar restrained himself from running a hand over the bandaged scar at his temple.

His father’s prime henchman—Eddie Zarafa—spoke up. “You're not thinking clearly, son.” Ruzar hated when Eddie called him “son,” because Eddie had been more a father to Ruzar than Luca Comino had. Even in his fifties, Eddie still wore his hair in a short military cut. His proud stature and built physique spoke of the hours he spent at the gym. Ruzar and Eddie worked out regularly together and had a connection that transcended friendship. Ruzar truly cared for Eddie Zarafa. The fact that Eddie sided with his father hurt.

“Andrej should never have gone ahead with it—out in the open like that. His impatience got him tossed over that bloody cliff.” Ruzar couldn’t stop the defensive tone.

His father responded. “Bull. It was the perfect alibi—kill the women and blame it on the serial killer. Now, I have to cover up this bungling mess. Do you know how many officials I’ve paid off? How much I must do to protect your mother’s family? Or how I’ve paced in this fucking room as you’ve lain in a coma. I almost lost you over that Yankee whore.”

Ruzar didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. His father was right, he’d screwed over family. The Comino family and his mother’s Borjan clan. The Cominos might be Maltese mafia—confined to a small island—but his father’s operation rivaled those across the water. Ruzar’s family knew the benefits of working with their extended family in Serbia. Not only had both families grown their gambling syndicates together, but they now dipped their toes into cocaine smuggling and arms trafficking operations across North Africa. And Ruzar risked it all by falling for an American firefly. Charlotte wouldn’t be his downfall.

Ruzar turned to his father as his stomach rebelled against the promise he was about to make. “Fine, I’ll fix this. I know where Charlotte Quinn is heading. I’ve planted a tracking device in her phone.”

“You’ll stay in Malta and heal. I have it under control. The Crimson Quarter will find the two women.”

Ruzar’s stomach burned. The Crimson Quarter—run by his mother’s extended family—were not just Serbian assassins; they were one of the cruelest gangs in Europe. If they had a chance, they raped and tortured their victims for hours. Ruzar might be a killer, but he cleanly disposed of his targets. Aside from the fact that he didn’t have the stomach for gore, he had a professional reputation to uphold.

A hand grasped his wrist, making him jump. He looked up into his father’s impassive face. Cold, dead eyes stared back. Even as a child, he’d never seen warmth in that face, only judgment and scorn. Now his father shot him a shark-like smile. “Easy, my boy. Tell me her location, then lie back and let Papa take care of the rest.”

***

Atlas dozed in the seat next to Donnie. Sleep would be a welcome friend, except Donnie needed to finalize mission details. Technically this wasn’t a mission, just two friendly parties meeting up in colorful Morocco. Except Donnie had the same jittery feeling he’d felt before every mission, and he itched to land on Moroccan soil.

Blocking out the hum of the aircraft engines, Donnie cataloged the tools and weapons he had at his disposal as he ran through a timeline. The two men had seven days before MIT2 possibly returned to Nairobi. If the Sudan mission delayed the team in the field, then Donnie may have extra time. They’d packed as much as they could get away with… under a plane… on a domestic flight. Tactical pens, two small drones, survival gear and knives.

MIT3 had contacts in Morocco and Tunisia. One of their assets in Marrakesh—a former British SAS lad—would provide weaponry, MRE’s, burner phones and radios. Donnie knew he might be swimming up a Rambo stream, but his gut told him it was the right move. Things were likely to be fine. They’d protect the dance group while enjoying the sunny country and its happy people, aside from the occasional scammers and con artists that cluttered the main tourist jaunts. Donnie was keen to taste the Moroccan cuisine. If he was honest, he was equally as eager to taste someone else, a girl who smelled of roses and bad ideas.

First, Donnie needed to make sure Charlie was safe, and under his protection. His mind wandered back to the night of Johnny’s party in Wyoming. Donnie shut down the memories and got back to work.