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I slide off the couch without making a noise and fetch my laptop from the bedroom. With a glance at Valentina, I pull up my file on Oslo. I need to book a flight, which I’m sure will require some serious negotiating with Rafael. He won’t hold me here, but even after what I told him today, he’s likely to feel obligated to let my father know I left. And if he doesn’t, Antonio definitely will. Maybe there’s another way.
I log in to an encrypted service and carefully compose an email with all the information I’ve garnered. I attach the graphs I created and highlight the patterns carefully. When I’m satisfied, I send it to the local authorities in Oslo, as well as to the Kripos and the Norwegian Intelligence Service. I send it to Interpol too. Not that they’ve acknowledged a single email I’ve sent in the past.
The clock is ticking. We have about twelve days before they strike again. I want to be in Oslo within a week.
29
RAFAEL
Valentina has turned out to be the biggest cockblocker in the history of cockblockers, but Marco’s coming back tonight, and she’s going home to the valley. It’s a good thing, too, because I have a ton of work to do, and I’m having trouble focusing on anything but those little mewls Lexie makes when I lick her pussy. I need more of those whimpers. I need to feel her walls pulse around my cock.
When I got back to the apartment the other night, I wasn’t sure she’d be up for another round, but she was—more than ready—and for another just before Valentina arrived. Each time, the sex was better than the last.
That’s why one-night stands have never been my favorite. Sure, they have their place, and they come with a rush that’s hard to beat. But I’ve always preferred having a woman for a long weekend, where there’s time to explore—and even push boundaries a bit. It has to be the right woman, of course, because otherwise a weekend can feel like a century. Although I never let it come to that. If it starts to go in a direction I don’t like, I’m out.
But with Lexie, I have no desire to leave. If anything, I want to curl up around her and stay. I’m not sure how long that feeling will last, or what kind of shitshow will follow when it’s time to part ways, but I don’t expect it to be smooth sailing. She’s been thinking about us for a long time. Since she was nineteen.
I’ve thought a lot about her since that day at the pool, and even more after the wedding. But my fantasies have been about her sassy mouth and my cock, not about playing house for a lifetime. Although, I like her, a lot, and I’m sure as hell not ready to let her go. Not yet. Certainly not before I rectify the situation with her father. That game he’s playing needs to stop. It’s too damn dangerous.
My phone rings, and Bruno Russo’s name pops up on the screen. He gave me his personal cell phone number when I called to tell him the traffickers had been murdered. Maybe he has more news.
“Mr. Prime Minister. How are you?”
“Not as good as I will be when everyone involved with that ring is dead.”
He’s pulling no punches. A man after my own heart.
“I called to see if you have any additional information.”
“Nothing more than I had on Friday. I was hoping you knew something.”
“I don’t have anything,” Russo grunts, and I hear the frustration in his voice. I’m damn frustrated too.
“Do you think there’s any connection between Saint Philomena’s and what happened the other day?” he asks cautiously. “Both Francesca and Ms. Clarke were students there. It’s the only connection my people can find between them.”
“I’ve thought about it. We’re looking into it, too, but so far, we’ve come up with nothing.” But Saint Phil’s isn’t the only connection between them. “I’m not ready to let go of that angle, but it seems to me that there’s another tie as well. Both are daughters of powerful men. Powerful men have powerful enemies.” Will certainly does, and there is no way you get to be the Italian prime minister without leaving a lot of bodies in your wake.
“True. Although our businesses are quite different.”
You keep telling yourself that, Bruno, but from where I sit, there’s little difference between what you do and what Will Clarke does. He just doesn’t put on airs.
Francesca was the original target, and Lexie became a target of opportunity. I didn’t share this with him the first time we spoke, because I didn’t know, and the last time, I decided to keep it to myself because I didn’t want him pointing fingers at Lexie as though she did something wrong. In many ways, it doesn’t matter. If they believe that either woman knows anything that might implicate them, they’re equally in danger.
“I’ll let you know if I hear anything,” I assure him. “Please do the same. Until then, we have to be patient.” It’s almost comical that I’m the one advising patience.
“Patient,” he scoffs. “Do you have teenage daughters running all over the globe chasing boys and begging to go to Taylor Swift concerts, Rafael?”
No. Thank fucking God. “I do not.”
“I have three.”
There’s anger and despair in his voice, and I change my mind about sending him the tape I’ve been sitting on of Francesca shaking her ass on the dance floor. Three daughters. The guy needs a break.
After we hang up, I try to pull up this week’s calendar, to see what I can rearrange, before setting up a meeting that’s long overdue. But it’s blank—although it’s unlikely that I have nothing scheduled. I call Noelia, which I don’t normally do on the weekend.
“Sorry to bother you on a Sunday afternoon, but I need to talk to you about this week’s schedule. My copy is blank. Is that possible?”
“In your dreams.” She laughs. “I’m waiting to hear back from the US marketing team about launch activities, so I’ve kept most of the week penciled in. I should know more by the end of today. Let me pull up my draft so I can have it in front of me.”
