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“Prime Minister Russo, how are you?”
I put the phone on speaker and glance at Zé, whose ears perk up at Russo’s name.
“It’s a new day, Rafael,” Russo says with conviction. The sense of defeat he had the last time we spoke is gone. “We captured the monsters who murdered my little girl and were responsible for terrorizing the Continent.”
Captured, not arrested. He might be the highest-ranking Italian official, but Francesca was his daughter, and he will mete out justice the same way I would.
“We got every last fucking one.”
He’s awfully confident, but I need more details before I’ll be convinced. “That’s impressive. How did you manage what no one else was able to accomplish?” I keep the skepticism out of my voice. I don’t want to make an enemy of him.
“We didn’t do it alone, of course. We amassed our own intelligence, together with what we received from Clarke in London, and others in Oslo. We received assistance from all corners. European leaders paid their condolences not with flowers and prayers, but with intelligence. The information you sent was invaluable. I’m indebted to you.
“The end of this scourge serves as a memorial to Francesca. God rest her soul and forgive me for not having dismantled the ring before it hit home.” He sighs. “Let that be a lesson to you, son. Europe is a family, and if we don’t take seriously the threats against our brothers and sisters, those threats will eventually find their way into our homes.”
Russo’s in a reflective mood, and I let him pontificate. But he still hasn’t told me a damn thing to make me sleep better tonight.
“Paolo was found with his throat slit. It appeared that his death was at his own hand, although there are far easier ways to die.”
My jaw tightens. I hope he doesn’t believe Paolo was in charge of a fucking trafficking ring. “Are you suggesting Paolo was the kingpin?”
Zé peers across the desk at me and shakes his head, his lips pulled into a thin line. Neither of us believe a kid was running that ring.
“No,” Russo scoffs, and I relax a bit. “But he was the man responsible for my daughter’s death. Miles Vander Gant was the kingpin.”
Was. “Did he survive long enough to be questioned?”
“We got what we needed from him.”
Russo doesn’t say We got everything from him, because he’s experienced in these matters. No one ever gets everything. Not even a skilled interrogator with state-of-the-art tools.
“They would hire a local to help select the right club, and then put someone on the inside who could assist, as needed.” Fuckers. “Sometimes it was the same person. The errand boys never lived long enough to collect a payday. They also had a few trusted teams, like the people you caught at Sirena, who would lure targets into the trap.”
Targets like Lexie. I would have liked to have spent some quality time with Vander Gant.
“They ran a lean organization,” Russo adds, “especially given the terror they caused.”
Those assholes put in a lot of advance work, when they could have sauntered into a club, found a target, and convinced her to leave with them. Although that would have put them in a venue with security for longer periods of time—which was risky—and depending on the night, they might not have walked away with a victim. It would have left too much to chance.
“I’m assuming they chose their targets in advance?”
“Not initially. They honed their tactics as time went on.”
“Did you find out anything about why they moved onto wealthy targets?”
“They could be sold for a higher price. It was always the plan.”
First they practiced using girls whose families didn’t have the resources to go after them.
I lock eyes with Zé, whose expression has darkened considerably since the call came in.
“Vander Gant’s deputy led us to an Interpol agent who had been burying information.”
“Fucker,” Zé mouths.
“It’s a big agency, and he couldn’t keep everything under wraps, but he hid information that could have helped break the ring sooner. He was found dead this morning in London.”
“You didn’t have an opportunity to question him?”
