Chapter Nine

VALENTINO

I sigh, tapping my desktop with my fingers, already running out of patience. I hate tardiness, most of all. It pisses me off when people can't keep to something as simple as time. I don't work with tardy people, but there are just a bunch of fuckers I can't keep out of my life no matter how much I wish to.

A good example is the fucker I'm waiting for.

Just when I'm about to give up waiting and call him, the door swings open and he strides in calmly. He walks to the couch and flops down on it, casually smoking his life away.

“No smoking in my office, how many times do I have to tell you that?* I grit out, but he doesn't seem to give a fuck.

" Why, “ he asks calmly. " Because you got married and all of a sudden I'm not allowed to do the shit I want?” He scoffs.

" You're not allowed to do shit you want in my house.”

He rolls his eyes and keeps on smoking. The enemies he goes around making won't kill him, I will. And it's going to be anytime soon if he keeps pissing me off.

" Someone's threatening her,” I tell him. " I have Carlos looking into it but I don't think he'll find anything. It's a private number and must be from an encrypted address. What's more, the message was deleted few minutes after she viewed it."

He snickers, sitting up straight. " You've been married for what, barely a day and you've already got people after the poor girl?”

I ignore his question and go straight to why I called him to my office, not wanting him around me any moment longer. " I want you to look deeper into it. Have your men dig into this. Have your best trackers on this case. My wife's safety is top priority."

He nods and rises to his feet, blowing another puff of smoke. " Have the number forwarded to me and I'll have my team on it immediately. Do well to forward future messages to me as well." He turns around and starts making his way to the door. “It's a long night, I need to get my dick wet." And with that the door slams beneath him.

I stare at my computer screen and at the set of people sitting on the sofa the entire time, their faces pale under the low light of my office. Four men and one woman, my most trusted logistics crew. They’ve been running my shipments for years without a single fuck-up.

Until recently.

I lean back in my chair, fingers steepled, and let the silence stretch until it becomes uncomfortable. They shift. The woman, Lena, picks at a thread on her sleeve. One of the men, Marco, clears his throat like he’s about to speak but thinks better of it.

“Sixth batch this month,” I say finally, voice low and even. “Six fucking containers! Vanished. No tracking pings, no wreckage, no bodies floating in the harbor. Just gone. Explain.”

Marco swallows hard. “Boss, we’ve checked every route. Every dock. The last one was supposed to clear customs at 0300. GPS went dark at 0258. No distress signal, no chatter on any of our encrypted lines. Whoever’s doing this is ghosting us clean.”

The woman beside him, Lena, nods quickly. “It’s not amateurs, Don. The manifests were scrubbed from our servers too. Someone got inside our system, deep. We’re talking high-level access. Whoever it is, they’ve got money, tech, and balls the size of this city.”

Another man, Luca, leans forward, elbows on his knees. “We’re thinking maybe it's the Russians. They’ve been sniffing around the East Coast ports again. Maybe they want to test how soft we’ve gone since the treaty.”

I wave that off with a sharp flick of my wrist. “The Russians won’t touch us. Not after what happened in ’18 They signed the peace treaty in blood, literally. Mikhail Volkov still owes me three favors if he ever breaks it. They’re not suicidal enough to jeopardize that for a few shipments of guns and coke.”

The Russians won't fuck with us at the risk of owing us a favor. Everyone and their uncles know that to have the Moscow Bratva owe you a favor is like having the key to heaven.

The room falls quiet again. I can see the next name forming on their tongues before they even say it.

Luca tries anyway. “Then… the Romanos?”

I let the name hang in the air for a second, tasting it. Rafael Romano. That smug, prick from Italy. I remember him from the last summit; sharp suits, sharper smile, always acting like the underworld was a fucking boardroom. I’ve read the reports on his operation.

Clean, ruthless. But never a coward.

“Rafael Romano isn’t the type to stab from the back,” I say flatly. “He likes to look you in the eye while he slits your throat. If he wanted war, he’d declare it loud and pretty, with flowers and a fucking press conference. This ghost shit? Not his style.”

“Yeah," Rolan nods. “If he were the one stealing our shipments, he'll gladly send back dead soldiers and a *fuck you* note attached."

Lena bites her lip. “Then who, boss? We’ve ruled out the Irish, the Triads, even the small-time cartels. This feels personal. Like someone inside knows exactly how we move.”

I drum my fingers on the desk once, twice. The sound is loud in the quiet room. My mind is already three steps ahead—cross-referencing every rival who’s lost territory to me in the last year, every loose end that might have grown teeth..

I stand slowly, buttoning my jacket. “Double the guards on every remaining shipment. Reroute the next three through the old phantom docks, no one outside this room knows the coordinates. And I want eyes on every port camera from here to Boston. If a single container so much as sneezes wrong, I want to know before it happens.”

They all nod, murmuring “Yes, boss” in unison as they rise.

“Get out,” I tell them. “And find me something useful before I start losing patience.”

The door clicks shut behind them. I stay standing, staring at the dark screen of my computer. The photo of the severed hand is still burned into my mind—clean cut, professional. The message deleted itself minutes after Nooria opened it. That takes serious tech. Serious money.

I pull out my phone and forward the number to Vito again, just in case Carlos hits a wall. He might be a pain in my ass, but he’s the best shadow I’ve ever had.

A soft knock sounds at the door. One of the house staff.

“Sir? Mrs. Delucca just left the house. She says received a call from her father a few minutes ago. Sounded… urgent.”

Ahmed is so fucking dead!