Chapter Eight

LORENZO

“Report,” I ordered, sitting on a sofa in the hotel room we'd gotten, and pouring myself a glass of brandy.

“We found him,” Martino said, rubbing a cigarette between his fingers. He hadn't set fire to it yet because I had a strict no smoking around me rule. I didn't like the stench, and I definitely did not want to die due to lung cancer or some shit.

I had bigger goals to attain.

Like setting up a retail in New York before I hurled my ass back to Italy.

The problem was finding a fucking retailer. Everyone seemed to shy out of doing business with the Italians. Probably because they knew they would get a bullet in the balls if they made one stupid move. I chuckled at the thought and took a sip out of my glass.

The alcohol burned down my throat, slow and hot, and I closed my eyes at the feel.

“Did you set up a meeting with him?” I asked and watched Martino nod curtly.

Good. That was perfect. Setting up a company in the United St