All Chapters of Unholy Matrimony: Chapter 121 - Chapter 130

Dominik"I’m going to kill you."The threat is muttered into the collar of a Moncler ski jacket, the color of bruised plums. It’s a vibrant, angry slash of purple against the blinding white of the Swiss Alps."You’ll have to catch me first," I reply.I’m standing ten feet down the slope, resting easily on my edges. The mountain air is thin, crisp, and bites the lungs in a way that makes me feel alive. It’s a world of silence and snow, far removed from the grime of the Brooklyn docks or the stale air of boardrooms.I planned this with the precision of a hit. The private jet to Bern, the helicopter transfer to Gstaad, the chalet secluded enough to ensure no prying eyes, but close enough to the slopes to be convenient.Eve thinks it was a whim. She thinks I woke up yesterday and decided we needed fondue.She has no idea I cleared my schedule three weeks ago for this."My feet are bound in plastic prisons," she hisses, trying to shuffle her skis forward. She looks like a newborn giraffe a

DominikThe Villa di Ferro sits on a ridge in the heart of Tuscany, a fortress of golden stone and ancient ivy that has belonged to the Grimaldi family since before America was a country.It was built to withstand sieges. Thick walls, narrow windows on the lower levels, a vantage point that allows you to see an army approaching from ten miles away. My grandfather used it to hide from the fascists. My father used it to hide from the IRS.I’m using it to hide from reality."This wine," Eve says, holding a glass of deep crimson liquid up to the sunlight, "Costs more than my first car.""Your first car was a Honda Civic, Eve. A tank of gas for the SUV costs more than your first car."We’re sitting on a stone wall overlooking the family vineyards. The rows of Sangiovese vines stretch out below us like combed green hair, descending into the valley where the heat haze shimmers off the earth.It’s just past two in the afternoon. The air is heavy with the scent of sun-baked dust and crushing g

DominikThe photograph sits in the center of the conference table like a severed head. It’s blown up to twenty-four by thirty-six inches. High-gloss. High-definition.It shows the curve of Eve’s neck. The way her head falls back against my shoulder. The total, unguarded trust in her posture. It shows the target."Tell me you’ve found something," I say.My voice is a rasp. I haven't slept in forty-eight hours. My eyes feel like they’ve been rolled in sand, and my blood is a toxic sludge of caffeine and cortisol.The man standing across from me is called Vincent Wong. He’s not mafia. He’s ex-CIA, a private contractor who specializes in digital forensics and countersurveillance. He costs five thousand dollars an hour.He looks nervous. He should be if he doesn’t have any answers for me."I’ve analyzed the pixel density and the angle of incidence based on the shadows," Wong says, clicking a remote. A 3D wireframe of the Villa di Ferro appears on the screen on the wall. A red line traces a

DominikSleep is a memory. Focus is a currency I’m rapidly running out of.I’m sitting at the head of the mahogany table in the conference room on the forty-second floor of the Tower. The glass is three inches thick and rated to stop a .50 caliber round. It doesn't make me feel safe. It makes me feel like a fish in a tank, waiting for someone to tap on the glass.Across from me sits Patrick O'Malley. He represents the Local 79 Mason Tenders. He’s a man built like a beer keg with legs, red-faced, loud, and sweating through a cheap polyester suit that probably costs less than my cashmere socks.He’s talking about overtime pay and hardship allowances for the night shifts at the waterfront development.I’m barely listening. I’m too busy watching his hands.They’re thick, hairy hands. One is resting on the table, tapping a rhythm that’s drilling into my skull like a jackhammer. The other is moving, gesturing, slicing the air."...and the boys are saying the site isn't secure," O'Malley bl

DominikThe lead comes in at three in the morning.The city is asleep, but the penthouse of the Tower is humming with the quiet, frantic energy of a war room.Vincent Wong stands by the main monitor, his face bathed in the blue light of a facial recognition scan. He looks like he hasn't slept in a week. Good. Neither have I. Considering what I pay him, he should be working himself to the bone."We got a hit," Wong says.I stop pacing immediately. "Show me."He taps a key. A grainy image from a security feed pops up. It’s Florence Peretola Airport, dated two days after we arrived in Tuscany."Facial rec flagged him on a departure flight to JFK," Wong explains. "Name is Mikhail Orlov. Freelance photographer, but his portfolio isn't weddings and bar mitzvahs. He does surveillance work for the Bratva."I stare at the face on the screen. High cheekbones, shaved head, dead eyes. He looks like a man who hurts people for a living. He could be one of my employees."He was in Florence?" I ask.