Vlad
I return to the Bellissimo with a plan and everything I need to execute it: A syringe filled with tranquilizer. Rope to tie her wrists and ankles. Tape for her mouth. Mikhail—Mika, as we call him— my twelve-year-old accomplice and the only living member of the Chicago bratva, to drive the getaway car.
I get off the elevator wearing the crisp Bellissimo waiter’s uniform, pushing the cart I plan to carry the girl out in.
I leave the cart just outside the door and stand in the doorway, scanning the room. I keep my head down and my tattooed fingers clasped behind my back. If the Chicago-based Tacone brothers recognize me, I’ll be a dead man before I can take a breath. Not that I care. If I were overly-worried about living long, I wouldn’t be here. Ironically, it’s my carelessness with
