The Assignment

The Castellano estate sprawled across twelve acres of manicured grounds, complete with a private vineyard and enough security cameras to make the Pentagon jealous.

None of which had stopped three assassination attempts in two months.

I'd read the files on the drive over. Car bomb, defused by luck. Sniper, grazed him. Poisoned wine, survived because he doesn't drink red.

Someone with intimate knowledge of Marco Castellano's habits wanted him dead.

And his current security team couldn't figure out who.

That's where I came in.

The gates opened. My driver, a guy named Mike who Tommy had sent with me, whistled low.

"Nice digs."

"Nice target."

He glanced at me in the rearview. "You always this cheerful?"

"Only when someone's paying me to keep a mob boss alive."

The main house came into view. Italian Renaissance architecture, three stories, more windows than any sensible security person would allow. I counted entry points on instinct. Seven visible from this angle alone.

Nightmare.

We pulled up to the front entrance. I stepped out, adjusted my jacket to ensure my weapon sat right, and walked toward the door.

It opened before I reached it.

The man himself stood in the foyer.

All Italian tailoring and American impatience. Dark hair going silver at the temples, stress, not age. Hard face, harder stare. A face that belonged in Renaissance paintings and hadn't gotten any less dangerous in five hundred years.

His attention dropped to Tommy's card in my hand. Then back to my face.

"They sent a woman."

I'd been hearing variations of that sentence for twelve years. It never got old. Neither did my response.

"They sent the best. You're welcome to die without me."

A muscle moved at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile. Not yet.

"You have one week to prove that's true."

"I'll need less than that." I moved past him, already cataloging sight lines and entry points. "But I appreciate the confidence."

Behind me, the faintest exhale. Irritation, maybe. Or the sound a man makes when he realizes he might actually survive.

I didn't care which.

My job was to keep him breathing. Everything else was irrelevant.

At least, that's what I told myself.

The house was worse than I'd feared.

Beautiful. Historic. Completely indefensible.

"Who designed your security layout?" I asked.

"Nico. My head of security."

"Fire him."

Marco's eyebrows rose. "You've been here five minutes."

"And I've already counted seventeen vulnerabilities your team missed." I pointed to a window. "That faces the east garden. No camera coverage. Perfect sniper position in those trees."

He looked. Frowned.

"The second floor has a balcony accessible from the roof," I continued. "Your study has two doors, one visible, one hidden. Anyone who knows about it could enter while you're working. And your bedroom shares a wall with a supply closet that connects to servant stairs."

"You memorized the blueprints."

"I memorized your life." I kept my stare level. "That's what you're paying for."

That twitch again. Closer to a smile this time.

"Nico's been with the family for twenty years."

"Then he's gotten comfortable." I pulled out my tablet, opened my assessment. "I'm not here to make friends, Mr. Castellano. I'm here to keep you alive long enough to figure out who's trying to kill you."

"Marco."

I paused.

"If you're going to shadow me twenty-four hours a day, you should use my name."

"Fine. Marco." I handed him the tablet. "These are my requirements. Non-negotiable."

He scrolled. His frown deepened.

"You want access to my schedule. My meetings. My personal correspondence."

"Someone in your organization is leaking information. I need to know what they know."

"You want to sleep in the adjoining suite."

"Proximity saves lives."

"You want authority to override my decisions."

"On security matters only." I crossed my arms. "You hired me because your way wasn't working. Let me do my job."

He watched me. Waiting for me to flinch, maybe.

I didn't.

I'd faced down drill sergeants, generals, and one very memorable warlord in Kabul. A mob boss in a good suit wasn't going to rattle me.

"Fine." He handed back the tablet. "But I have a condition of my own."

"Which is?"

"You explain your reasoning. I don't follow blindly."

"I can live with that."

"Good." He gestured toward the stairs. "I'll show you to your room. Dinner's at seven. You can meet the rest of the household then."

I followed him up.

The adjoining suite was larger than my apartment. King bed. Private bathroom. A door connecting to his bedroom.

"This acceptable?" he asked.

"It'll do."

He nodded. Turned to leave.

"Marco."

He paused at the door.

"Three attempts in two months. Whoever's doing this knows your patterns intimately. Has access to your schedule. Understands your habits." I let that sink in. "That's not an enemy. That's someone close."

He went still.

"I know."

"You have suspects?"

"Everyone." His voice was flat. "And no one. Every person in this house has been with me for years. Trusted. Family."

"Family's the most dangerous kind."

He looked at me then, really looked. Not at the woman who wasn't what he expected. At the professional who understood exactly what he was facing.

"Yes," he said quietly. "It is."

He left.

I unpacked my bag. Two guns. Three knives. Surveillance equipment. Enough ammunition to start a small war.

Then I pulled out the files again.

The inner circle. The suspects.

Everyone he loved might want him dead.

My job was to figure out which one.

Before they succeeded.