It was like method acting, except she wouldn’t get a bad review from a local theatre critic if she had a bad night. She’s lose her life.
Changing her appearance was the easy part. The real skill involved, the thing that separated Maggie from her less adept colleagues, was the internal change.
“Let’s get to business, shall we?” Maggie paid close attention to her inflection. It had been some time since she last used her American alias.
Rebecca Sterling was born and raised in Miami, Florida to a small-time drug dealer father, and a mother who spent most of her time sampling his product. After her mother died of an overdose when she was eight-years-old, Rebecca was put to work in the family business. At first, she counted the money her dad brought home, piling it in little stacks and watching it grow. As time went by, she graduated to cutting the drugs and weighing them out into single bags ready to sell.
“I mixed powdered caffeine pills into the blow. No one noticed the difference, and it gives us twenty percent more product to sell.”
Maggie pulled her hair back and placed a cap over it, ensuring no errant strands escaped. She only used the most premium wigs made from real human hair. It was vital not to stand out for the wrong reasons. Placing the hair over her own, she secured it in place with pins and brushed her fingers through the lush brown waves.
“Does it bother you that I’m a woman?” Maggie cocked her head to the side. Rebecca liked to cut through the bullshit and get to the heart of the matter, especially if it made her opponents uncomfortable.
By the time Rebecca was a nineteen, the business had grown from the kitchen table in their run-down apartment to a lucrative, full-blown enterprise. Rising to the top wasn’t plain sailing, however, and the father-daughter duo earned themselves enemies in the form of rival dealers. Like a lot of men, those rivals underestimated Rebecca.
When a Mexican cartel arranged the assassination of her father, Rebecca fought back with everything she had. Where they had brawn and greater man power, Rebecca had brains and a ruthless thirst for revenge.
Maggie smirked. “In my experience, money solves all problems.”
Heading to the source, Rebecca met with the Colombian drug baron in charge of distributing the city’s supply and secured a deal. As payment for agreeing to take over the Mexicans’ contract for a substantially higher price, the baron would burn her rivals to the ground.
And that’s exactly what happened.
Now, uncontested and with close ties to the Colombians, Rebecca reigns supreme and with an iron fist. Or so the story goes.
In actual fact, the Colombians decided to cut out the middle man and run the streets of Miami for themselves. Having no further need for the Mexican cartel, they simply got rid of them.
With no one willing to incriminate themselves and admit to wiping out the Mexicans, the persona of Rebecca did, creating an almost urban legend of an elusive young woman who didn’t suffer fools lightly and liked to remain in the shadows.
From what Bishop told her, Rebecca was wanted for questioning by Miami state police and the Drug Enforcement Administration. That alone helped reinforce the rumors spread by agents in the field, and word of mouth did most of the work from there.
Maggie dug through the dresser drawer for a set of light brown contacts and slid them over her ice blue eyes, blinking them into place.
The Unit would never risk using Rebecca in her home turf. There were too many opportunities for things to go wrong. Too many things that could catch her out.
Elsewhere was another thing entirely. It always amazed Maggie how most criminals never paid much attention to the dealings of their peers overseas, unless they were directly involved.
Carlo and the Rossi family might be able to learn a bit about Rebecca through their contacts, but they wouldn’t get much. Besides, people like Carlo were far more invested in their own domestic interests, and Rebecca would bank that if the money was right, they wouldn’t care who they sold to.
Satisfied with her transformation, Maggie changed clothes. Willow was gone when she returned, and she closed up her barely lived in apartment and caught a taxi to Heathrow.
By the time she entered the airport and approached the check in desk, Maggie was Rebecca.
“Where are you headed?” asked the man behind the desk.
Maggie handed over her ticket along with Rebecca’s US passport.
“Venice.”
Chapter 4
Venice, Italy
Maggie touched down in Venice Marco Polo Airport a little after ten o’clock.
Leon waited for her by arrivals.
“Take these,” she said in place of a greeting and passed him the luggage. She wasn’t Maggie meeting a colleague; she was Rebecca ordering about her personal bodyguard.
The Rossi family could have people awaiting her arrival with orders to report back. Even if they didn’t, it wasn’t wise to break character in such a public space. There was no telling who was watching, and concealing her true identity was a major priority for Maggie.
The success of the mission depended on it.
As far as she knew, she’d successfully kept her identity a secret. Anyone who met the real Maggie never lived long enough to spread the word.
There was a first time for everything, but she wasn’t about to slip up now.
“Nice to see you, Ms. Sterling,” Leon said as he grabbed her bags and led them outside.
The port was a five-minute walk from the airport’s main building. Passengers marched in an eager line of rolling suitcases that rumbled over the hot tarmac.
With a two-way stream of tourists using the same narrow walkway, the line was forced into single file. Leon took the lead, and Maggie appreciated the view from behind her dark-framed sunglasses. The white fitted t-shirt contrasted nicely against his black skin and hugged his defined torso, the fabric straining around prominent biceps.
“How was your flight?” he asked, peering over his shoulder. Like his hair, Leon kept his beard trimmed short, his full lips and deep brown eyes as alluring as ever.
“Not as bad as the long-haul from Miami to London.” Maggie wished no one was around so they could have a real conversation. “You European’s have it good. A little two-hour flight and you’re in a new country.”
“Our friend is meeting us at the dock.” Leon’s graveled voice rumbled deep in his chest.
“Good,” Maggie said. “She can get us up to speed for the meeting.”
They walked onto the dock where a line of water buses and taxis bobbed in the waves, waiting to ferry the new arrivals across the lagoon to the main city and surrounding islands.
Maggie spotted their ride beyond the string of public transport and private hires. A sleek speedboat was parked at the end of the dock, the polished mahogany topside shining under the intense sun.
A woman waited onboard, speaking to the driver as Maggie and Leon approached. Maggie recognized Isabella Valentin from the photo supplied in the mission files.
“Benvignùo,” she said in her native tongue. “Welcome. You must be Rebecca.”
Leon passed the bags to the driver who secured them up front while Maggie stepped down to board the boat.
“And you must be Isabella.” Maggie greeted the woman with a kiss on each cheek.
In her forties, Isabella wore her long dark hair tied back smartly from her face, the beginnings of crow’s feet appearing at the corners of her warm eyes as she welcomed them. She was impeccably dressed in a high-end fashion Maggie had grown to expect of Venetians, her designer blouse and skirt hugging to every curve. Style was just as much a part of Italy’s history as art and architecture.
Leon hopped onboard and the driver pulled out and headed off.
When they were a safe distance from the shore, Isabella smiled wide at them both. “Maggie, Leon, it is nice to finally meet you.”
Leon eyed the driver.
“He’s one of ours,” assured Isabella, leading them to sit inside the cabin as the waves
picked up and sprayed the sides of the boat. The seats were upholstered in fine cream leather, and Leon had to lean his large frame back to stop his head from touching the roof.
Outside, they whizzed across the lagoon, staying between large wooden posts buried deep into the marshy depths below which sprouted out the water to guide the traffic. Salt clung to the air from the sea water and mixed with Isabella’s strong floral perfume, the aroma inescapable in the close confines of the cabin.
“Carlo asked me to take you to your hotel,” Isabella said, getting down to business.
“How’s he feeling about the meeting?” In the cramped quarters, Maggie’s shoulders brushed Leon’s arm and she inched away. They couldn’t afford any distractions.
Isabella considered the question for a moment before answering. “He is very set in his ways. Peter West has met with him several times now. I fear Carlo likes him. It will not be easy to sway him from a deal with Peter if he has already made up his mind.”
“Then why agree to the meeting in the first place?” Leon asked.
“I advised him to do it.” Isabella crossed her legs as they picked up speed. The boat jumped over the waves, the outline of the historic city coming into view.
“He must respect your opinion,” Maggie said. Carlo wouldn’t listen to just anyone when it came to his business.
Isabella nodded, seeming pleased. “I’ve worked by his side for years, slowly gaining his trust. I’ve proven myself in his eyes. I do not make a habit of getting involved in his decisions, so when I speak, he listens.”
“Tell me about him and his family.” The more Maggie knew, the more ammunition she had in her artillery. Men of Carlo’s age and position abided by a code of respect, and it would be a sign of bad taste to go against Peter West at such a late stage in negotiations. Maggie would need to make the man an offer he couldn’t refuse.
“In the early seventies, my government exiled key members of the Sicilian Mafia to the north in an attempt to isolate and weaken their infrastructure and power.”
“I’m guessing it backfired?” Maggie asked.
“Terribly,” Isabella agreed. “Carlo was among those sent to solitary confinement in a provincial town in Veneto. Instead of settling down, Carlo sought out the local gangs and bandits and brought them all together under his leadership. What was once a scattered mix of criminals, became a group of mobsters, eventually growing to the widespread syndicate it is today with Carlo still at the helm.”
The file Bishop supplied indicated Carlo had been running the region of Veneto from his home in Venice for decades now, and the family showed no signs of slowing down. Despite attempts by the government and other opposing syndicates, the Rossi family still ruled supreme over the lagoon, their influence felt throughout the city.
“Carlo’s old,” Maggie noted. “Who’s going to take his place?”
Isabella sighed. “It’s generally acknowledged that Carlo’s son, Stefano, will take over when the time is right.”
Maggie took note of their ally’s distaste. It was clear Isabella did not like Stefano. Maggie stored the information with everything else she learned, keeping it all in a mental file she could access when needed.
“How much influence does Stefano have on his old man?” Leon asked.
“Not much,” replied Isabella. “They see things very differently. Carlo is traditional, but Stefano wants to bring the family into the twenty-first century. It’s one of the main reasons Carlo is so determined not to hand over the reins.”
No luck there then. Though there could be ways to use the contention between father and son to her advantage, if she played it right.
“What about rival factions? I read they were a potential threat to Carlo’s rule.” The more Maggie understood the pressures facing Carlo, the better she could exploit them.
“Carlo doesn’t seem to think so,” said Isabella. “The Marinos are a younger set up than the Rossis. Less organized.”
“Have there been any attempts to take over?”
Isabella shrugged. “There’s been a few run ins, but nothing substantial. The Marinos are more of a nuisance than anything else.”
Maggie nodded along, but she wasn’t as quick to write off the rival family. They may not have the same level of influence and power as Carlo’s gang, but being the underdog brought a level of bold eagerness and hunger.
If they had nothing to lose, they had everything to gain.
The boat jolted the trio forward as the driver slowed down. He bashed the horn and yelled at another boat which overtook them, waving his arms. Maggie gripped the edge of her seat. Driving in Italy was just as fraught in the water as it was on the roads.
“Bishop told me you’d have supplies for us,” Maggie said as they drew closer to their destination.
“Of course.” Isabelle collected the briefcase sitting next to her and opened it for them. Two Beretta 8000’s, more commonly known as Cougars, winked up from the case. While not compact, it was a better alternative to the larger Beretta 92. The 9mm semi-automatic was similar to Maggie’s Glock and would allow her to conceal the weapon without too much trouble.
Maggie nodded. “These will work.”
Isabella and the Italian government kindly supplied them with extra magazines and rounds, as well as a set of knives, just in case. Hopefully the weapons would remain unused and she and Leon could return them good as new.
Maggie passed one of the guns to Leon and tucked the other into the waistband at the small of her back. Being unarmed left her uneasy, and the presence of the weapon settled her nerves like a security blanket.
Outside, the outskirts of the city unfolded before them. Maggie ducked out to the back of the boat. Leaning on the roof to keep her steady, she drank in the view.
It wasn’t Maggie’s first time in the sinking city, but each visit felt just as magical.
Water sloshed up against the sides of buildings on either side of the canal as they slowed to a steadier pace. Layers of slime and algae showed how far the water rose during high tide. The walls were painted in vibrant shades of yellows and oranges with cracks spread across them like fractured glass. Holes dotted over the facades where the brick, fragile with age, had crumbled off into rubble.
Opaque water rippled at their presence and hid what lay below as they ventured deeper into the city. Leon came out of the cabin and joined her.
“It doesn’t look real,” he said after a while.
He was right. By all accounts, the city shouldn’t exist.
Built by peasants on nothing but marshland, Venice was held up by wooden stilts. Somehow, it had persisted over the centuries. From the initial shabby little homes to the sublime city it became, Venice had endured the impossible and thrived under the unique conditions of living in a floating city.
“Is this your first time in Venice?” Maggie asked, a little shocked.
“Yes,” said Leon, taking it all in.
They exited through the capillaries of connecting canals and found themselves in the main artery. The Grand Canal was a hub of activity as waterbuses, gondolas, kayaks, and taxis swam past each other, the chaotic traffic forming semi-organized patterns through the water.
The arched dome of the Salute Cathedral filled the horizon, a vital part to the city’s skyline that had been painted by some of the best artists in the world.
Maggie and Leon watched as they passed the heart of the city. The Doge’s Palace dominated the right-hand side of St Mark’s Square, its arched architecture like something from a fairytale. The basilica lay at the far back, adding more domes to the landscape, while the cathedral tower loomed high above them all and offered the perfect spot to take in the wonders of Venice.
The city had many incarnations over the years, from being the center of maritime trade, to one of the world’s major financial hubs. These days, most of its money came from tourism, and from the number of people clogging the square, it was rolling in Euros.
The boat jerked again to allow room for a pas
sing gondola, and Maggie stumbled. She fell back and braced for a fall that never came.
“Steady,” Leon said as he caught her in his strong arms.
Maggie placed a hand on his chest; his heart beat steady against her palm. She met his eyes and a flutter danced in her stomach.
Isabella called from inside as she made to join them. Maggie cleared her throat and let Leon go. “Thanks.”
“Your hotel is right there.” Isabella pointed to a lavish building on their right, situated beside the opening of the Grand Canal. A terrace jutted out to create an outdoor dining area with idyllic views across the water, the surface shimmering under the warm rays of the sun. Guests sat outside eating breakfast and drinking espresso from little cups, while a group of tourists sipped on prosecco despite the early hour and toasted to the trip of their dreams.
It was a remarkable location, and everything about it exuded luxury and decadence. Maggie grinned. It was the perfect place for someone like Rebecca Sterling to stay while on business.
“I will see you both at the meeting this afternoon.” Isabella took Maggie’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “Good luck.”
There was a tremor in her touch, but the Venetian hid it well, showing none of her fear on her beautiful face.
“Look after yourself.” Maggie knew what Isabella risked with the upcoming meeting. If her cover broke, there would be no getting out. People like Carlo were unforgiving, and if Isabella did return home, it would only be to send a message. One that required no words, only the delivery of her body in severed parts.
The boat pulled up to the private dock, and they were greeted by an elderly gentleman in an impeccable suit and two young porters who took their bags from the driver.
“Hello,” he said. “Welcome to the Gritti Palace. My name is Guido. So nice to see you, Ms. Sterling.”
“Hey, Guido.” Maggie fell back into character with a flawless American accent. “Can you give me a hand?”
“Of course.” The old man leaned over and helped her off the boat.
Vendetta Page 2
