Page 127 of King of Omen

He gave me a keen glance, and I took a ragged breath.

‘I’m new onshore and might have brought some heat with me,’ I confirmed.

Saint lifted a brow. ‘Of the Italian variety?’

I nodded, and to his credit, he didn’t push further.

We exchanged assessing looks, and I discerned he had ways of digging up all my dirt if he wanted to.

I granted him a chin lift, and he got the memo.

‘You take care of your heat, and I’ll find your woman,’ he murmured.

‘I intend to. Grazie.’

While he jogged to the apartment on light feet, I turned to Alessio and Mauri.

‘What did we uncover on that Tony bastard?’ I asked Mauri, reminding him I’d tasked him with doing some background checks.

‘Let me check with my contact. They were having trouble tracking down specifics, but they might have an update,’ Mauri murmured.

He made a call, pushing through his pain even as Alessio and I paced the street, keeping an eye out.

Soon, Mauri called out. ‘Boss, you won’t believe this.’

‘Given the clusterfuck that is my current life, I’ll hold onto anything,’ I clipped, wound up with tension about my woman.

‘Tony’s real name is Antonio Abrazzio Gaetano. He’s a nephew of Ricco and Carlo.’

‘Fuck me,’ I breathed. ‘And Linda?’

‘She’s a cousin. Her mother is also an Abrazzio, married into a local mob family hiding in the wilds of northern New South Wales in some town named Tamworth. My contact says Tony landed in Sydney about three months ago.’

‘Round about when Bianca passed,’ I growled.

‘He was sent here to sniff around and leg work for his familia,’ Alessio proposed.

‘Sounds plausible,’ I murmured even as Saint drew up close, striding along in uncanny silence.

‘Follow me,’ he ordered in a deep rumble, tracking past our car heading for a late model, dark Defender tucked beneath a tree a few hundred metres away.

‘I’ll drive this time,’ I groused to Alessio. ‘I’ve had more practice with left-hand side driving, having practised in London.’

‘Sfigato!’ Alessio cursed under his breath, raising a finger in my face.

With Mauri settled in the backseat, we took off after Saint’s fast-disappearing SUV.

Saint led us towards a sleek, high-rise edifice overlooking the infamous Bondi Beach.

The seashore below the skyscraper heaved with bodies.

Rushing waves filled our ears as we disappeared into the underground parking.

We parked next to Saint, exited the car, and, in silence, joined the towering Maori man in the elevator.

He punched a floor number, and we flew up. The transparent cage gave us 360-degree perspectives of the interior, which exuded elegance and gravitas. Its windows reflected the fading sunlight.

The lift opened to a high-tech, glass-walled office with an ocean panorama beyond.

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