Chapter 55

Chapter 55
Lina's POV

I froze.

"Antonio Moretti," Dmitri repeated the name, fingers tapping lightly twice on his knees. "Mr. Luca's most beloved brother. How did you approach him? How long did it take? Three months? Or shorter?"

"Two months," I said.

"Wow, two months. Good speed." Dmitri nodded. He turned toward Luca. "Mr. Moretti, you must be very curious, right? How did your brother suddenly fall in love with a strange girl?"

Luca said nothing. He leaned against the wall, coldly staring at Dmitri.

"Let her tell it herself, or shall I help her tell it?" Dmitri asked again.

I took a deep breath. "I'll do it myself."

Two months ago, one night.

In that unremarkable small office building in Moscow, Dmitri pushed a manila envelope in front of me, as the final mission for my exit from Raven.

I opened the envelope. Inside was a stack of photographs and a USB drive.

The photos showed an Italian man in his twenties, with deep features and a languid expression, always wearing a well-tailored dark suit.

In every photograph he was smiling—smiling with women, smiling with bartenders, smiling with a cigar in the casino.

"Who is this?"

"The younger brother of mafia boss Luca Moretti," Dmitri said. "The Moretti family controls most of the drug and smuggling channels on New York's East Coast. In the past five years, our business has had three direct conflicts with them. Three times, we took losses."

I understood. "You want me to kill his brother."

"To be precise, have you help us deliver a message." The corner of Dmitri's mouth lifted slightly—not a smile, more like a bloodthirsty beast baring its fangs.

"Luca Moretti's most beloved is this brother. Antonio was sickly from childhood. Their mother died in childbirth having him. Luca raised his brother single-handedly, practically raising him as a son."

He paused, as if waiting for the weight of these words to sink in.

"If you kill Antonio, Luca will absolutely go mad. He'll mobilize all resources at any cost to hunt you down. All of New York's underworld and aboveground will be turned over by him."

"And at that time, his enemies—meaning us—will find plenty of openings and opportunities."

I nodded in understanding. "So I'm the bait."

"You're the wedge. As long as it can hammer into Luca's brick, the cracks will spread on their own." Dmitri looked at me.

"But you know the consequences too. The Moretti family will spare no effort to find you. You probably won't live past three months."

"What if I succeed?"

"If you succeed," Dmitri took a sip of tea, "I'll erase all your files in the organization. Red Rose will have never existed. This is the greatest sincerity I can give you."

I surveyed those photographs one by one.

In each photo, Antonio smiled freely. He probably never imagined death would come for him.

I knew deeply I had no choice.

If I refused now, Dmitri wouldn't let me leave this building alive. I knew there was always a loaded Glock in the hidden compartment of his drawer.

If I chose to accept, at least I had one chance—

A chance at a normal life.

Though I couldn't imagine what normal life looked like, I wanted to see it with my own eyes.

"I'll take it."

Dmitri nodded. His expression didn't change at all, as if he'd already known this outcome.

"Prepare well," he said. "Depart in two weeks."

I put the photos back in the envelope, stood up to leave.

At the doorway, Dmitri suddenly called out to me.

"Lina."

I stopped, didn't turn around.

"Don't disappoint me."

I didn't answer. I pushed the door and walked out.

I arrived in New York on an overcast day.

I didn't go directly to find Antonio. Instead, I first spent three days doing peripheral reconnaissance—tailing his car, recording his movement patterns, sitting two afternoons across from restaurants he frequented.

I changed through three different outfits, used different accents to order different dishes, ensuring that in any surveillance footage I wouldn't be recognized as the same woman.

On the fourth evening, I finally had a "chance encounter" with him at a jazz bar in Brooklyn.

I discovered he occasionally came here alone on Wednesday evenings to listen to a performance—no friends, no female companions, just sitting in the corner seat at the bar, ordering a bourbon on the rocks.

So I chose a wine-red dress, let my hair down, wore a pair of old pearl earrings bought from a secondhand shop at my earlobes.

I wanted him to remember me as a whole person, not any single summarizable characteristic.

Pushing open the bar's glass door, blues melodies permeated the entire space like smoke.

The lighting was dim. Each table had only one candle lit.

I walked through the crowd to the bar, sat down in the empty seat two positions away from Antonio, elbow pressed on the bar propping up my chin.

Then I turned my head, pretending to casually look around, finally letting my gaze pass over him inadvertently, showing a fleeting faint smile.

Antonio's gaze arrived as expected. He glanced at me over the rim of his glass, took about three seconds before looking away.

He didn't immediately come over to chat—this was the mark of a veteran. Truly experienced hunters don't pounce at first sight. They assess first, wait first, make themselves look less interested first.

I waited about twenty minutes without Antonio approaching, so I chose to take the initiative.

I pretended to be interested in his drink, walked over and asked: "What's that you're drinking?"

"Bourbon."

"Is it good?"

"Not really." He smiled, revealing that row of slightly uneven but white teeth. "But I'm used to it."

This was the first time I saw Antonio Moretti up close.

His features were softer than in photos, but there were a few more fine lines at the corners of his eyes—probably because he was always smiling.

His suit was impeccably tailored. His cufflinks were silver, engraved with a tiny family crest. His whole person radiated a sense of ease.

"I'm Lia," I said. This was the name I'd prepared long ago.

Lia, not Lina. Only by being close enough to the truth would I not slip up inadvertently.

"Antonio." He extended his hand. I shook it once.

After that, everything proceeded according to plan. Wednesday jazz bar became our "regular chance encounter" spot.