Boss (Chianti Kisses #2) Read Free Page A

to think I’m overpaying him.
    “Is it safe? Any kind of spyware or hidden James Bond shit that’s gonna wreck my hard drive?”
    “No… it’s safe. I disabled the tracking on it, boss,” Nick explains. 
    I type, bringing up the address from the mysterious message.
    “I want answers tomorrow, Nick.”
    I hang up the phone, positive my point’s been made. The screen is tempting, the lone ENTER icon asking to be obeyed. I move to complete the action before I can second-guess myself. The black background now disappears, replaced by the many pixels of a wide-angled photograph. A very specific photo of V and me on the steps of St. Mark’s Basilica in Venice.
    Fuck.
    I was afraid this was gonna be something fucked up. I’m gonna need a drink for this. The decanter of bourbon is filled to the brim and just begging to be emptied. I use it to pour myself a healthy glass and return to my place in front of the monitor to witness the rest of the espionage. I take a swig of the liquid, letting it warm my throat. I then… hit the CONTINUE button.
    Picture after picture of V flash across the screen. Some up close, some from a distance. There’s no consistency to them. The only ribbon of continuity is that she’s in every one. I’m in most, but she’s in each one. They seem to follow in chronological order, as I watch our honeymoon trip play out before my eyes.
    Not just our honeymoon, either. I take another sip of the liquor to help control my anger as the pictures progress to us departing from the landing terminal at the airport this afternoon. She is wearing her pretty pink dress, a huge smile on her lips. And some pervert was violating her!
    I feel the bile rise in my throat. I know these pictures are already taken, but I imagine myself being back there, spotting this guy and his camera from his spot and beating the ever-loving crap out of him before handing him over to my men.
    My near-empty glass of bourbon is just aching in my hand, begging to be thrown. And so I do. I lift myself off the cushioned pad of my seat to hurl the tumbler full force into the stone cavity of the fireplace. The shattering sounds of the pieces as they break away are muted only by the intensity of the flames from the liquid fuel.
    I watch the wild blaze dancing from the sudden momentum, and feel my pupils reflecting the wild colors. The person, whoever’s behind this… is a dead man.
     
    ~*~
     
    “You heard me. I want twenty-four hour, round-the-clock protection. And I don’t want someone who’s used to sitting on their ass, staring at a monitor all day,” I spit out, the men sitting before me jumping from the sudden emphasis in my voice.
    It’s early. The house is still sleeping, but I’m still running on adrenaline from my all-nighter. I compulsively clicked through the pictures again and again. I’ve memorized every one of them and I’m convinced that there must have been more than one “photographer.” 
    We were snapped in the Fiumicino airport in Rome, and then when we landed at JFK airport in New York, some ten hours later. So… unless the asshole behind the lens was able to beat us across the Atlantic Ocean and set himself up, waiting for us to walk by… he wasn’t acting alone. There are at least two of them. My gut tells me maybe more.
    “Sure thing, boss. You want me to pull some men from the guardhouse or the perimeter? Or you want to bring in some new muscle?” Jim looks almost as tired as I probably do, having officially ended his shift several hours ago.
    He was more than willing to double check all the fences and entryways once I’d called down to his office in the guardhouse to explain our situation. No men lurking around last night, but I’m not gonna take any chances. Whoever sent me the link to that website knows what they’re doing. They’ve sent a message. One I’ve received loud and clear. They think my wife, the person I cherish most in this world, is vulnerable, an easy target. A way to get to