Mikhail
I shut the office door, staring at the envelope as I walk to my desk. The tape is too thick for my silver letter opener, so I have to open it with a box cutter. A burner phone falls on the desk, and I press the button on the side.
There's only one number in the contacts.
A voice answers as soon as I call it. "Mikhail Ivanov?"
"Yes," I recognize the voice, but I want him to confirm it. "Who's speaking?"
Laughter erupts as the man throws back his head. "Luigi Bianchi, your old friend."
I smirk. "Not dead yet?"
"I guess you'll have to do it yourself," he replies smoothly. "My boss, Christian Genovesi, sends a message."
"Not in person?" I ask.
"I like the rest of my fingers," he says. "And my orders are to kill you the next time I see you. So, you can see how that presents som
