Jian Carlo’s fury had grown steadily as he and Roga followed Adriana’s hired town car to the Sheraton where it picked up Michael Cross and continued through the congested traffic to the glamorous Copacabana Palace. Although he had expected Adriana to sneak out with her lover after he had pretended to be stuck with clients, it still galled him that she would bring him here.
“Be quick,” Jian Carlo said, as Roga drove onto the center divider and parked between the trees. “And wear this.” He handed over a full-face party mask. “It would be disastrous if she recognized you.”
Roga would not be permitted onto the red carpet walkway of the Copacabana Palace without a ticket, but dressed in a black suit and party mask, he would blend in with the fancy crowd well enough to get close to Michael Cross as he exited the car; provided he could squeeze through the spectators.
A mission like this should be easy for Roga, who had dodged the ROTA special police force and the PPC gang of São Paulo before Jian Carlo had inadvertently rescued him from a street war. Dragging the bullet-riddled gangbanger into his car had been one of the best decisions Jian Carlo had ever made, although, to this day, he could not say why he had done it.
Jian Carlo watched as his chauffeur moved through the traffic like a phantom, lit from behind by the aqua-marine lights shining on the face of the Art Deco hotel. He jumped a traffic barrier, bypassed the spectators on the sidewalk, and continued down the line of limousines toward Adriana’s town car. It had stopped behind a stretch Hummer, delivering a crew of privileged party boys. Cameras flashed. Spectators cheered. Roga wove through the commotion as Michael emerged, annoyingly tall and handsome in a tailored tuxedo. As he walked around the back to assist Adriana out of the car, Roga fell in behind him.
The rest of what happened played out in glimpses between passing vehicles, like crude animation: a gruesome mask, a golden dress, a tailored tux, and the flash of steel. Then a bus pulled forward and blocked Jian Carlo’s view.
He scanned the crowd for signs that someone had noticed what Roga had done, but everyone behaved normally. And why not? It’s not as if he had killed Michael Cross on the sidewalk. Jian Carlo was impatient but not stupid.
He jumped in his seat as Roga knocked on the passenger window then motioned for him to hurry up and get in the car.
“Did you get it?”
Roga handed Jian Carlo a knife tipped with a drop of blood.
“He didn’t even notice.”