Get rid off the body," he coldly told his men, taking out a cigarette and smoking.

His sharp, dark eyes gazed down the gloomy alley and the rainy night, the rain washing away the bloodstains on his black leather boots. The only sounds were those of his men removing the bodies of the enemies he had killed, and others guarding and preparing the vehicles.

The silence was broken by the ringing of his phone. It was an unfamiliar number. He raised an eyebrow; it was American, not Italian. He decided to answer.

"Vokolov speaks," He was shocked by a girl's voice. Your voice.