Chapter 2 - Freckles

Alessandro

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This wasn’t just a hit on our assets—it was a direct challenge to me and my reputation. Whoever pulled this off thought they could outsmart me, play me for a fool. They were about to learn just how wrong they were.

Even if it’s the FBI, I’ll find them and drag them right to my doorstep. They’ll regret ever thinking they could take me on. This shit is personal now, and trust me, nobody wants to go toe-to-toe with me.

I continued to sift through the data, and then I saw the patterns and a realization hit me. This wasn’t just a random attack. This was someone who knew my name, someone who fucked with my ID. Someone with my full name, address, date of birth, and social security number. Some who had the guts to change my work number, how did they even pull that off and why didn't the company contact me?

The answer sent a chill down my spine—the only ones with this kind of reach and capability were the FBI.

My thoughts turned to recent dealings, enemies, anyone with the motive and the skill to pull this off.

Names and faces flashed through my mind, each one a potential traitor. But who had the means and the access to pull this off?

Suddenly it felt as if it wasn't the FBI because if it were them, they’d already be at our doorstep, slapping handcuffs on everyone for the mess we’ve made.

This stank of an inside job.

Could it be Frankie?

Taking a deep breath, a slow, sinister smile spread across my face. The thought of Frankie being behind this was almost satisfying. If he was the rat, he’d soon wish he’d stayed out of my way. I’d make sure of that.

I turned back to the laptop, my fingers flying over the keyboard. First, I needed to retrace their steps, follow the digital breadcrumbs they had left behind. Every hacker, no matter how skilled, left a trace. It was only a matter of time before I found it.

I accessed the security logs, scanning through the entries. There it was—a series of logins from unfamiliar IP addresses, masked through various VPNs and proxies. Amateurs. I had designed my systems to detect even the slightest anomalies.

I noted the IP addresses and began cross-referencing them with known VPN services and previous attacks. Patterns began to emerge, and I could feel the pieces of the puzzle falling into place.

Next, I searched the transaction history. Each account had been drained in rapid succession, the money funneled through a maze of other accounts. But I recognized a few of the routes. They had used techniques I was intimately familiar with—techniques I had developed myself. This was someone who knew my methods.

Frankie was my protegé, only he'd know of my tricks but being my protegé he wouldn't leave a trail for me to find. He knew how important it was for us to cover our tracks. This person had made a fatal mistake. They had left behind traces, echoes of their movements that I could follow.

It wasn’t Frankie—he’d never be sloppy enough to leave a trail. And it wasn’t the FBI; if it were, we’d all be in cuffs by now, and my systems would be locked down. No, this was someone else. Someone stupid enough to think that they could beat me at my own game. It was almost admirable. Almost.

I smiled, the thrill of the hunt coursed through me, a heady mix of anger and excitement.

I’m going to find you, and when I do, I’ll make sure you suffer, you little thief.

I needed a network sniffer, and it was on the flash drive stashed in my wallet. I tossed my laptop onto the bed and stormed into the living room, tearing through the place in a frenzy. I finally spotted my jacket behind the couch. Snatching it up, I fumbled through the inner pocket—empty.

My eyes went wide as the full impact of the situation sank in. My wallet was gone. I scrambled through my house in a frenzy, flipping over furniture and yanking open drawers. I tore through every corner, my frustration mounting with each second.

The more I looked, the more I felt the panic clawing at me. This wasn’t just a minor screw-up—it was a fucking catastrophe.

I raked a hand through my hair as I looked around the place. The girls from last night couldn’t have taken it. They were with me the entire time. The timing of the transactions would have made it impossible for them to execute such a precise theft. If not them, then who?

As I tore through the house, a cold realization hit me—what if the thief had my wallet?

Is that how they got ahold my credentials?

But how the hell would someone swipe my wallet from inside my jacket?

Then it hit me. I recalled that brief moment from the nightclub, just before I left. The girl who brushed past me, bumping into me as she made her way through the crowd. The thought made my blood run cold.

Freckles...

I headed straight to my bedroom and booted up the nightclub’s security footage. I had left the club around 3 a.m., and Freckles had bumped into me just seconds before. I dialed in the timestamp and started sifting through the footage.

I focused intently on the video as it played. Freckles approached casually, but I zoomed in on the moment our bodies connected. Her chest brushed against mine, and I zoomed in further. There it was—her hand slipping subtly between us. It was a slight touch, almost imperceptible, but it was there.

I replayed the footage, analyzing her movements. Her hand brushed against my side where my wallet had been. The touch was practiced, deliberate. It probably wasn't the first time she had done it.

Freckles—whoever the fuck she was—was a seasoned thief.

A grim smile formed on my face. “Fuck me running... we have our little thief.”

A woman, no less…

It all clicked into place. That casual brush against me, the way she seemed to innocently bump into me—it wasn’t random. She’d used that moment of contact to snatch my wallet. The precision, the timing—it screamed professionalism.

I took a sharp breath, trying to steady myself. Freckles had managed to exploit a fleeting, unsuspecting second to pull off a heist that was as smooth as it was humiliating.

A woman had outwitted me with nothing more than a calculated touch. The realization stung—she’d made a fool out of me with a move I should have seen coming.

Now it was my turn to strike back.

But first, I had to track her down.

I reviewed the security footage from last night again, focusing intently on Freckles. I needed a better view of her face, something more definitive. As the footage played, I zoomed in on her features, as she sat on the barstool, sipping on her drink.

In that frame, I paused the video. Her face was partially obscured, but I could make out enough details—her hairstyle, distinctive features. I took a series of screenshots.

With the images saved, I used specialized software to enhance the screenshots, increasing the resolution and clarity. The clearer images allowed me to start a reverse search. I used facial recognition software to compare her features against publicly available databases and social media profiles.

Within minutes, I had narrowed down potential matches. I cross-referenced her image with local social media accounts and public records. Her unique appearance and the specific details from the footage helped me identify accurately.

Minutes later, I had a hit.

The name was Viviane Kane. And the image of her stared back at me, mascara running down her cheek, she had a slight smirk on her face, her red hair was a mess and she was holding a placard with her name on it. She held it almost casually, as if the arrest were just another notch on her belt.

It was a mugshot...

Fuck, interesting...

I dug deeper, pulling up her profile and background. Viviane Kane wasn’t just a random pickpocket; she had a history. Arrest records showed two previous arrests for theft. Each charge was linked to elaborate heists.

There were articles detailing her heists, including a high-profile gala where she had stolen a valuable necklace, impressively.

She was known for slipping through security systems that stumped even the best. As I read more details I realized that each of her thefts were planned with precision.

I smiled, a cold, calculated smile stretching across my face. "Got you, little thief…"

This wasn’t just about a stolen wallet anymore. It was personal. Viviane Kane had the audacity to target someone like me, and that meant she needed to be dealt with.

Next, I dug into her personal life. She was holed up in a rundown part of Brooklyn, living in a cramped apartment that was crawling with lowlifes thieves just like her.

I gave Frankie the directive to shut down the search and handle the situation myself. No need for anyone else to get their hands dirty, after all, it was just a girl.

Suddenly, the tension lifted off my shoulders. I felt like I had all the time in the world. I freshened up, took a shower, had breakfast with Magnus—a British shorthair cat.

He reclined in his velvet bed as I served him his premium organic kibble, the kind that cost more than most people’s monthly rent. He was the most important thing in my life, the only creature in my world that truly understood the value of finer things.

I selected a tailored suit from my closet. It crafted from the finest Italian wool, fit me like a second skin. I fastened the sleeve garters. My leather gloves, made from the softest lambskin, slid on effortlessly. I wasn’t one for leaving fingerprints, especially when it came to handling delicate matters—like murder.

"Be a good boy," I told Magnus as I stepped out, locking the door behind me.

I preferred solitude. No staff, no guards or drivers. My home was a fortress built on layers of custom security protocols that would make even the slickest hacker sweat.

A cleaning lady comes by every couple of days to clean up, but otherwise, I handled my own. I even cooked my own meals.

The moment I approached the garage, the sensors kicked in with a low buzz and the door slid open. Inside, eight cars shined under the lights. I spared a glance at the Lamborghini Sián Roadster, the newest addition, thanks to Niko. Its sleek design tempting me for a split second. But rolling through Brooklyn in that beast would be like throwing a flare into the night sky.

I opted for a BMW instead. It was the perfect choice—under the radar. It would keep me low-profile as I tracked down Viviane Kane.