Hacker (Sweet Little Sinners), page 1
Cassie Mint
Hacker
First published by Black Cherry Publishing 2022
Copyright © 2022 by Cassie Mint
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Cassie Mint asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
First edition
ISBN: 978-1-914242-77-9
This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy
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Contents
Keep in touch with Cassie!
1. Frankie
2. Luca
3. Frankie
4. Luca
5. Frankie
6. Luca
7. Frankie
8. Luca
9. Frankie
10. Luca
Teaser: Honey Trap
About the Author
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One
Frankie
Whenever I need to make a big decision, I have three different plans of attack. Option one: call my friend Tabitha to check what a normal person would do—and hopefully get her boyfriend Spencer to weigh in, since as a cat burglar, she’s not that normal either.
Option two: draw on the collective wisdom of the internet, and hope my exact predicament has come up before. This is good for laundry questions and houseplant care; not so much for illegal activities.
Or option three: roll my favorite dice and hope for the best.
I lean back in my desk chair and frown at the spread of computer screens, blue light washing over me in a sickly glow. It’s late, but that’s okay. That’s not why my brain’s stuck. I’m a night owl, and I think better after midnight.
The handful of dice dig into my palm as I squeeze them tight, and I rap twice on the desk with my stuffed hand. I can’t tear my eyes away from the screens; can’t even blink.
Luca Bianchi will die tonight.
Oh, he’s got a few hours left in him. The literal backstabbing is set for 5am, after which point the mobster will be nothing but a pile of dead limbs and a red puddle on the floor. Is he having a good night, at least? Did he have a delicious last meal? What did he eat?
It took me a long time to unearth this plan, digging through private servers and coded communications, and honestly, I stumbled onto it by chance. Luca’s cousin has been careful. I doubt even the kingpin will realize it was him—that the hit came from inside the house.
But I’ll know. I found that weasel’s breadcrumb trail and followed it all the way back to an assassin. He’s taken out a hit on his own cousin, and for what? The chance to take over Luca’s activities, probably. To become the new spymaster.
Dude. That’s not how it works. If someone had me killed, they wouldn’t magically become a great hacker, and he won’t inherit Luca’s web of secrets and intrigue. It’ll just disappear. Evaporate in a puff of smoke. Such a waste.
Because Luca is good. A genius, really. That’s why I like him so much—or part of it, anyway. As a rule, I don’t lie to myself, so I’ll also admit that the thick bronze hair, square jaw and moss green eyes don’t hurt either.
We’re all animals deep down, even me, and I exist more online than in the real world.
And my inner animal really likes Luca Bianchi.
“Shit.”
I grab my phone, then sigh and toss it on the desk. Pick it up, then put it down. What good would calling Tabitha do? She doesn’t know Luca like I do. She hasn’t watched him for months, years, like he’s her favorite TV show. She’s not properly invested. She doesn’t have all the facts.
I think Tabitha would tell me to stay out of mob business. So I’m not gonna call her.
And there’s no point checking online. Somehow I doubt there’s a forum for this.
Okay, so that leaves my trusty dice. An odd number, and I’ll warn him. Even, and I won’t. I’ll let Luca Bianchi die.
The dice clatter over my desk, the sound cutting over the soft music pulsing from the speakers I’ve got hooked on all the walls. Most of them land in a neat halo, but one bounces off the keyboard at a weird angle and drops onto the floorboards below. I scowl, but count up all the other dice first.
Nineteen so far. An odd number. That’s good.
My legs are stiff as I climb out of my desk chair, my ass sore from hours on the plush leather. The chair almost cost more than my screens, but I still feel like an old woman every time I get up after too long in one position.
I can’t help it. My focus snags on something, then I get absorbed. Like on Luca Bianchi for instance—I’ve got more than one dead leg after staring at his stuff for hours. Reading his emails; scrolling through his bank accounts, both legitimate and hidden. Scanning his appointments and trying to decode his private notes.
He makes it hard for me, not like most of the power players in this city. I like that.
One time I hacked his laptop webcam and watched a live feed of his kitchen for four hours. He made tortellini from scratch and called to threaten an informant while stirring the sauce. And later on, he wandered past the doorway shirtless on his way to the shower.
That was such a good night.
It’s dark under the desk, away from the screens. It takes a second for my eyes to adjust, then I spot the ghostly white cube beside the table leg. My mouth goes dry.
Three.
I stare at the three dots, plucking the die off the floorboards. It brings a tiny clump of dust.
So: twenty two. An even number, which means I won’t warn him.
Decision made. I’ll let Luca Bianchi die.
* * *
Okay, forget that. How do you even tell a person they’re about to be betrayed? I don’t like sending the simplest messages. I can’t do small talk, and everyday interactions confound me. This is way above my pay grade.
And even if I figure out the wording, how do I do it? How do I get in touch? Ideally, I’d leave an anonymous note on his computer or something. Let him find it in his own time, and erase any trace of me so he can’t figure out who sent it. But I’m on the clock here, and there’s a chance Luca is asleep, so I need to get his attention fast.
My brain’s whirring so much, I need a fan in my skull. I lunge to my feet, stumbling to my kitchen on wobbly legs. When did I last eat?
A bowl of curry instant noodles and a sickly sweet energy drink later, I collapse back into my chair, breathing hard. Focus, Frankie.
The stakes are high on this one. Stupid dice don’t know what they’re talking about. Luca Bianchi is not a man I can sit back and watch die… but he’s not someone whose attention I want, either. He got pissed off last month when a neighbor signed for a package for him. He’s a very private, territorial person. A dangerous man.
He won’t take well to discovering he’s been hacked.
A glance at the clock makes sweat break out on my palms. It’s past 3am. Time’s running out for Luca.
“Crap. Double crap. Oh shit. Oh shit.”
I got into his phones months ago. He’s got three of them: one for business, one for family-personal, and one for actual-personal. He barely uses that one, but I think he likes the idea of having private space.
That’s the phone I go into now, my fingers flying over the keyboard. I set an appointment in the calendar: Get murdered at 5am, then set a loud reminder to chime out until he swipes it off.
Is that enough? How will I know if he’s seen it? I stare at the potted ivy vines trailing down the wall beside my desk, my eyes dry and heart pounding.
I should be sure. This is Luca Bianchi. I should be extra certain.
So I set a dozen more appointments and alerts on every piece of Luca Bianchi’s tech that I’ve ever hacked. All his phones and his laptop. His smart watch and tablet. If he lives long enough to get in his car again, his sat nav will warn him too.
Then I dial everything up to maximum volume, sit back in my chair, and let them chime.
Two
Luca
Someone is fucking with me, which means that someone is going to die. This was already a shitty, waste-of-breath day, with one of my best moles in the police department caught stealing documents, and my favorite cooking show getting axed. I’m not in the fucking mood.
The first alert comes from my personal phone. My really personal phone. I’ve barely snatched it up from my nightstand and silenced the alarm before the others start to ring out.
All of them.
My laptop pings rhythmically from the kitchen counter, loud enough for the sound to float through the wall. All of my phones are chiming now, the volume dialed up even louder, and even my smart watch flashes and vibrates on the bureau.
What. The. Fuck.
Do I seem like the kind of man it would be fun to prank? Have I let myself appear soft? It’s true that I don’t relish violence the way some in the mob do, but that’s a matter of personal t
Whoever is doing this will die. Painfully. I will make an example of them.
Because this is my space. My territory. These are my fucking things. Whoever is doing this has clearly hacked all my tech, and for what? A stupid wake up call? Making me lose a few hours of sleep?
I swipe off another alert, then my tired eyes snag on the text. I’ve been glancing at the reminders, seeing without really reading, but my sleep-fogged brain is finally catching up.
The alerts all say the same thing: Get murdered, 5am.
Huh.
Well, if it’s a prank, I guess it’s slightly better. More unsettling. And if it’s not… who the fuck would warn me like this? Everyone I know would call, or meet in person. Not hack my smart watch and personal phone.
It’s still an invasion. Even if they’re right, they’ll pay. I dig the heels of my palms into my eyes, mind whirring as I plot out scenarios.
Who would want me dead?
Lots of people.
But who would have the guts to try it?
Not so many.
5am is not far away. I need a plan now.
My jaw cracks as I yawn, shaking my head and striding toward the shower, my personal phone gripped in one hand and a switchblade in the other. Will I die in the next ten minutes? Unlikely. But the water will wake me up, will get a solution out of me, and besides…
I’m not meeting my maker in fucking pajama pants.
* * *
I stand outside a warehouse on the city docks, arms folded and a salty breeze tugging at my hair. Dawn’s breaking, the horizon a burning red line, and waves slosh against the stone dock walls.
“This is bullshit.” My cousin Sal stands at my side, arms crossed, his posture matching mine. Sal’s always copied me, even when we were boys, and right now we’ve even got matching dark shadows under our eyes. “He came to your apartment? That’s personal, Luca.”
No shit. Aren’t all assassination attempts pretty personal when it comes down to it?
I frown at the oil drum perched on the dock’s edge. Two lower-downs are stuffing bricks through the hole, weighing it down, because the last thing I want is my hit man floating out to sea, bobbing around in the shipping lane.
“How’d you know he was coming?” Sal prods, and the hairs prickle on my neck. I shoot a glance at my cousin, but he’s not watching. He’s gesturing at our helpers, making them stuff the barrel quicker. The light’s coming up fast, and we’ve all got shit to do today.
I only called him because he’s head of clean up. Figured it would make this all go faster.
Now I’m wondering if Sal and I should have a chat.
“I always know.”
Not true, but he doesn’t need to hear that. A big part of my role is the mystique—people spew out their secrets faster when they think it’s inevitable either way. Sal’s always been jealous of my job; has always resented playing clean up. It’s a vital task, but he thinks it’s degrading. Following around after the big boys.
“I’ll know about the next one, too. And I’ll figure out who’s sending them, no problem.”
Sal shifts his weight, sweat beading on his thinning hairline. He still won’t look at me. My eyes narrow.
“What do you think I’ll do to them, Sal? When I figure out who wants me dead?” My voice is soft, but I don’t need to yell to get my message across. And sure enough, when my cousin shrugs, the movement’s jerky.
“You’ll wipe ‘em out, Luca.”
“‘Course I will.”
A hunch isn’t proof. I won’t kill a cousin on a hunch, and not in broad daylight right next to the last body I made. It’s sloppy, and besides, the boss wouldn’t be happy.
But a hunch can become proof, and if I’m right about Sal, he won’t be breathing for very much longer. I might pity him—he’s always been so tragic, with his droopy jowls and the whine to his voice—but that fucking hit man knocked my espresso maker off the kitchen counter. I loved that thing. I imported it from Milan.
My cousin jolts when I clap a hand on his shoulder, giving him a friendly squeeze. “You should take the day off, Sal. You seem stressed.”
We watch as our helpers shove the barrel over the wall’s edge, the metal grating over the rough stone. There’s a loud splash, the rush of bubbles… then nothing. I’m still gripping Sal’s shoulder. He wants to shake me off, but he won’t.
“I’m fine,” he says. “I’m fine.”
The choppy waves glint like steel in the rising sunlight.
“I need a trace,” I tell Sal, because he won’t know how to piece this together anyway. The knowledge won’t do him any good, even if my hunch is right. “IP address, phone number, social security. The whole deal. Send Alessandro to my place for eight.”
He sighs. “Sure, Luca.” He looks older already, but hey, I didn’t age him. He chose this nonsense. “You need a clean up crew at your apartment too?”
“Just my regular lady.” I already bleached all the blood and dealt with the signs of foul play. My normal cleaner Ola can handle the rest.
She’s discreet. Trustworthy, unlike some pieces of shit. And I really need one of her perogies today.
It’s barely dawn, and I’m already sinking bodies at the docks. Someone hacked my fucking sat nav, and my espresso machine broke. Sometimes I think this life is not worth it, and those thoughts are crowding in fast this morning.
I push them all away. No time to brood just yet.
There’s still one problem gnawing at my brain. I’ve got a hacker to hunt.
Three
Frankie
I fling a backpack onto my unmade bed, tugging the zips open and standing back with a huff. What do people pack when they run for their lives? Would that question be on an internet forum? I gaze around my messy bedroom, dazed and lost.
Luca Bianchi lived past 5am. I watched the fight through his laptop webcam on the kitchen counter, my heart in my mouth and my nails digging into my palms. Luca’s a tall man, packed with lean muscle, but the hit man was big. A heavy-boned bruiser. I stood there and wished Luca wasn’t so freaking stubborn, that he’d just disappeared and left an empty apartment for the hit man to find.
There was no sound through the webcam, but I flinched when the espresso machine hit the floor, shards of metal flying across the tiles. Luca loved that thing. He’s going to be extra pissy, and if he finds me, he’ll take it out on me.
The sat nav was overkill. An extra insult. I know that now, but I can’t turn back time, can I?
I don’t regret warning him either, even if it means I’m screwed now. I’ve never felt relief like seeing that hit man go down. Luca didn’t drag it out or make it messy, and I like that about him. He doesn’t relish gore like some men in his position. He’s efficient. He gets the job done, and then he moves on.
If he finds me, will he kill me quickly too?
Oh my god. I need to get out of here. Focus, Frankie.
This is a bad time to have an easily-distracted brain. More than ever, I need to focus on one task at a time and not fixate on Luca Bianchi and his plump lips. Those thick, sooty eyelashes that would be feminine on another man. He could be a model, sure, but that doesn’t mean I should stand here and daydream about him until he turns up and shoots me dead.
Would he do that? A gun doesn’t seem like his style.
Shit. Double shit.
My movements sluggish, I force myself to pack while my skittish thoughts circle round and round in my head. I shove my passport, wallet, keys, dice, and a stack of emergency cash into my backpack. Then a spare tank top and three pairs of plain white cotton underwear.
A hairbrush.
Deodorant.
Toothbrush, toothpaste and soap.
Oh my god, do I need a weapon? If Luca turned up here, could I even concentrate enough to use one? What else should I take?
Hell. I am not equipped for this. I got carried away with my fixation on Luca Bianchi, and now I’m in uncharted territory with no map. Stupid crush.
Digging through my bedroom drawers, I find my grimy old pocket knife, then add the half empty plastic lighter I use to light my apple scented candles. It’s the saddest weaponry you’ve ever seen, but it’s all I’ve got. I’m a hacker, not a fighter, and it’s not like the kitchen’s kitted out. I never cook. I don’t even own a cheese grater.
