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Money, I guess. We look like money.
And trouble.
The Grigori family back to take its rightful place at the top. Except that we’re not much of a family anymore. We’re a two-man show.
“Uncle,” I greet him. “I didn’t expect to see you this morning.”
He tucks his phone into his pocket and shakes my hand, glancing behind me. “You should take the chopper. It’s safer.”
“I’m fine. I needed the air. Why are you here?”
He studies me as he considers this. “I have two names.”
I feel my jaw tense but nod.
“Tell me you did what I said,” he says.
“Which part?”
“The girl. Is she out of your system?”
“She was never in my system,” I lie.
“You didn’t do it, did you? You didn’t get rid of her.”
“She’ll warm my bed for another few days. Leave it. She’s not your concern.”
“She’s a threat. Her family will want her back.”
“Her family’s dead. You mean the cartel will want her back. Maybe. Maybe not. And if they do, it could be to make her queen or to kill her. If it’s to make her queen, then she’s valuable. There are those who are loyal to her, to her family. We have to think farther down the road, Uncle. We can still use the cartel and if I have their princess, then I hold something of value.”
“And her fiancé?”
I raise my eyebrows. “He’s no longer her fiancé.”
“Call him what you want. He can use her to secure his position with the cartel. It’s easier to be rid of her.”
“And if he were to walk onto the island to take her, I’d have the opportunity of a lifetime. But we both know he’s too much of a pussy to do that.”
“He’s not going to be walking onto the island, Cristiano,” he says, dropping the subject of Scarlett. At least for now.
“What do you mean? Did you find him?”
He looks around, gestures to the SUV. “Get in. We’ll talk on the way to my office. You won’t be late to your meeting.”
I do, and he follows. I look out of the bullet proof window, glance at the row of SUVs trailing us. My uncle doesn’t like to take any chances with his life. It’s funny to see how much he values it, in a way. He wants to live. He has a passion for life. Or a healthy fear of death. Two things in which we are on opposite ends of the spectrum.
“Here.” He hands me a folder out of his briefcase. He’s old-school. Leave no electronic trail. Ever. It’s probably what’s kept him out of prison.
I open the folder and the first thing I see is a grainy photo of the man who orchestrated my family’s massacre.
The younger Marcus Rinaldi.
I flip through the photos, look at the vast, empty land around him. I look at the men in their pickup trucks, the porch of the house he’s stepping into. The bigger house I recognize.
“He’s in Mexico?”
My uncle nods. “Making an alliance between the De La Cruz Cartel, which he considers himself the head of since he is engaged to Scarlett—”
“He can consider himself the fucking king of England for all I care. It makes no difference to me. Like I said, he’s no longer engaged to Scarlett. She told me she’d rather kill herself than fuck him.”
“Well, that’ll be news to him then.”
“Go on. I recognize the De La Cruz house. But what’s this one? With whom is he forging this alliance?”
“Felix Pérez. Jacob’s son-in-law. He’s back in the picture and has some support within the Cartel. I don’t think he’s very powerful yet but if they joined forces, it could damage us considering our situation with the other families.”
“I’m about to resolve that situation.” I close the folder. “And I have no intention of letting them damage us. Were these taken with a drone or do we have men there?”
“No men. Too dangerous. He’s untouchable as long as he’s on Mexican soil.”
“No one is untouchable. Ever.” I look straight ahead, my mind working.
“What about the old man. You can take care of him. Maybe it’ll lure Marcus back.”
“I already told you, we’re not killing a man who is in a fucking coma. That’s cowardice.”
He studies me for a beat. “You can’t go after him in Mexico, Cristiano. They’ll kill you on sight.”
I look over at him. Does he see how little I care about that? As long as I kill Marcus first, I don’t care if I walk out of there or not. I just have to be the one to end that motherfucker’s life before I die. That’s all I care about. “You said you have names.”
He nods, takes out another folder from inside his briefcase where I see stacks more.
“George and Stella Normandy.”
“Not Italian names.”
“No, but she’s Italian. George is American. Married about thirty years ago. They’re heavily invested in the flesh trade. They run a couple of clubs, for lack of a better word, where patrons pay top dollar for use of the product—”
