Where she’s going to put you in it isthe only question mark about the whole thing.
“Guest?!” Garcia echoes himself in the same displeased tone and low volume.“My name’s not even worth fucking knowing?!”
“Her not knowing your name isn’t a bad thing, my guy.” Our conversation momentarily breaks for me to deliver a polite nod in passing to the terrifyingly, delicious male enforcer known as Gorilla.“Trust me.”
Ravencroft – the woman with one name like Beyonce or Cher – controls oneof the four branches of The Empedocles Syndicate, an elusive criminal organization created and operated byfourruthless, female assassins.
That’s right.
Fucking.
Four.
Like the elements.
Earth, fire, wind, andwater.
I’ve – thankfully – only had to do business with Ravencroft or “water”.
Usually indirectly.
Typically for one of her lion like pride members.
She has her own in-house digital forensics specialist – just better branding than hacker – for most ofhershit.
Me and that dude have crossed paths.
Three times.
Once at a party.
Once at an auction.
And once when I got lost in this place trying to find the bathroom.
He was walking around the hallways, barefoot, shirtless, and gobbling down Goldfish.
I asked where I could piss.
I let him lead the way.
Enjoyed a handful of his b class crackers – Cheeze-Its are infinitely better.
Found out he’s not allowed to eat them in his room, which is evidently across from hers in the main part of this crime lord castle.
Ravencroft isn’t the type of woman you question.
Definitelyneverchallenge.
You know.
If you liked to live longer than that particular conversation.
Our presence in one of her outdoor dining spaces is announced by the very man who brought us here the instant we’ve crossed the threshold, “Mr.Fiorenzo and Guest, Madam.”
“I have a name,” Garcia grumbles out of turn prompting me to cringe.
Shake my head.
