Page 69 of Vow Of Fire

“I want to go back to the cabin,” I said.

Suddenly this wasn’t fun anymore. The open space felt ominous, the treeline a symbol of where my body would probably be left when they got rid of me.

He didn’t argue. Just gave a nod and turned around.

“Told you this was a bad idea.”

We walked back without talking. He picked up the pace again, and this time I didn’t complain, although I had to keep breaking into a jog to keep up with him. Only the sound of our footsteps on the dry ground broke the silence.

We were halfway back when his phone rang.

Taking it out of his back pocket with his free hand, he held it to his ear. “Yeah?”

He listened, then scowled. “Are you sure?”

I turned to look at him. Judging by his thunderous expression, it wasn’t good news.

“Okay, thanks.” He hung up and, tight-lipped, pushed his phone back into his pocket.

“Who was that?” I asked, not really expecting an answer.

“Nico.” He turned his stormy eyes on me. “He managed to trace those Central American payments on your account to a company in Panama.”

“Okay…” I wondered where he was going with this. We already knew that much.

“Linked to a Colombian cartel.”

“Which cartel?” I asked, once Dante had finally come off the phone.

He’d been pacing the length of the small kitchen for ten minutes, like he was the prisoner, not me. He’d called Vincent first, but my crooked accountant hadn’t picked up. Then he’d called his mother, Valentina, who’d spent five solid minutes verbally taking him apart for lying to her about me. In a different mood, I might have enjoyed watching the great Dante Marcelli get reprimanded.

From what I could gather, however, nobody knew anything about the Colombians’ involvement in my gallery. Not the Marcellis, not Vincent, and certainly not me.

Ironic, since it was my freaking gallery.

The way Dante was talking, you’d think the Marcellis owned the place.

“Dante.” I tried again. “Which cartel?”

“It doesn’t matter which one.”

“It does. Especially if they’re using my gallery to launder money.”

He looked over at me. “Los Santos Rotos, if you must know. And they’re using it for much more than that.”

I’d never heard of them. I sank down at the kitchen table and massaged my temples.

Then something clicked into place and I gasped. “Are Los Santos Rotos the same people you bought the cocaine from? The shipment you hid inside my container?”

He stopped pacing and braced both hands on the back of the chair across from me. His knuckles went white.

“Ophelia, you’re not supposed to know that.”

I ignored the fact he kept calling me that. I wasn’t supposed to know a lot of what I’d learned lately. I was already a liability, so what did it matter?

“Wait,” I said, frowning. “They sold you the drugs that were transported in the same consignment as the paintings they bought?”

His voice was like ice. “Exactly. That’s why they bought them, because they knew you’d tell them when it was arriving in New York.”