Page 118 of No Merciful Corruption

She’s shaking her head before I’ve even finished my sentence. “No, no, it’s all right. I should be the one to do it. Besides, I promised.”

Lettie removes her gloves and goggles and we leave the greenhouse together. She locks the door behind her and we had back inside together. When it comes to supporting this side of the business, she’s all in. Devoted, invested, interested. I should’ve known numbers and accounting would’ve appealed to a control freak and perfectionist like my sister. Watching her crunch numbers, draft reports, analyze data, and make projections of her own is like watching a mad science in their laboratory. I’m not sure where the crossover is between this kind of work, fashion, and deadly plants but somehow it doesn’t surprise me. It feels like it was meant for her.

“Have you decided what you’re going to do with El Rey yet?” she asks. “I was going through the books the other day. It isn’t doing well.”

I sigh. “My only option is to sell it. It’s better this way. A new owner will have an easier time of enforcing new rules. El Rey was meant to be passive income not an active headache.”

“Why not close the casino and repurpose the building? The land is worth a fortune and the building itself is newly renovated and gorgeous. Not to mention historic. I’m surprised Dahlia didn’t want to keep it.”

“El Rey is in the middle of nowhere and the land isn’t worth as much as you think it is. What made El Rey what it was, was the clientele. With that gone, it’s worth close to nothing. I’m fine cutting my losses.”

We reach the main apartment just as my phone rings and I dig it out of my back pocket. I half expect it to be Dahlia to remind me we have plans tonight. Regina’s name blinks across the screen instead.

My sister’s lips purse with disapproval. “I dislike her. Deeply.”

“Lettie.”

“I trust her even less.”

I ignore her and answer the call. “Hi⁠—”

“We have a problem.”

“Hello to you too.”

“I don’t have time for pleasantries. I just got off the phone with Javier Sevilla.” A car door opens and slams shut on the other end. “We’re being summoned to the Arroyo house.”

“What? Why?”

“They’re calling for a vote,” she says. “They’re trying to initiate the Ortizes as the thirteenth family.”

* * *

The last time we discussed this, we deemed it a statistical impossibility.

The chances of seven Dons voting to inaugurate the Ortizes was slim to none. More than half of them disliked and distrusted Simón Ortiz and the rest were temperamental and easily swayed. Don Cayetano Arroyo hosts the vote in his home with his grandson present and I’m astounded when the vote breaks even.

Don Rubin Caceres drops the last slip of paper into the fireplace and announces to the room. “Split again. Which means we cannot move forward.”

A split vote is an automatic no on anything but I’m not comforted by this. Regina and I exchange looks across the table and Don Fulgencio rises from his seat to address the room.

“Should we reconvene at a later date?”

Don Javier Sevilla, who rarely, if ever, speaks says, “No. We should not.”

Everyone turns to look at him.

“What would be the point in reconvening when it’s clear we’ll never reach a consensus? No one wants a thirteenth family. At least not for the foreseeable future and not under these circumstances.”

I have no doubt Simón Ortiz plans to enter the fold to expand his drug empire but that’s the least of my concerns. If he’s planning what I think he is, he wants a seat at this table to obtain firsthand knowledge of the breadth and width of my control over the ports.

Currently, we lease several private terminals but our fifty-year contract with the Port of Barcelona is due to expire in a few years. When that happens, we’ll lose access to at least half of our private terminals if not more. It was part of the agreement with the other Families when I decided to take the Enterprise legitimate—the Port must become neutral territory. Not only that but I’d be forfeiting labor as well. Connections with logistics workers, customs agents, local police, inspectors, maritime authority officers, everyone. Once I give up control I’m leaving a perfectly well-oiled machine out on the curb for anyone to snatch up and make their own.

Simón Ortiz wants to be a Don when that happens. He’ll be privy to those conversations, sit in on those meetings, and have a say on who gets to lease which terminals and I wouldn’t put it past him to do something underhanded. Like swoop in and lease them all. Something like that would give him control of one of the world’s busiest ports for the next fifty years.

Don Mauricio says, “Twelve of us voted. Half of us wanted a thirteenth family.”

“Not the Ortizes,” Don Miguel interjects quickly. “I voted for the possibility to choose a thirteenth. But I don’t trust them. We don’t know who they are, where they come from, or who funds them.”