Page 220 of Lethal Obsession

Roman waves his glass. “Fire away.”

“I see representatives from two major families here tonight.” Thorne nods at Rico and Luca as if neither of them have actual names. “But I don’t see a Cardeñas here, or any other cartel members.”

“Oh,” Roman says, smiling, “you will, don’t worry. But not on my yacht.” He touches glasses with Rico and Luca as if they share an in-joke. “Cartels might be a necessary evil, but we like to keep them at a safe distance.”

Thorne’s lip curls in an arrogant sneer. “I’m glad we agree on that much.”

“Racist fuck,” Renata breathes beside me, glaring daggers at the screen.

“My point is,” Thorne continues, “what kind of alliance am I dealing with here?” He swirls his hand in a patronizing gesture which includes Roman, Rico, and Luca in one clearly undesirable circle.

Not smart, Thorne, I think, as Roman’s eyes narrow.

“Miami is out of control.” Rico Lucchese, with admirably good instincts, chooses that extremely tense moment to intervene. “I think we can all agree on that. Certain elements”—his mouth twists in distaste—“are operating with carte blanche. We understand,” he goes on, “that you and your friends wanted to disrupt the Petrovsky bratva. We might even have helped, if we were consulted.” His eyes shift pointedly to Hunter. “But we weren’t.” His eyes move away again. “Unfortunately, that disruption has created a bigger mess than you appear capable of dealing with.”

Nobody argues with him.

“Neither Luca nor I have the manpower, or the financial backing, to take control of Miami.” Rico nods at Roman. “But he does. We’ve done business with his organization in the past, so we’re happy for him to speak for us now. Does that answer your question?”

Hunter smiles eagerly. “I’d say so, Silas, don’t you think?” He turns expectantly toward Thorne.

“Shut the fuck up, Hunter,” he says coldly.

Hunter obediently subsides.

“So long as we’re establishing pecking order,” Roman says, his tone deceptively casual, “the Cardeñas cartel has suffered some supply chain issues recently. Was that your doing? And if so, do you have a preferred supplier to take their place? Or is the cartel issue something you’d like me to deal with?”

Thorne casts a speculative glance at Lance Ryder, who is watching all of this with avid fascination, and at the two future bureaucrats, who by contrast look rather uneasy at being present for such open discussions.

“Oh, don’t worry about them,” Roman says dismissively. “Lance is one of my security team,” he lies. “Benson here is taking over Miami PD.” He gestures to the other man. “And Knut is about to replace the existing Miami head of the FBI.”

Renata spits her drink out in an explosive laugh. “Knut?”

Pavel’s voice crackles through the comms. “Tell me I heard that right.”

“Yes, you did,” I say through their laughter. “We just replaced BallSAC with KnutSAC.”

Up on deck, Thorne has paled, but Roman is still talking. “I’ve found it’s always better to start clean in a city,” he says airily. “And these two come highly recommended for our purposes.”

“Recommended by whom?” Thorne’s eyes narrow behind his glasses as he looks at the man opposite. “I thought—” He pauses, then amends whatever he was going to say. “I don’t believe we’ve met.” His tension is palpable. Thorne is clearly skeptical of any political appointment he hasn’t directly orchestrated.

“By a common friend.” Knut’s voice shakes slightly; he’s not as practiced as Roman at saying his lines with confidence. “Calder Vane, at the Zenith Advisory. Reid Calloway introduced us,” he goes on, “at prayer breakfast several weeks ago.”

Thorne relaxes slightly. “You know Calder and Reid?”

“Reid and I were at West Point together.” Casting Roman a surreptitious glance, Knut shifts and lays his jacket over the table. Pinned to the breast pocket, facing discreetly upward, is one of the Cartographer’s Club pins I had made for the occasion.

“We see things moving in the same direction.” Knut delivers the line with all the subtlety of a kid showing a fake ID at a nightclub door, but it clearly works, because Thorne’s demeanor changes instantly.

“Well!” He nods with almost sycophantic goodwill. “Always an honor to meet a man who can read the compass.”

“Seriously?” Renata groans, shaking her head. “Next they’ll have a secret fucking handshake. This is embarrassing to watch.”

“What about you, Benson?” Thorne turns speculatively to the proposed head of Miami PD. “Are you also a West Point man?”

“Hillsdale College, Michigan,” Benson answers promptly. “Home of the Compass Initiative’s most successful chapter, thanks to Marty Jr.’s daughter.” He raises his glass to a beaming Hunter, pausing long enough for the light to catch his signet ring, discreetly inscribed with the Cartographer’s Club logo. “Of course, Hillsdale is a long way north of where we are currently.”

“Excellent.” Thorne settles self-importantly back on the sofa. “Just excellent. It’s a pleasure to have you both with us.” He gives Roman an approving nod. “I like your choice of friends, Borovsky.”