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My phone rings in my pocket and I tense.
“How long are we gonna keep avoiding that call?” Caleb asks, more somber.
“Until all the dominoes have fallen.” I can count the people who’ve ever had this number on one hand. I doubt it’s Donny or Stan calling, because I checked in with them less than an hour ago. I know it’s not Bane, for obvious reasons. Eduardo isn’t likely to dial this number until after the drop, when all hell breaks loose and he feels the need to remind me that the Eastons are still on the hook for three million dollars.
So there’s only one person left. “Let him stew.” We’re twenty minutes out from the planned drop—a simple handoff of money and truck keys in a parking lot on the southside of the city, entrusted to three of the morons who can’t find their assholes in the dark, according to my father—and Vlad wants to know if we’re on our way. He may be forcing our hand, but we’re merely bobbleheads for him. He thinks he’s still running his empire from behind Fulcort’s bars.
The ringing stops, only to start up again.
“For fuck’s sakes, enough is enough. You need to cut him off now,” Caleb snaps.
“You know what? You’re right.” Whatever scheme he was cooking up involving Mercy’s father is moot. “Text Donny and tell him to toss his cell.”
“With pleasure.” Caleb slips out his phone.
Mercy’s brow furrows with concern.
“It’s all good, babe. Your dad’s safer than he’s ever been.” From what Donny told me, half of Fulcort has already heard that Vlad has no money to pay the sky-high tab he’s been running up. It’ll be a few hours yet before someone has the balls to ask the old man if it’s true.
Vlad Easton may have no damn clue yet that his entire world is crumbling down around him.
“I know.” She forces a reassuring smile that doesn’t convince either of us.
I can’t fault her for that. All I can do is comfort and distract her, something I’ve been hesitant to do up until now because of this never-ending nightmare I’ve dragged her into. I reach over and slide a hand over her bare leg. Her skin is warm and soft, and slick from the intense afternoon heat.
The flicker of interest that dances through her gaze tells me she knows where my head is at—or where it wants to be. Between those slender thighs.
“I think I need to go for a walk around the property to digest all this food,” I announce, my eyes on her, that pool house and her naked body in the forefront of my dirty mind.
“That sounds like a good idea,” she begins to say, but her attention is pulled to Tony and the gun strapped to his hip, as he strolls in.
“Jefa,” he addresses Ava—I know enough Spanish to recognize the lady boss title.
“Sí?”
They exchange quick dialogue in Spanish and the easygoing, smiling Ava melts like an ice cube tossed into a fire. Collecting her napkin, she dabs at her lips—the red color painted on them unmarred—her face now stony.
“What’s going on?” I steal a wary glance Farley’s way.
He senses the shift in her, too. His hand twitches at his side, ready to reach for his gun.
A scuffle of shoes sound inside the house, putting us all instantly on edge. Four guards step out of the house, a bound man stumbling between them.
“This is the part of this business that I have no palate for,” Ava says cryptically, standing and gesturing toward the man with her palm up as if serving something to us on a platter. “I promised you retribution for your club manager. Here it is.”
Caleb’s mouth hangs for several beats. It’s so rare to see my brother speechless that, under different circumstances, I’d laugh. “You brought us Mateo Estrada.”
“I said I would deliver him to you, didn’t I?”
“You did. I just didn’t expect it so soon.”
“I am a woman of my word. And I couldn’t give him time to step into my father’s shoes.”
Caleb moves fast out of his seat, rounding the table toward Luiz Navarro’s righthand man.
The guy’s panicked gaze shifts between Caleb and Ava. He looks like a snake, his eyes narrow and flinty, his mouth curved downward. “What have you done, Ava?”
Yeah, I recognize his voice from our brief phone call—when he was all cordial and told me he’d talk Navarro into a sit-down. Now I know he was full of shit; they’d already planned on killing us.
“You didn’t think you would be permitted to take on what is rightfully mine, did you?” she says, her tone icy.
We’re not stupid. We may want Mateo dead, but Ava needs him dead so he can’t challenge her claim to the cartel empire her father built. Giving him to us means her hands stay relatively clean.
