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“No.” Flynn’s jaw clenched. “But I don’t see another option. It’s only a matter of time before the Garcias expand. That could be bad for our business.”
What business was Flynn talking about? Clearly not the hotel business. And why was Colt asking Flynn to deal with the storage unit full of coke?
Who was Flynn Campbell?
Because he sure as shit wasn’t just a hotel mogul.
Our conversation was cut off by another knock on the door, this time for the servers to clear our dishes and deliver the duck entrée. I noticed that neither Flynn nor Colt had touched the soup. Barrett’s bowl was empty. Clearly this sort of talk didn’t affect her appetite.
Once we were in private again, Flynn spoke, “Barrett will reach out to Mateo Sanchez.”
“I promise nothing,” she voiced. “But I can get you a meeting.”
No longer able to hold back my curiosity, I asked, “Who’s Mateo Sanchez?”
Barrett looked at me and smiled wryly. “The most powerful man in Argentina.”
“You’re friends with the most powerful man in Argentina?” I gaped at Barrett.
“‘Friends’ is a strong word,” she answered. “I prefer business associate.”
“Business associate, my arse,” Flynn muttered.
“How did that happen?” I asked. “Sorry, I’m just—I have to know.”
“Mia, I don’t think—”
“No, it’s fine,” Flynn interrupted. “You trust her, aye?”
“Yeah, I do,” Colt said.
“Then we can let her in.”
“Wow,” Barrett said in amusement. “This is certainly a change from the Flynn Campbell I met years ago.”
Flynn smiled, showing a dazzling row of white teeth. “I’ve mellowed with age.”
Barrett laughed. “Yeah, sure.” She glanced at me. “When Flynn was in trouble, I went to Mateo for help. You’ll never hear his name on the news, but no one else has the kind of power Mateo has.”
Flynn pulled his wife’s chair closer to him and then reached out and touched one of her auburn locks.
“We’ve been in business with Mateo ever since. Much to Flynn’s consternation—it’s been lucrative.”
“They’re friends even though she says they’re not,” Flynn stated. “He sends her a Christmas card every year for God’s sake.”
“He sends it tobothof us,” she countered.
“He addresses the envelope toyou.”
Barrett shrugged, but didn’t reply. She picked up her glass of wine and took a drink.
I wanted to ask more questions, but Flynn shifted the conversation to other matters. They talked about their family and the antics their young boys got into constantly. Barrett pulled out her phone and showed me pictures.
It was surreal, sitting and talking with the Campbells, having dinner with them. Like we all weren’t just discussing illegal activities that would send us to prison for life if we were caught. Every so often, I noticed Barrett watching me with a small smile. It was a smile of understanding, I realized.
After we finished our meal, Colt said, “I think I’d like to bring the boys up for a chat in your Whiskey Room.”
Flynn nodded. “I’ll clear it out.”
