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Dragging it up to her chest, I press my lips to her forehead before dressing in Sam’s suit pants and shirt and scooping my phone off the floor. The magic she spoke of is fading fast, the edges curling like burning paper as I scroll through a message from Gabrio.
I don’t have a second-in-command right now, not after my last one took a bullet to the gut last month, but Gabrio’s as close as it gets. He’s keeping order until Sam fixes his tooth and his attitude. His place by my side is assured, but he’s got some growing up to do first. Still, despite everything, I’ve always liked the arrogant little shit. He’s loyal, and he’s shrewd, and I know he won’t hesitate in pulling the trigger when the orders come down.
Border patrol caught Sidorov attempting to flee NY. The Russian’s a mess. Keeps acting like his number with the Devil just got called and he’s allergic to fire.
Sidorov? The Bratva Pakhan?
Now I’m intrigued. When one crime boss starts running like a little bitch, the others sit up and take note.
I tap a reply.
Is he loaded?
Gabrio responds right away.
More like scared shitless. He’s gibbering about something. Don’t know what language he’s speaking though. Whatever it is ain’t Russian or English.
I grit my teeth as the ugliness of my business creeps into Ella’s room. This is one thing I’ll always admire Santiago for. He keeps his daughters in the eye of the storm, but still manages to shield them from the worst of him. They know he’s a cartel kingpin, and I’m guessing they know all about the huge bounty the FBI, the CIA, and Interpol have on his head, but he’s never gutted a man from dick to sternum in front of them. He shows them just enough of himself to keep the truth alive, but anything else is a smokescreen.
Not me.
I know exactly who he is.
I’ve seen his darkness because I’m only two steps behind him, contending with my own.
Be there soon. Make him sing.
Sliding my phone into my pocket, I spark up a cigarette with the old Zippo Aiden gave me. After that, I’m prowling around the bedroom, smoking fast, trailing ash and conflict like gray confetti.
I’m restless to go.Restless to stay.
Outside, dawn is bleeding indigo across the sky and it’s my least favorite color.
Moving over to her desk, I sift through a surface that’s scattered with literary classics, pens without lids, and half-finished essays, and then my eyes are lingering on a stash of pencils.
Moments later, I’m flicking the cigarette butt out of the window, and one of those pencils is skimming across an empty page, capturing the dips and curves of the young woman sleeping in front of me until I’m satisfied with the result. No picture could ever do her justice, and I’m rusty as fuck, but I draw enough to keep a perfect memory alive.
Ripping out the page, I slide it into the pocket of Sam’s shirt and head back into the bathroom. Splashing water on my face, I rake a wet hand through my hair, and steal a look in the mirror above the sink. There’s a grown man staring back at me, but I don’t recognize him. He looks angry. Trapped. Weighed down by a consequence that trails him like a shadow.
“Fuck you,” I mutter at his reflection, as another message comes in from Gabrio.
Semenov is dead.
Drip, drip.
Can you feel it coming, Edier?
How?
I glance at the man in the mirror again to see a killer and a liar glaring back.
He went for Arturo’s knife. Slit his own throat before we could stop him.
Drip, drip.
Why d’you really kill yourself, Mamá? Was it because I couldn’t be saved or because of the deal I made to get us out of there?
“Fuck you,” I mutter again, tapping out my reply.
