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The Russians had trafficked her to the US from Romania as a teenager, but when they vacated the city, I found her sleeping rough in one of our warehouses. Turns out, she’d been a Senior Year law student back in Bucharest, so I gave her some money, fixed her up with US citizenship, and sent her to college to finish her studies. Everyone connected to the Santiago cartel shares the same distaste for the trafficking industry—from my mom with her welfare shelter back in Colombia, to the secret hit squad Dante Santiago and my father set up decades ago to wipe out as many of the cockroaches as they could.
Her first case after she graduated was a murder trial she didn’t have any hope of winning. The evidence was stacked, and the District Attorney’s office were already popping champagne corks, until she stood up and blew the competition away. The guy walked free from jail ten days later, even though everyone in that courtroom knew he was as guilty as hell.
From that day on, she’s been my lawyer and sometime friend, though we’re both too messed up to ever fly by the rules of that definition. All I know is she tolerates my black moods and I tolerate her Grade A bitch of a girlfriend called Tabitha. I trust her, the same way I trust Sam, which makes everyone else, bar Ella, the freaks and the enemy.
As she opens the passenger door and climbs out, I drag my thoughts over to the biggerissue, namely what ledMi Cielostraight back to me.
Two nights ago, one ofEl Alquimista’sdisciples killed herself after I’d gotten a little too close to discovering her boss’s identity. He’s been a busy man since the Russians left town, filling the void by flooding the streets with Meth and Ecstasy, each wrap and tab stamped with his distinctive ‘A’ and inverted pentagram logo, not to mention bleeding his quasi-voodoo bullshit into every corner of this city. The imports of black magic staples have skyrocketed, and I don’t need three guesses to know who’s been pocketing the profits.
If what the disciple said was true,El Alquimista’sbeen causing headaches for me long before he started moving in on my territory. And if it was really him who sent the witch to curse me and Ella ten years ago, I just got a whole new incentive to find him and burn him alive.
Curses have roots. Poison the root and the black magic dies. Santiago’s men believed that setting fire to thebruja’sbody would release the bad, but that was before they knew about the source.That’s where I come in. When the curse dies, so does the last link back to my past.
I need Ella to be free of it, too. Free to live a normal healthy life.
Free of me?
I push that thought away as Queenie leans into the car to say goodbye.
“Acquisitions meeting for the new hotel site at nine,” she says briskly. “Don’t be late, and don’t show up reeking of murder. You can celebrate after the deal’s closed but not before.”
“You trying to make me hard?”
“You trying to make me vomit?” She regards me shrewdly for a moment.“Uh-oh, you’ve got that wild, restless look about you again. Last time you had that you bought up half of Park Avenue.”
“I’m not interested in property anymore. It’s time to diversify the portfolio.”
If Ella won’t drop this story through polite persuasion, I’ll find another way. I can’t have her anywhere near this cartel war. It’s too dangerous.
“Okay, I’m listening.”
“What media group ownsThe Eagle?”
“Winslow Fire. They own a couple of other papers and radio stations in the US. Pretty small fry. They’re not exactly keeping Rupert Murdoch up at night…” Her eyes narrow as she locks on to where I’m going with this. “Edier—”
“Tell Harris to offer them three percent above market value.”
“In this climate?” she splutters, losing her cool. “Are you fucking insane?”
“I need it done, Queenie. In twenty-four hours, I want that paper under my control.”
If I need to spend billions to keep her safe, I won’t even hesitate.
17
EDIER
I’ve recovered mostof my composure by the time I reach Red Hook Container Terminal. It’s our product’s main point of entry into the US, not to mention the best place in the city to commit the worst kinds of depravity. The constant cries of the gulls overhead are more than sufficient to drown out the screams of the dying.
Sam greets me at the entrance to the largest warehouse,his dark eyes narrowing when he sees my expression. He’s grown up a lot since Ella’s party in the Hamptons. He’s also gotten himself shot up and loved up. The guy’s a fucking savage, and he’s loyal to me to his own detriment. He’s proved himself repeatedly, and now he’s the sarcastic lynchpin of my entire organization here on the East Coast.
“Knife or gun?” he says, by way of greeting.
“Both.”
He grins wickedly. “I almost feel sorry for the fucker.”
“Don’t.”
