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“Yes, but Daniel Winters died in the car bombing with Uncle Stefano and Julianna.”
“What if they didn’t?” I asked when a thread of possibility took root. It was a long shot, and I was totally spitballing this, but with everything that’s happened, I was willing to grasp at any straw. “What if your uncle and Julianna survived the carbombing and used this Winters guy as their cover? You already said that your father was trying to help Julianna get away from Guillermo. What if your dad planned it all? The bombing, the deaths, everything so she could get away.”
“But the woman in the picture isn’t Julianna,” Renaldo reiterated, shaking his head. “Besides, Uncle Stefano was married to Helena. My aunt never remarried. She’s alive and living in upstate New York near the family’s compound.”
“Then explain that picture to me. How could a man who died all those years ago be in a picture that was taken three years ago?” I challenged.
“Mercy has a point, Renaldo,” Montana added. “Since Largo’s return, nothing has made sense. We knew she was running, and according to her, she and her father witnessed a murder when she was a young girl. She later found out that the men who died were her mother’s bodyguards. Why would a Navy wife have bodyguards?”
“Navy?” Renaldo sneered, stepping closer. “My uncle Stefano served in the Navy. What the hell is going on here?”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” I groaned. “It’s a clusterfuck and we’re running out of time. Everyone’s got a piece to this fucked-up puzzle and no one is saying shit. I think it’s time we all sat down and aired our dirty laundry, because my wife is out there and my gut is telling me she is in trouble.”
Chapter Fifteen
Largo
Someone shoved me hard into a chair before ripping off the black cloth bag covering my head. Blinking a few times, I finally focused to find Boston McGregor glaring at me.
Since leaving Caleb three years ago, I’ve had the unpleasant pleasure of meeting some of New York City’s lowest scum, and Boston McGregor was at the top of that list. Known around the city as a low-level Irish thug for the small McGregor crime syndicate. Boston McGregor was nothing but a pissy little bitch who thought his shit didn’t stink. Wanted for several petty crimes, the McGregor Clan wasn’t the brightest bulb in the bunch. To make matters worse, Boston and his family firmly believed that I alone was responsible for their financial hardships.
The McGregor clan owned and operated a small distribution company near the docks when I worked for them. I needed a job and they were hiring. That job lasted all of two weeks before I found out that the McGregor Clan was siphoning off crates of goods that belonged to Maxim Fedorov. The idiots were stealing from the Russian Bratva. When I figured out what they were doing, I didn’t think twice. I immediately emailed Fedorov, then quit. A few days later, Boston was standing on my doorstep with some of his buddies. When I refused to tell the fucker what he wanted to know, he grabbed my daughter and threatened her. Itjust so happened that the next night, Mercy showed up to pick up Sophia.
Thanks to this piece of shit, I lost custody of my daughter.
But the idiot sealed his fate when he laid hands on my daughter.
The second I heard Mercy’s voice at the door, I knew it was game over for the stupid fuck and I tried to tell him as such, but his goons held a gun to my head, preventing me from saying anything. After Mercy left with Sophia, Boston and his friends beat the shit out of me. When I came to, I packed what I needed and left.
I never looked back.
Groaning, I rolled my eyes. “Oh, it’s you.”
“Long time no see, bitch.”
“Boston, I don’t know what scheme you’re running, but you really fucked up big this time. Do you know whose clubhouse you broke into?”
“Just some biker trash. We took care of them.”
“Sure you did,” I scoffed, shaking my head.
This guy was a certified moron. Only an idiot would break into the Soulless Sinners’ compound and think only biker trash lived there. “And when you broke into the clubhouse, did you even bother to look around and maybe see exactly which club you’d walked into or did your miniscule brain not register the Soulless Sinners’ patch above the fucking bar?”
“What’s she talking about, Boston?” one of his friends muttered.
“Bitch is lying. Everyone knows the Sinners work out of the docks on the east side.”
Rolling my eyes, I moaned, “Jesus Christ. You can’t be that stupid. The clubhouse you broke into is on the east side, moron.”
“I don’t care. We took care of that biker trash. They won’t be coming for us. I made sure of it.”
“Yeah,” another thug agreed. “We shot that place up good.”
“And that was your last mistake,” a familiar deep gravelly voice said, making his presence known. “The first was stealing from me. But thank you for making it easy to find you.”
Turning, I said absolutely nothing as Maxim Fedorov and several of his men walked in as if they owned the place.
“Mrs. Davenport.” Maxim nodded to me.
