I hang up again, heart racing as though I’d ranted to Gabriel in person instead of just at his voice mail. Not the strongest ending to the voice mail, I admit, but it feels good to get it all out there.
I peel myself off the floor and try calling Clara again before I leave. I’m going to be late to meet Ana if I don’t go now.
It’s a beautiful, sunny fall day. It’s the kind of cheery day that seems to deny all that’s grim in the world—whether it’s the oncoming winter or your best friend’s mysterious disappearance.
I sit on the bench beside the sandbox, one eye on Harry, one eye on my phone as I type out another text to Clara.
I’ve missed you so much, my angel.
What the hell does that mean? I haven’t been able to think about anything else since I left Clara’s apartment, and I even considered asking Ana if she could watch Harry for the rest of the day just so I could devote my whole brain to puzzling it out. That wouldn’t help anything, though. Clara is gone, and wherever she is, she either doesn’t have her phone or is refusing to answer it on purpose.
The playground is strangely desolate. There is only one other family here, which is odd, even for a weekday. Just beyond the sandbox, there is a small group of ratty-looking teenagers sitting in a circle under a tree. I notice another group leaning against the chain-link fence at the edge of the park, though they seem a little older. Then, of course, there’s my security detail—two men sitting on a bench across the sandpit from me, pretending like they are there to do anything other than watch me.
I let my phone fall in my lap and take a breath, devoting my attention to Harry. He’s clumping sand into a lopsided mound in front of him, but it’s not going well. His mouth is screwed up in frustration. I’ll take him to see the ducks after this. That always cheers both of us up.
He goes to grab another handful of sand but comes up with something long and thin, like a plastic tube.
I bolt to my feet and dive toward Harry, ripping the needle out of his grasp, knocking over his sand creation in the process. Harry, already on edge because of his failed engineering, starts to cry.
What kind of monster leaves a used needle in a sandbox?
I look around, noting with satisfaction that my guards have moved to the edge of the sandbox, ready to leap into action if needed. My eyes skim over the group of teenagers by the tree, and I notice one of them tying a tourniquet around his arm. There’s my answer. I look to the two sagging figures at the fence and realize both of them are drugged out. They look half dead.
No wonder this park is empty. It has been taken over by purple heroin users.
I meet the eye of the taller of the two guards. I recognize him as one of the guards who used to be posted outside of my bedroom when I lived in the mansion, though I don’t remember his name.
“Do you see this?” I say, holding up the needle.
He doesn’t reply, but his jaw tightens.
“You need to get Gabriel to deal with it.” I toss the needle onto the pavement in disgust and pull Harry into my arms.
5
Gabriel
On the same afternoon that I receive the message about the hypodermic needle in the sandbox, I get the news that an Italian business—a quiet bookstore at the fringe of our territory—has been attacked. The Cartel left me a message at the scene.
I drive out to inspect the damage personally. The whole drive, I am disturbed by the mental image of my son holding a dirty needle, perhaps more disturbed by that than by the thought of the carnage that awaits me at the bookstore. Harry should be shielded from all this. He is too young, too innocent, and the thought that the ugliness of this drug epidemic has found a way to reach him even though I have kept my distance makes my blood boil.
I tell David to wait around the block when we arrive at the bookstore. Everything seems normal from the outside, except for the drawn blinds and the sign indicating that the shop is closed, even though it’s the middle of the day.
“Are you sure about this?” David asks.
“Yes.” I get out of the car, and he drives off. I dust off the wrinkles in my suit and enter the store, the bell above the door clanging to announce my arrival.
The stench of blood hits me like a wall as I enter. I wrinkle my nose and step over piles of books that have been stripped violently from the shelves, some of which have been knocked over completely. The posters have been ripped down.
The walls are decorated in slashes of blood instead.
I step in further, avoiding the bloody splotches on the floor. I find the shop’s owner by the till, with two other bodies. They have been sat up against the counter, arranged in a neat line that contrasts with the horrific and systematic mutilation of their bodies.
These people were not shot. Their deaths were not quick. This was an act of senseless violence, and the level of brutality suffered by the victims is far beyond anything I would ever dole out to an enemy. A wave of nausea rolls over me, but I suppress it, stepping over to the counter, which has been cleared of everything except one small square of paper.
Not paper, I realize as I approach. It’s a photograph. It is smeared with dried brown blood, but I would recognize the face anywhere.
Alexis.
This is their message, and I read it loud and clear.
I will make them pay. I will make them all pay.
The back door slams open, and three Cartel members appear, shouting to each other in Spanish as they surround me, guns drawn.
“Hands up!” one screams. “Hands up!”
I do as they say, lifting my hands into the air, still clutching the photo. More of them march out from the back, and I count at least eight in total. As the men train their guns on me, I can’t help but smile. I am going to enjoy this so very much.
The lights go out, and I duck down, swinging my leg out to knock the man in front of me onto his back. The men shout in confusion. I wrestle the gun out of the grip of the man on the ground just as gunfire starts to crack around me.
The lights flick back on and the Cartel thugs are surrounded. They yell to each other in alarm. One makes to flee, and Angelo tackles him to the ground. A couple of them are dead already, but I hop to my feet and help my men make short work of the rest.
When we are done, the bookstore is somehow bloodier than it was before. I feel better knowing that I can now tell the victims’ families that we avenged their deaths. Nobody should have to die like that, but until I put the Cartel down for good, this carnage will continue.
On my way back to the mansion, I stare at the bloody photo of Alexis, ignoring David’s concerned glances in the rear-view mirror. My face is covered in blood splatter, but that hardly seems to matter. Not when she’s in danger.
But why should that matter? This is a threat against Alexis, not Harry. I shouldn’t care if she lives or dies. I should hate her.
But of course, I don’t.
I call Silvano and tell him to order Alexis’ guards to sequester her and Harry in the apartment. If they are out, the guards are to bring her back by force if necessary. I will not take any chances.
It’s always convenient when the coward of a hostile group makes himself known. It takes the guesswork out of deciding which men to execute and which to take for questioning. In the case of the men who attacked me in the bookstore, I already know that the one who tried to escape is the one most likely to fold. That was why Angelo tackled him, kept him alive. And it’s why I expected to have an easy time questioning him.