Only I’m not.
His name is Carlos, and he has disgusting teeth. Parts of them are black, but mostly they’re an awful orange-yellow. He stinks, too, like sweat and moldy cheese. In my head, I compare him to Miguel Garcia, who was my contact with the Cartel before everything went to shit. Miguel was always impeccably clean, his suits pressed, his teeth pearly white. What I wouldn’t give to be dealing with him right now, instead of this human shit stain.
This human shit stain, I should add, who refuses to talk.
“Tell me who you get your orders from,” I demand, not for the first time.
Carlos is tied to the metal chair in the center of my basement, his curly black hair matted with sweat and blood. He spits on the floor by my feet. I grimace and punch him in the gut.
Carlos keels over, wheezing.
“Tell me who you get your orders from,” I repeat.
He continues to wheeze, head hanging over his chest, and I soon realize that Carlos isn’t struggling to breathe. That awful, breathy sound, like someone wrestling with bagpipes, is his laugh.
I dig my fingers in his hair and yank him up to face me. He grins.
“What are you laughing about?” I ask.
I have been at this for an hour. He has said so little that for the first twenty minutes, I wondered if he was mute. The fact that he is laughing now unsettles me.
“Your whole world is about to come crashing down at your feet,” he hisses through rotted teeth.
He laughs again, like he knows something that I don’t. Like I have lost already.
“I tire of this,” I say, pulling my gun from my shoulder holster. I cock it and aim it at his head. “This is your last chance.”
Carlos’ expression flickers, and for the first time, I see a pinprick of fear in his soulless eyes. But he merely shrugs, as though urging me to go ahead with it so he can get on with the rest of his day.
I oblige him and pull the trigger.
Carlos’ body slumps forward, and I hand the gun back to Antonio. The Cartel thug’s last words prickle at my skin like pins and needles, and I can’t tell why. Telling me that my world is about to come crashing at my feet could mean anything, but more likely than not, it means nothing. It is the kind of vague threat any theatrical villain would toss at his opponent’s feet when faced with death.
Yet somehow it felt like he knew something. Something big.
I call Silvano on my way out of the cellar, hoping to hear the good news that Alexis and Harry are safely tucked away in their apartment with a bevy of guards around them.
Alexis will hate being locked up. Perhaps she will leave me another angry voice mail. I’d like that. I found the last one she left amusing; it reminded me of all the times Alexis would run her mouth at me like she thought she was the one in charge, and that in turn reminded me of all the times I put her in her place.
Silvano picks up as I reach the top of the stairs. “Hi, boss.”
“Are Alexis and Harry safe?” I turn toward the foyer, then start to mount the grand curving staircase. A maid scuttles out of view like a startled crab.
“I haven’t been able to reach their guard detail,” Silvano replies.
I grind my teeth, stopping at the top of the stairs. “What do you mean you can’t reach them?”
“None of them are answering their phones. And Alexis and Harry aren’t at the apartment.”
Carlos’ threat rings through my ears.
Your whole world is about to come crashing down at your feet.
I shake my head. “Find them. Now.” I turn and storm toward my office, resisting the urge to dash out the front door and find them myself.
“I have already dispatched another team to look for them. They’re following the tracker in Alexis’ phone.”
“Good.” I enter my office, but I will struggle to get any work done while Alexis and Harry are unaccounted for. I try to tell myself it’s only Harry I’m worried about—Alexis can hang for all I care—but I think about when she was kidnapped by Andrew Walsh, and the terrified look in her eyes and my stomach flips.
“I’ve prepared a file on each of the detectives working on your case,” Silvano continues. “I emailed them over to you. I’ve suggested which weaknesses I think we could exploit, and compiled a detailed list of the family members and loved ones.”
From his place on the wall, my father’s portrait glares down at me as I cross the room. Fabrizio Bellucci wouldn’t hesitate to threaten a cop’s family in order to undermine an investigation. He would use whatever manipulations he thought were necessary, plus a few more for good measure, and he would sleep as soundly as a monk.
I glare back at my father and take a seat behind my desk. The thought of what I might need to do in the coming months leaves a sour taste in my mouth, but the other choice is going to prison, watching my empire crumble, leaving my son and heir vulnerable in my absence. I can’t do that. I won’t.
“I’ll look over it,” I say. “Call me the second you have an update on Alexis and Harry’s location. I expect to hear from you within the next thirty minutes.”
I end the call and rest my elbows on the desk, cradling my face in my hands. Flashes of red paint the backs of my eyelids. I can’t stop thinking about the gory scene in the bookshop, the utter brutality of this new enemy. What will they do if they get their hands on my son?
Or on Alexis?
I can’t let my mind go there. I will get them back into custody, and once I do, I will tighten their security. Perhaps I should bring Harry back to the mansion, where I can monitor his safety more closely.
No, I can’t. It’s that same conundrum again—both of them or neither of them. I can’t separate them. I can’t do that to Alexis. She would worry too much, and probably call a dozen times a day. She’d be insufferable.
6
Alexis
I call again, but Clara’s phone doesn’t even ring anymore. It just goes straight to voice mail.
Where is she?
I know deep down that something has happened to her, but I am trying not to acknowledge that thought. If I do, my heart will crack in two. For now, I’m telling myself she just got drunk again, had a little slip down the rabbit hole. Maybe she trashed her apartment and has turned off her phone to cool down for a while. But where would she go?
After the park, I take Harry to the rehab center to check if Clara is there. Joey is smoking out front and says he hasn’t seen her since she made chili for them a few days ago. He offers to help me look for her, but the kid is already caught up in hard drugs—the last thing he needs is for me to introduce him to the world of organized crime.
Clara’s mom’s house is a short walk away from the center, so I decide to try there next. If nothing else, Patricia always likes it when I visit with Harry. And maybe she’ll be able to calm me down a little, as I’m approaching something like hysterics.
My mind whirs. My only slight consolation is that if the Cartel or the Irish took her, she will still be alive. They wouldn’t kill her just yet. No, they will use her suffering to torture me first. Or to lure me to them. My stomach turns, and I cling to the desperate hope that I will find Clara at her mother’s house, drying out after a particularly nasty bender.