They weren’t wrong.
The line I walked with that devil these days was thin at best. Valentin Carrera didn’t have friends; he had strategic alliances. When the kingpin gave an order, he expected it to be followed and dared anyone to defy him. Especially a man who had put half his men behind bars.
But here I sat with a noose tied around my neck, waiting to hang on my own ego. Since I wasn’t looking to die today, I made sure to scan the perimeter again, rolling my phone around in my hands as I memorized faces.
“You know this place has state-of-the art cameras, right?” Slouching back into my chair, I looked up to see an explosion of blonde hair falling in a halo around two strips of sequins I assumed was supposed to be a dress. Suspicion came second nature to me, so when I narrowed my eyes, she placed her palm on the table and leaned in close. “With audio so clear, you can hear the stroke of a dick under a table.”
“That’s…” Shaking my head, I raised my beer mug to my lips. “That’s too much information.”
She slid into the chair across from me with a sultry wink. “Looking for a little pleasure before business, handsome?”
“No. I never mix the two.”
Especially in Chicago.
“A shame,” she mused, drumming her blood red nails on the table. “You look like you could stand to loosen up.”
I wondered how hard I’d have to kick her chair to send her sailing to the other side of the club. It wasn’t very gentlemanly, but social etiquette and conformity weren’t high on my priority list.
Plus, being kept waiting had worn my patience paper thin.
“Lady, it’s been a long day, and with all due respect, I don’t have time for this shit. Is your boss even here, or does he plan on dicking me around all night?”
As the dollar signs faded from her eyes, her façade dropped. Her flirty smile curled into a snarl, but before she could hurl out the insults waiting on her tongue, she glanced over my head, her eyes widening.
On instinct, I twisted around. “It’s about fucking time.”
However, instead of the smoky Irish brogue accent I expected to hear, a gravelly Spanish one surrounded me like rusty nails on a bullet-ridden chalkboard. “That impatient to see me, Harcourt?”
Carlos Cabello stood behind me, his gray goatee framing a smirk I wanted to punch off his face. Turning back, I shot an accusatory glare at the traitorous woman just in time to see her sequined ass disappear into the shadows.
Even rolling my eyes took too much effort.
“Fuck you.” Tossing my phone across the table, I let out another slew of curses. “I’m supposed to be meeting with Ronan.”
I thought I was meeting with Ronan Kelly, head of the Northside Sinners, the Irish mob in charge of every piss Chicago took. I didn’t like surprises, and I sure as hell didn’t like them being hand delivered by a middleman who had no direct contact with the Sinners.
“Well, now you’re meeting with me.”
“Oh, well, that explains everything.” I tracked his every move as he slid into the chair opposite of me. “By all means,” I said, motioning across the table. “Have a seat.”
I expected a smartass retort, or at least a thinly veiled threat. Instead, Carlos offered an obligatory nod then lifted a finger and motioned to a passing cocktail waitress. I suppose the meaning was unspoken because her response was a simple nod.
Carlos let out a loud laugh. “That’s what I always liked about you, Harcourt. You don’t waste time with pointless small talk.”
We were wasting time. This ridiculous civility dance only postponed the inevitable. “Cut the shit. What the—”
I paused as the waitress appeared by our table, placing a shot glass filled with clear liquid in front of him. As soon as the woman came, she was gone, her presence so fleeting, if she hadn’t left the drink as evidence, I’d question if she was ever really there.
“Vodka?” I asked, nodding toward the shot glass.
Carlos snorted. “Americans.” Picking up the shot, he tipped it back and slammed it. “It’s aguardiente. In English it translates to firewater.” He glanced at my half-empty beer and smirked. “Want one, gringo?”
“I’ll pass.” Time was money, and this small-talk bullshit had gone on long enough. “It seems I’ve wasted my time. However, I’m also not driving another eleven hundred miles, so unfortunately, you’ll have to do.”
“Lucky me.”
“My Chicago shipment never arrived.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.” His dismissive tone grated on my nerves as he held his empty glass in the air and raised an eyebrow at the flustered waitress. Again, the woman bowed her head in swift acknowledgment. “By the way, you owe me my eight-hundred and fifty thousand dollars.” When my jaw dropped, his lips twitched at the corners. “Five percent supplier fee. Did you think I was going to forget?”
I slammed my palm onto the table. “You greedy fuck. Did you have something to do with this?”
He rolled his eyes. “Think with your brain instead of your dick for once. That’s my product coming into your port. Why would I fuck with my own blow?”
Damn. He had a point.
“Besides, if you hadn’t spent the last week working your way through a bottle of scotch and paid more attention to your business, maybe you wouldn’t be so fucked right now.”
Because of the seventeen-million-dollar shipment that never arrived in Chicago’s port. A deal I signed with my own blood.
I was in such deep shit it would take a forklift to haul my ass out of it.
“You’ve got Ronan Kelly and Valentin Carrera on your ass, so the way I see it, you only have two options.” Holding up two thick, calloused fingers, he ticked them off. “One, pull my eight hundred and fifty K out of your ass, or two, come up with an alternative.”
“What kind of alternative?”
“Find the man who stole it.”
I laughed. I had no idea what the hell was in aguardiente, but after the crazy shit he just said, I suspected LSD. “And how do you suggest I do that?”
His eyes flashed dark with irritation. “It’s pretty crystal fucking clear. Pay me my money or find the pendejo who intercepted your shipment, take back what he stole, and end him.”
“What’s in it for you?”
He shrugged. “This is a lucrative arrangement for me, so I prefer Ronan not kill you. Plus, I don’t take well to being threatened.”
“Threatened?” An uncomfortable silence hung in the air. “You know who this asshole is.”
It wasn’t a question.
A knowing smirk crept along his face. “Possibly. And I’m feeling particularly generous, so I’ll make you a deal.”
“Is that right?”
“I’ll replace the eight hundred kilos and give you a name, but I want ten percent.”
“You want double?” I laughed. “Thanks, but no thanks. I can cover it.” Which was a complete lie. I didn’t have seventeen thousand, much less seventeen million. If I did, I wouldn’t have come crawling to this dickhead instead of the main Carrera supplier.
I crossed my arms over my chest. “You don’t know anything we don’t know.”