Total pages in book: 48
Estimated words: 45785 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 229(@200wpm)___ 183(@250wpm)___ 153(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 45785 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 229(@200wpm)___ 183(@250wpm)___ 153(@300wpm)
I kept my mouth shut for now and followed Vincente into his house. Through his wide-open living room area, walls filled with paintings and sculptures, some of which were probably stolen. More than one seating area. The house was clearly decorated for one of Vincente’s favorite pastimes: entertaining people and showing off his wealth.
Past the extravagant foyer and the stairs going up, Vincente led the way to his office. A guard was standing outside.
I didn’t see a single sharp corner anywhere. Everything was polished and rounded, including the ceilings.
I could probably fit my whole house inside that office—maybe not counting the roof. More seating areas, pool table, expensive rugs all over, structure-bearing pillars filled with smaller paintings and glass cases of gemstones, side tables with art and shit. The entire ceiling was a massive mural, an ode to Colombian culture. The back was floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookcases, not a single space unused. Books, displays of old maps and weapons, more sculptures…
Last but not least, the biggest desk I had ever seen. With literal piles of cash spread around. A dozen lines of coke too, because of course. The most expensive tequila and brandy.
The man could wipe his ass with money for generations to come without making a dent in his offshore bank accounts.
“Make yourselves at home, gentlemen.” Vincente took his seat behind the desk.
Joel and I sat down in front of it.
“We’ll get down to business right away, eh? We all want Carillo dead.”
“Before he and his men stop breathing, we gotta find the three people he kidnapped,” I said.
“Of course, of course.” Vincente lit up a cigar and opened his humidor for us in silent offering. We declined. “Let’s see if I got the names right.” He pulled out a note from one of the drawers. “Blake Hayward, Marisa Ortega, and Shay Tenley?”
That should be Blake Jones, but whatever.
“Yes,” I confirmed. “You’ve done your homework.”
Vincente smiled. “Always, my friend. But before you ask, I’m afraid I do not know where your friends and family are being held.”
I’d had no plans on asking.
“Has that dog reached out yet, by the way?” he wondered.
I shook my head. “I thought he would by now.”
He hummed and leaned back in his seat. “He wants you to kill me.” His smirk appeared slowly. “But you wouldn’t kill an old lover, would you, Elliott?”
Jesus fucking Christ.
I kept my expression composed; same couldn’t be said for Joel, who stiffened in his seat. Vincente was just looking for a reaction. That was what he did. That was how he learned intimate details about people. Sometimes he used truths against someone, sometimes complete fiction. Sometimes…something in between.
Vincente grinned and puffed on his cigar. “Is he your lover now? He’s jealous.”
I didn’t even look at Joel. “No.”
Vincente let out a laugh and kicked his feet up on the desk. “Ay, how I missed you, Elliott. Doesn’t matter what I say—you give nothing away. I love it.”
I cleared my throat and sat forward a bit. “My eight-year-old niece was kidnapped in an attack that killed and injured people I love. She doesn’t know if her mom is still alive. She’s scared. Help us find her, Vincente.”
He sobered, thankfully, and he watched us for a couple moments.
Then he removed his feet from the desk again and leaned forward. “See, I knew I was more use to you alive than dead. Here’s what’s going to happen. I have made four mistakes in my life—” He ticked them off his fingers. “My first wife, my second wife, my current wife, and letting Ana convince me to throw Carillo in prison instead of killing him. That fucker was down on his knees for me, swearing on the lives of his children that he would have no contact with his former crew if I allowed him to rot away in Texas. I’m going to correct the last mistake, and you’re going to help me.”
Now we were talking.
“You want me to kill him?” I asked to be sure.
He shrugged. “I’m not leaving Mexico, and he’s not leaving the US—yet.”
I cocked a brow, wondering what he meant by that. I’d thought Carillo would take the first chance to cross over.
“He’s made too many enemies here.” He widened his arms. “He knows—the second he sets foot in Mexico, he’s dead.”
Ah.
That made sense.
“To be honest with you, I will be stretched too thin to go after him,” he went on. “Between ridding the streets of his little dogs, fishing out traitors, and keeping up with shipments and daily operations, I can only spare so many men, yes? Carillo’s been planning this for a year. He’s had recruiters running around—and it fucking pisses me off. I haven’t heard shit.” His jaw ticked with tension, and he put down his cigar. “I gotta make sure the management is stable. Otherwise, people get ideas.”