Fallen Empire (Dirty Empire)

Also for the best, given how they parted ways the last time—fists cracking bones—and that was before we knew the truth about the plane explosion.

“Saw the news from Sonora. I take it that was you?” I ask, keeping my tone bored.

Dad smiles. “I think our friend might hesitate before striking back this time, now that they’ve received our message.”

Not our message. Your message. And they’re going to strike back twice as hard.

“Eduardo has agreed to doubling the shipments going forward.”

My eyebrows arch. “Doubling?”

“How else are we going to accommodate our new territory?” He asks, as if I’m an idiot. “I’ve given Eduardo your number. He will contact you directly about future shipments.”

“Fucking great.” Because that’s what I want to be getting: texts from a cartel drug lord.

This is all happening too fast. I feel like I’m getting sucked into a black hole. And Dad? He’s in his glory, grinning like a madman as he dictates.

“When Eduardo does call, you will answer. If he asks you to meet with him, you will go wherever he expects you to attend, promptly, otherwise he will consider it a personal insult. I don’t think I have to explain to you what will happen if Eduardo feels personally insulted.”

Probably the same thing that would happen if Vlad felt insulted. It begins with a phone call and ends with a sharp blade and a shovel. “I hope he gives me enough time to get there, now that some asshole blew up our plane.”

“Watch your mouth,” Dad snaps. “Who do you think you’re talking to?”

I smirk. The audacity. After all this, he still demands my respect.

“You need to make sure our new territory is fully secured before the next shipment arrives.”

I have until then to kill Merrick and Vince, he means. “It’s in the works, but I don’t know if it can happen that fast. People are more cautious, given events of late. Plus, we’re having some legal issues after your lesson. You know, on account of the four people who died in that explosion? And those legal issues are crawling up our asses now, asking all kinds of questions.”

“So, you tell them your uncle Peter is behind it.” He chuckles, as if he just made a joke.

“That’s the going story.” I choose my next words carefully. “But they have a witness list from that night and they’re looking for Mercy. They want to question her, and they think it’s odd that they can’t find her.” If my father knew the feds were trying to turn Mercy, she’d be dead inside the hour.

Dad shrugs. “So, tell them she was nothing but a piece of ass that got spooked. Not your problem.”

“That’s what I’ve told them.”

“Then there’s no problem.”

Wrong. There’s a huge fucking problem. “I want to hear from her.”

“You did.”

“That was yesterday.” I keep my tone calm but razor-sharp. A lifetime ago, it feels like. And today, I have so much I have to say to her. “I need to know he hasn’t harmed her in any way.”

“And what if he has?”

“You better hope he hasn’t.”

My father studies me through calculating eyes for a long moment. “I can see that you truly care about her. Maybe as much as I cared about your mother.”

“Oh yeah?” Isn’t that why you had her kidnapped, you fucking prick? I ball my fists tight to keep from reaching across the table and choking him. “And what would you have done to the guy who kidnapped my mother, if you’d had the balls?”

Before he has a chance to erupt, the door opens and Puff strolls through with his typical swagger as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. Meanwhile, his head’s practically on a swivel, doing a cursory glance around the room. All these guys do. I do it, too. We’re criminals; it’s in our nature.

When he sees who occupies the room and the situation he’s just landed in, he visibly stiffens.

“Buddy! It’s been too long!” Caleb exclaims as if greeting an old friend. “Come on over and take a seat.” He gestures across from him.

Puff is a scary-looking motherfucker on a good day, the scaly dragon tattoo that occupies the entire left side of his face the stuff of nightmares. Now, as he eases over, his steps measured, his hands flexed for a fight, he reminds me of a cornered animal ready to fight for his life.

“That pompous ass. You should be having this conversation with Puff,” my father murmurs. “You’d be far more effective.”

“Caleb will be plenty effective.”

He offers no more complaints, settling in with his arms folded on his belly to watch as Puff slides into his seat and Caleb leans in for their little tête-à-tête. This is how Vlad likes to operate—with a smarmy “I warned you, didn’t I?” look on his swollen face as he watches his underlings dole out his punishment.