Maverick found it fascinating, while Cade and Chance looked confused by it.
At the top of a broad set of concrete steps stood the man we came to see. Gimmel Martel. Wine importer. Business tycoon. Probable drug mule for the lethal Salvaj cartel.
He wasn’t a tall man. Next to a six-foot-six Maverick, he was downright tiny. But for what he lacked in size, he more than made up in pompous charm. His French accent was thick. His aloof arrogance thicker.
“Ah, the legendary Kings of Mayhem. Welcome, welcome. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Bull stepped forward, removing his glasses to expose his otherworldly eyes.
“We were just in the neighborhood. Thought we’d drop by, do the neighborly thing and introduce ourselves.”
Bull was as intimidating as fuck. But Martel was unfazed.
“I see. Well, it’s a pleasure. Welcome to my home. Please, if you will join me in the parlor so we can get better acquainted.” He extended an arm and gestured for us to step inside the grand foyer.
If the outside of Eagle’s Nest was magnificent, then the inside was plain over the top. Everything was excessive. From the parquet flooring and luxurious velvet window dressings, to the ornate furniture, plush Turkish carpets and gilded artwork lining the timber paneled walls. The ceiling was high and painted, and a massive chandelier of wrought iron and crystal hung over the grand, sweeping staircase.
As we followed Martel through the foyer to an opulent room off to the side, our footsteps echoed through the house.
“Killer acoustics,” Maverick whispered, impressed. To drive home the point, he started to whistle until Bull threw him a dark look.
Martel led us into the parlor which was as over-exaggerated as the rest of the house. Gilded alabaster walls. Renaissance artwork as tall as me. French décor I hadn’t seen the likes of since I’d left New Orleans.
Martel spoke to his servants, one of whom I suspected was a bodyguard, in French. He asked one to bring us a bottle of Syrah but not the good one. Which caught my attention. He had no idea I was fluent in his native tongue and could understand every word. Which became more apparent when he added, I’m sure these rednecks wouldn’t know a good bottle of wine if it had a voice and could introduce itself.
To which his staff laughed.
I planned to say nothing. After all, my knowledge of his language without him realizing it, was an asset. But when he referred to us as assholes in French, asset or no asset, it was time to put him in his place.
In perfect French I asked, “Would you prefer this discussion take place in French, Mr. Martel?”
His head snapped to me, taken back by my flawless enunciation.
Then I added in Latin, “Or perhaps you would prefer Latin?”
And because I was enjoying the flash of discomfort on his smarmy little toad face, I also threw in some of my mother’s native tongue and asked, “Or are you familiar with the language of the people of Denmark?”
With a tight jaw, Martel held my gaze as he weighed the situation before finally replying, “English will suffice.”
We stared at one another for a moment longer. And it was in that moment his mask slipped and I could see the monster beneath the façade. Gimmel Martel was never going to be an ally of the Kings of Mayhem.
And he knew I knew it.
He drew his eyes from me, and like a light switch, his demeanor was again kind and welcoming.
“Please, have a seat,” he said to Bull.
But Bull didn’t move. “We’re fine standing.”
“Of course. I, on the other hand, have had a rather demanding morning. I was just about to enjoy a cigar… can I tempt you to join me?”
“Not today.”
Martel held up a Gran Habano. “You mind?”
“By all means.”
We all watched as he took his time lighting his cigar before sitting back and crossing his legs. Sweet smoke clouded about his head. “So, gentlemen, how can I help you?”
Bull was indulging him.
For now.
“I’m going to cut to the chase,” he said. “I’ve heard things. Rumors about your little wine importing scenario being a front for something a little more unsavory. Less legal, if you will. More likely to piss off someone you don’t want to piss off. Someone like me, for instance.”
If Martel’s forehead wasn’t so shiny and stiff, and obviously full of Botox, it would’ve wrinkled with confusion. He looked slightly confused. Perplexed. Innocent.
Like a liar.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
Bull had a short wick at the best of times. And this guy was going to burn it down quick if he kept up this act.
“Let’s just say, there’s been mention of you working with our friends over the border… powerful friends… to help shift their merchandise.”
Martel looked surprised.
“Are you talking about a cartel?” He suddenly burst into laughter as if it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. “Oh please, you have a very strong imagination, my friend. That’s what TV shows and movies are made of… not real life.”