His To Claim

“You started it,” I snap. “That’s why you’re not answering. You started a freaking mafia war, didn’t you? Jesus Christ, Dad. Why would you do that?”

“There are things you don’t understand,” he says.

“Then explain them to me.”

“I can’t.”

I clench the phone tightly in my hand, so hard I almost think I might break it.

“You mean you don’t want to,” I yell, unable to hold back the heartache and the confusion anymore. “Fine, if you won’t talk to me, I’ll ask Arturo instead. Tell Mom I love her.”

“I love you, Aida,” Dad growls. “I always have.”

I sigh, softening a little.

Despite everything, he’s still my father.

“I love you too, Dad,” I say, and then hang up and throw the phone onto the mattress.

I lie back on the bed and let Jackal climb onto my belly, a warm furry blanket. I slide my hands into his fur and bite down on the budding emotion, rising in me like a stream of pain and heartache.

And yet despite everything, one thing stands out in my mind more than everything else.

We were friends when we were children.

That means the man I’m obsessing over, the man I can’t stop thinking about, the man who took me savagely in the shower and promised to take me again, was once my dad’s friend and is now his enemy.

“Jackal, boy,” I whisper. “I think things just got way more complicated.”

Chapter Eight

Arturo

I walk down the corridor of the underground complex, the sounds of the city and the bar above muted with so much concrete between us. The place is made of simple stone, the walls and the floor uncarpeted.

When people are taken here, they undoubtedly think they’re being dragged to some dingy prison, but the cells don’t deserve the name. Each one is well furnished, with an ensuite shower and all the amenities a person could want for a short-term stay or drug detox.

Elmo was being held in the cell at the end of the hallway – the men who helped him have had their wages docked and been placed on a one-year watch, meaning if they slip up again they’ll be exiled from the East Coast – and that’s where I head as I walk, my footsteps loud, my growling heartbeat somehow louder.

I need to be with Aida. This is a distraction.

The thought is absurd.

It’s the other way around.

Aida is the distraction.

And yet it doesn’t feel that way.

The door to the cell is open, revealing a comfortable, simple bed and a rug covered floor. The electric lights are turned off, casting the room into darkness. The door hasn’t been broken, but someone clearly helped Elmo escape.

The corpse leaning up against the wall is evidence of that.

His name Piero, a middle-aged man with no wife and no children. That’s a small blessing, but it doesn’t excuse the bullet hole in his forehead. He was still one of my men, a soldier trusted enough to guard a high-valuable asset like Elmo.

He still had hopes and dreams and a fucking life.

“Do we know who did this?” I growl.

Vinnie, standing on the other side of Piero’s body, shakes his head.

“Nobody’s claimed responsibility for the attack,” I muse. “That means this wasn’t a message. They would’ve left a sign, a calling card, something. But this is too clean. They got into the bar, the storeroom, then past the secret door, and then came down here and shot Piero – they must’ve been using a silencer – and then picked the lock and freed Elmo. Franco has never worked that clean. The Irish, the Russians, shit—nobody works that clean.”

“It’s like a military operation,” Vinnie agrees. “It’s government stuff, boss. That’s my guess.”

“You think Elmo was working with the Feds?”

I can’t keep flames from flaring in my voice as I turn to him, pinning him in place with my gaze.

Despite everything, Elmo’s one of my oldest friends.

The only person I’ve known longer is Franco.

But he’s not a friend anymore.

Vinnie flinches, but he looks me straight in the eye when he answers, like a man, like the same bastard who didn’t back down when the Cartel went at him.

“I think drugs can make even the most loyal man do fucked-up things,” he says.

I nod. He’s right. And no amount of bluster or friendship will eradicate the possibility.

“Has the room been searched?”

“No, I wanted to wait for you.”

“Alright then,” I say. “Let’s go. Maybe this sneaky bastard left a more subtle message.”

We walk into the room and turn on the light. The covers lie in a crumpled mess across the bed, balled up, as though Elmo struggled when the shooter came into the room and leaped at him. Or maybe it’s just that Elmo’s a messy bastard. It’s impossible to know.

The glasses on the table in the corner in the mini-kitchen are undisturbed, so maybe there was no struggle … or it didn’t reach that far.