by AJ Adams
"Sure, boss."
Paco smiled, but the distance was back. By the way he switched off, it was permanent. It was a knife in my gut but I accepted it. The clusterfuck was my fault. I'd have to suck it up.
As for the fresa, I needed to get to Chingford and fast. That was a problem. The British enforce their traffic laws ferociously because it helps them score £700 million a year. Not bad, huh? Ripping off the public under the guise of doing good? Politicians are just as venal as the cartel but I like to think we're more honest.
Until that point I'd stuck to the law because it kept me under the radar - no pun intended. This time, I stole a Toyota and broke them all. Chingford lay ten miles away, but I got there in fifteen minutes. All the way there, I was terrified of what might be happening. Her phone rang, but she didn't pick up.
When I came screaming up to the restaurant, I'd seen her dead in my imagination a million times, so it was a relief to see her standing on the pavement in one piece. As I pulled up, tyres squealing, she wasn't moving. She just stood there.
I was out in a flash. "Persia, you okay?" One look at her face and I knew. "Ay, pobrecita." I hugged her, wishing I could take the pain away for her. We expect our enemies to target us but family should be sacred. My heart ached for her.
"You can take the girl out of the gutter, but you can't take the gutter out of the girl." That devil of a brother stood in the doorway, mocking.
My hand was on my gun.
"Jorge." Persia didn't move. She didn't have to. Her eyes spoke for her. "Please, no."
I put the Magnum away. "Okay. Whatever you want, fresa."
"How sweet!" the fiend crowed. "He's got a pet name for you that's not slut."
Behind him, I spotted an old couple sitting at a table. Persia's adoptive parents. They had a frozen air to them and they were careful not to look our way. It wasn't difficult to see how it had gone down: their shock signalled they'd not been part of the deal but their shame said they'd stood by their son.
"I'd chat, but I've got to run," the brother chortled. "Oh no, that's you, isn't it?"
So, it was him who'd alerted Kowalczyk last time. I didn't doubt he'd tried to give a heads-up this time too, not realising his pal was out of circulation. Not even those hijo de puta Gulf would boast about ratting out family and those fuckers are lower than sewer rats.
I would have shot the nasty specimen, except that it would have killed Persia. She stood there, white as chalk, watching that monster go back inside.
I'd seen enough people in shock to know she wasn't tracking. "Let's go, fresa. You need to sit down."
She didn't move. I don't think she could because she was trembling. Her eyes were huge and dark with emotion. "He set me up," she whispered. "He sent me to Kowalczyk."
Words failed me. It's one thing to have your enemy catch you out but to have your family sell you out, well, I just shuddered at the thought. "Come, sweetheart. Let's get you home." I spoke at random, putting my arms around her as I steered her into the car.
"He's got receipts with my name on it," she mumbled. "There's a bank account too." She wrung her hands. "Jorge, he's dealing drugs. What if I'm arrested?"
"No way." Hugging her, I made a promise. "That will never happen. Trust me."
Perhaps I should have taken her home but with that brother on the scene, we had to move fast. I took her straight to the bank.
The manager wasn't happy to see one of her richest customers go, bleating about 'protocol' but I settled her by saying, "Take your time. We'll just sit out there and tell those folks we're having trouble withdrawing funds." After that, she couldn't get rid of us quick enough.
Half an hour later, we walked out of there, with Persia clutching an envelope stuffed with share certificates, stocks and bonds. She'd handed over her student ID and signed papers without even reading them. Shock had her functioning on autopilot.
I got her back to the penthouse just as my phone beeped: Kowalczyk had left the station. He was not relishing the discovery he'd lost another slice of his territory. Persia's phone rang too. I took it out of her hand as soon as I heard the yelling. Her brother wasn't enjoying discovering we'd cleaned out his secret account, either.
Considering what might have passed, we'd been extraordinarily lucky but Persia wasn't feeling it. The white face and blankness worried me. "Sit, fresa. I'll make tea." When in Rome, right? "A nice cuppa."
It broke her. Tears streamed down her face. "They knew. They saw. They didn't care." A world of hurt in so few words.
I hugged her, sat next to her, and stroked her hair. "Tell me, corazón."
Persia told me the whole story. Once she got started, she couldn't stop. It all came tumbling out from the dawning realisation to what her brother was, to seeing her people turn their backs on her. She just talked and talked.
When she was done, she was wiped. I ran her under the shower, rubbed her dry, and rolled her into bed. "Sleep, corazón." Then I sat with her, holding her hand until she dropped off.
She'd cried off her makeup and her hair was all over the place but all I saw was her beauty. She'd dealt with her family with true love, giving them her all, and had been dealt a blow that crushed her but despite it all she had insisted, "They couldn't give up their son but it was killing them."
It was a perspective I admired but I'm not sure if I could have been as generous. However, Persia's troubles set me thinking about my life.
As I tidied the apartment and poured myself a drink, I realised how fortunate I was. Family are a blessing from God, but friends are a gift you give yourself. I was rich with both.
My immediate family was tight, always loving and thoughtful. In addition, I'd grown up with aunts, uncles, cousins and innumerable other relatives, all of whom had my back. We're all Zetas, cartel for generations, and it breeds close connections.
As for friends, I went to kindy with Lencho and Paco, our attachment cementing while we played with our toy trucks. I met James when I was eight, bonding in the school playground. Well, beating the hell out of each other, actually. Neither of us remember what started it but by the time it finished, we were inseparable.
But I'd never had a woman friend. Crushes, lovers, casual sex and a boatload of pros, but it never went beyond fun and games. Persia had changed that. I'd lusted after her, hated her, and been exasperated and shamed by her, but now she'd shown me her heart, I felt a deep connection. I liked, respected and admired this woman.
Although she'd opened up, I sensed secrets. She'd alluded to her years in foster care and whacked herself for being in trouble as a kid but she'd been antsy about details. As for the bad boyfriend, there was a fleeting mention of a video but I suspected there was more to that story than a home porno. As she was fragile, I'd decided not to push it. There would be plenty more time for talk.
Checking up on her and finding her safely asleep, too tired to dream, I kissed her temple, promising, "I'm here for you, fresa." Then I got my phone and checked up on business.
The halcones and Amit's team reported all clears. The sicarios had been in two fights but as there were no deaths, that was all good. Lencho and Paco were in Bubbles but taking it easy, just in case Kowalczyk struck back.
As for him, my eyes reported he was in his mansion. My taps on his phone and CCTV told me he was marshalling his resources – and finding himself short of men. Amazingly, he'd been in business for well over a decade but he had made no alliances.
His calls revealed he'd reached out to the Rovers but Liam had turned him down. The Monkey Parade Gang ran a plaza in far-off Whitechapel, they weren't a great choice strategically, and so they'd refused too.
Curiously, having struck out twice, Kowalczyk just quit. I couldn't get it, there were plenty more gangs he might have tried, but he just gave up. He didn't hire mercenaries either. Maybe he was too tight or perhaps he wasn't thinking straight. Either way, it was excellent news.
As we were safe for now, I curled myself around Persia and considered what would happen ne
xt. Kowalczyk would hit back, he had to maintain the respect of his people, but as he lacked manpower, it would be limited. I reckoned he'd try to burn down Bubbles, a direct blow to me. Alternatively, he might go for one of other successful businesses. It would be less personal but would have the advantage of messing up my revenue stream.
Stroking Persia's hair as I considered the future, I was certain Kowalczyk would use the brother to upset my girl, hoping indirect harassment would get on my nerves. I curled myself around her. If he did, I'd have trouble not killing him. I kissed the satin skin and sighed. The family angle would be Kowalczyk's best move because the brother was immune from my revenge. I couldn't ever hurt Persia.
Leaving that battle to come, I focussed on what I could prevent. To be certain Bubbles was secure, I alerted the halcones to set extra men on the place. And to be doubly sure, I added eyes to Zeta Towers. I fell asleep puzzling out attacks and counterattacks.
A call at dawn roused me. "Patrón," Rovero's growl woke me right up. "Trouble."
I was up and dressing as he sent me coordinates. "How bad?"
"Two men down."
"Joder. On my way."
Although I was quiet, Persia stirred. "Customary blast-off?" she asked blearily.
"I've got to go." I ruffled her hair. "Don't leave the Towers, you hear? And any messages from me announcing an emergency are fake."
She kissed me. "Thanks, Jorge. I'll be here when you get back." As I rushed off, I heard her call after me, "Be careful!"
The map sent me to the edge of the new territory we'd taken the day before. Rovero was waiting for me, his rage visible a mile away. It wasn't hard to see why: Bender and Screwy lay at his feet. "One shot each, execution style," he said bleakly. "They never saw it coming."
Tommy Q was leaning against the wall, tears streaming down his face. "Why?" he cried. "Why did he have to kill them?"
"Because he's an hijo de puta," I sighed. The sight got to me. Kowalczyk was a sick fuck. They were his dealers, and they'd switched sides, but they were just kids. He could have given them a beating and told them to leave town. Treating them like men and killing them was crossing the line.
"Shall I deal with the bodies, patrón?"
Handing them to Rovero meant the chipper. We needed to keep the body count down, but I hesitated. "Tommy, what about their families?"
He wiped his tears away with his sleeve. "Bender's mum is in the slammer and Screwy moved out yonks ago. His dad's an alcy and rough with it."
Interpreting that Bender's mama was in jail and that Screwy's papa beat him until he'd left home only made it worse. They'd not had a life at all, poor bastards. "Okay. Tommy, you organise the funeral." I gave him a contact. "Don't worry about the bill. I'll settle it."
Tommy gawped at me. "You will? Thanks, boss!"
Rovero nodded respectfully. "Orders about reporting, patrón?"
"Drive-by shooting, by person or persons unknown." I patted a still weeping Tommy on the shoulder. "You get out of here, okay? And if the cops question you, you've seen nothing."
"Yes, boss."
"And when they ask why I'm paying for the funeral, you tell them you don't know and to ask me."
"Yes, boss." The look in his eyes told me he'd hold up even if Smith slapped him around. Tommy Q was on board. "And the hijo de puta, boss?"
He was learning the language too.
"I'll deal with him." I watched Tommy say one last goodbye to his fallen friends and run off. "Rovero, I want six drones, six cans of gas and six detonators."
"Si, patrón!"
The spark in his eye said he was up for it. "Kowalczyk loves his mansion," I murmured. "Let's take it away from him."
London is stuffed with CCTV and they're on constant alert because of terrorism but we just needed a two-minute window for our strike. Anonymity came in the form of a stolen van. Rovero and I wore gloves, ski masks and overalls that disguised and prevented prints. We took the drones out of their wrapping, loaded them with fuel and detonators and drove to a small park a mile away from Kowalczyk's home.
I dialled into the hacked CCTV on his gate. His men were up but being lazy bastards, they were all inside their guardhouse, keeping warm and drinking coffee. The mansion was quiet; Kowalczyk was asleep.
"Is the coast clear, Rovero?"
"Si, patrón."
"Okay, we steer the drones west for one mile. We see them arrive on his security feed. We crash them into Kowalczyk's roof and then his windows. I want his place covered in fuel. Then we hit destruct."
Rovero grinned. "Beautiful."
We opened the van doors and flew the first two drones out. Getting them onto his roof was no problem. The guards didn't even see them. The second pair was hit and miss. Mine slid off, luckily spilling a lot of fuel on the way down, but Rovero's landed smack on target.
"Fenomenal. Let's get cooking." We raced the last pair through the air and crashed right through two first-floor windows. The guards came running out at the noise, finally realising they were under attack. "Hit it!"
The simultaneous blasts ripped through the house, setting the roof ablaze and blasting out windows, helping oxygen to rush in and feed the fire. The guards ran around, pointing at the flames spilling out of the bedrooms. Kowalczyk exited at a run, eyes streaming. He tried to get his men to run inside, probably worrying about his fancy bling, but they weren't having it.
We had a great time watching him yell but when we heard sirens, it was time to go.
"Let's hope that Bender and Screwy are watching in heaven and laughing." I clapped Rovero on the back. "Come on, let's get this van to the chop shop."
When I got back to Zeta Towers, Persia was in my office, making an espresso. She didn't say a word but when she put the cup in my hand, she kissed my temple. "You rushed off. Want to talk about it?"
"No." It wouldn't change matters and it would only upset her. "How are you?"
She sat down at my desk. "Stinking rich." She showed me her phone. Her bank manager had sent her an invitation to lunch, in the most crawling of terms. "I'm a bit hazy. We went to the bank, but it didn't register. What did you do, Jorge?"
I laid it out for her. "Your brother's been bleeding you and stashing your money in a second account. Yesterday, we emptied it and took it back."
It wasn't news to her. "He lied about the investments going bad? And he invented all those fees?"
"Exactly."
"I can't believe it," she sighed.
"He owns the restaurant but you paid for the family home and you have an investment property. It's all sterling stuff, you made quite a killing."
"He's been up to all kinds of shit and using my name. Won't I get into trouble?"
"No. He took the cash he made from selling product and laundered it as fees paid to you. As they went through the books and you're paid up on tax, you've nothing to worry about."
Persia exhaled with relief. "And the papers the bank gave us. What are they?"
She truly was clueless. "They're stocks, shares, bonds and tax receipts."
"Oh God. I mean, good." Persia smiled. "Thanks, Jorge."
It was a brave effort, but I saw right through her. She was worried she'd not be able to manage her affairs. "You finish your course and you start your business."
"I'd better get a book on money," Persia said. "And another on management." She grinned at me. "Ones with 'dummy' or 'idiot' in the title."
I finished my coffee and got to my feet. "We can do better than that. Follow me."
Chapter Eighteen
Persia
James Cortez had black rings under his eyes and he was obviously recovering from a serious injury but he had the signature Zeta dark looks and pent-up energy.
The girl who'd let us in wore jeans and a tee but she reported his blood pressure, temperature and progress to Jorge like a professional nurse. Then, after examining at me with obvious interest, she made herself scarce.
Jorge hugged his friend, enquired after his health, and then intro
duced me. "You've heard of Persia York. I brought her to you because she needs help."
His interest sharpened. "But Jorge, what does this beautiful woman see in an ugly fellow like you?" He held out his hand. "None of your photos do you justice, guapa."
I knew instantly he was a man of taste and discernment.
"Come and sit by me, sweetheart," James invited me. "I want to hear what it's like to be a supermodel. I have fantasies of all your beautiful girls being together so make sure you tell me lots of lies."
Jorge rolled his eyes. "Watch out, Persia. Don't let that sick man act fool you. He's a smooth operator."
"The devil is silver-tongued," James observed happily. "And as all lawyers are evil, he's shared his gift with us."
Despite it all, I enjoyed their banter. I couldn't change my situation, there was no hope for me to get Mum and Dad to take me back, not when it meant them losing their son. The betrayal hurt. It hurt so much that I could barely stand it. But in all the tears the night before, I'd concluded that I had to live with it. Live, because I was too damn proud to let Colin's and Kowalczyk's twisted games kill me. I'd go on because there was no way in hell I'd let them win.
So, I smiled and watched the two men kid about. They were more than friends. By the way Jorge fussed, as close as brothers. "James is an ace lawyer," Jorge informed me. "He will give you an education."
"Uhm, thanks?"
James took it in his stride. "It'll be a pleasure, guapa."
"Persia went into modelling when she was a kid and all business was handled by an agent," Jorge explained. "She's got no other work experience."
"Lovely. We'll have a clean slate," James smiled.
I saw through the compliment. "Yeah, I'm pretty but also a tontita."
Jorge squeezed my hand, "No, you're not. You've a specialist education."
"You want me to teach her about contracts?" James suggested.
"She wants to be a fashion designer, so she needs foundation skills," Jorge itemised. "Contracting, subcontracting, and trademarking."
My jaw did not hit the floor, and I stifled the gasp but it was brought home to me that my dreams weren't exactly rooted in reality. Between you and me, I felt small. And, the devil on my shoulder whispered, that's how you got into trouble.