Page 32 of Tainted Blood
“We find the ax, we find the key.”
“I told you no more cryptic bullshit.”
“Villefort has a crimson key insignia,” Grayson interrupts. “They used to vomit that shit over everything. It's their calling card. Was there anything like that left behind in the parking lot?”
“I’ll get my men to take another look.” I pull out my phone to call Rocco. At the same time, Grayson turns to one of his black-clad ninjas.
“Get down to Canal Street with fifty others. Round up every Italian mafia cunt you come across. Anyone with an ax tattoo gets brought back here. You have two hours… Go.”
“We’re not dealing with chancers and petty criminals here,” Santiago warns, a muscle working in his jaw. “Every major political assassination... Every conflict… Tommaso Zaccaria had a hand in it all.”
“He’s their leader?”
“Was. He and his five sons are long dead, save one. He has an Italian grandson…” He glances at Grayson, who’s already tapping out a message on his phone.
Damn, this asshole’s efficient.
“What else can you tell us?” With every passing second, I’m growing more impatient. I need Thalia back in my arms. I need her to understand why I did what I did… I just fucking need her.
“Not much, other than death was a kindness if you fell foul of their company. They were a bunch of depraved lunatics with a God complex. Their organization thrived on degradation and exploitation.”
Fuck.
“And vengeance,” Santiago finishes darkly. “Twenty years ago, we gave Interpol the keys to their house of cards and pissed all over their play time. Now, it seems, they’re back to piss all over ours.”
Chapter Eight
Santi
Santiago’s last words hang in the air like a rusty hook, one that’s worn with time, and stained with sacrifice. The five of us sit in silence for a moment, absorbing the bleak portrait he just painted. Hearing the grim details of La Société Villefort’s depravity, and realizing that whatever time we thought we had…
We don’t.
I hear their screams in my head. I fucking hear them. My sister… My wife…
Somehow, I force their faces from my memory. If I let them take over, I’ll lose focus. Their lives hinge on my ability to compartmentalize. To be analytical and strategic… My pulse slows to a steady hum as I slide back into the familiar skin of the cartel boss.
A man is most dangerous when he’s calm.
“What were their last known whereabouts?” my father asks.
“South of France.” Grayson reaches out to top off everyone’s glass again. “There was a headquarters somewhere around Cannes. I’ll get Knight to check it out. See if there’s any movement at the estate.”
A beginning… But if that’s not enough. I’ll raze every town and village in Europe, if I have to. I won’t stop until I find them.
An incoming text from Rocco diverts my attention. I glance down at my phone, and his response has me reaching for the bourbon.
Nothing.
“Enjoying my hospitality, Carrera?”
I look up to find Santiago eyeing the near-empty bottle, as if I’ve stolen his favorite toy. Just for that, I pour myself another double.
“My head of security,” I say, tapping the screen on my phone. “He swept the parking lot again—no crimson keys found.”
“Interesting.”
“Or telling…” I counter. “Why are you so convinced Ricci’s ax and Villefort’s key are in bed together? The man who freed Marco Bardi didn’t wear a crimson key. He wore Ricci’s insignia...an ax tattoo.”