Page 62 of Reckless Woman
At the mention of my half-uncle’s name,his half-brother, his head jerks slightly. I search for a morsel of guilt on his face, but there’s none.
Manuel never should have gone to work for him. If he hadn’t, he’d still be happily running his bar in Santa Perdito and hacking internet codes on the sly. He was a computer genius, but none of that mattered to Santiago. He put a gun in his hand and a bullet in his brain.
“Where would you like to eat,señor?” The maid appears on the balcony, looking expectantly at us.
“In my office please, Sofía.”
“Certainlyseñor. Dinner will be served in twenty minutes.”
She turns to leave.
“Eve is resting,” he calls out. “Please ensure that she eats something when she wakes. Tell her everything else is in hand.”
A giggle escapes my mouth, drawing two pairs of eyes in my direction.
“Something amusing?” Santiago asks.
“Forgive me,” I say, straightening my face. “Your choice of words reminded me of our meeting in Colombia last week.”
He gives me another cold smile, before pointing to my glass. “Come. We’ll find you some ice downstairs.”
The journey is a lesson in staccato small talk.
Santiago seems more detached this evening than he was earlier in the day. Something’s weighing on his mind, so I go through a checklist in my head: The baby is healthy. The wife survived childbirth—perhaps he’s pissed about two of his jets blowing up?El Asesino’s“death” would have hit him hard as well, though he’s yet to mention it. I’ve been monitoring calls in and out of the island this afternoon and so far my threat has worked. Joseph Grayson hasn’t been in contact with Santiago once.
As we reach his office, I set myself a challenge to lighten up my uncle before I light him up.Sort of like a bonfire prelude to the firework display.
“Have you chosen a name for your new daughter?” I ask as he taps in the passcode.
“Thalia.”
He stands aside to let me enter.
“Beautiful.”
He follows me in, rashing up my skin with his close proximity.My body hates him as much as the rest of me.
“It was my choice,” he adds. “It was my mother’s middle name.”
And my grandmother’s.
“Is your wife—?”
“She’s fine.”
“And the doctor?”
“An unfortunate business.” He gestures to one of the black leather couches before heading toward the bar.
“Any leads?” I ask, taking a seat as he starts throwing ice cubes into a fresh glass with unnecessary violence.
“A couple.”
In goes another.
“One in particular.”
And another.