Corrupt Gods: A Dark Mafia Romance Collection by Kenborn Cora & Wiltcher Catherine

Author:Kenborn, Cora & Wiltcher, Catherine
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-10-14T00:00:00+00:00

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 Societá Villefort 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.”

“Because they’re operating as one unit,” Grayson says, staring at his phone. All conversation ceases as four pairs of eyes follow his hand as he turns the screen around. “A preview of our incoming Canal Street delivery. My men work fast.”

It’s a close up of a man’s bloody neck. Just like the one in the surveillance video, it bears an ax tattoo. Unlike the one in the video, a crimson key pin has been lodged deep in the center of it.

It’s true. It’s all fucking true. Ricci and Villefort have been a unified shadow darkening both our cities. All planned… All calculated…

“What about the timeline correlation?”

Every eye swings to where RJ has been sitting mute the whole meeting, taking everything in and watching it unfold. It doesn’t surprise me. His silence is by design. While everyone around him wages war, he strategizes the counterattack.

“Who the fuck are you again?” Santiago drawls.

RJ returns his stony stare across the table. “A long-term casualty of La Boda Roja.”

The Colombian regards him with mild curiosity, as if he’s an irritating fly buzzing in and out of the conversation. But I know better. Behind RJ’s arctic stare lies two decades of hatred. Twenty years of scars. Twenty years of silence.

After all, the man sitting across the table made him an orphan at three years old.

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