Page 91 of Cartel King

“I love you too, honey bear.”

I get one last hug, then I watch him walk out to his car. I lock the door and turn toward Constantine, who’s snoring on his bed in the living room. I walk past, and he barely opens an eye. But the moment I’m on the sofa with my laptop, he becomes a lapdog.

“I can’t type around your head, you big love bug.”

He merely sighs and gets comfier. I adjust him, my hands reaching the keyboard again. The next couple hours slip by, and I don’t notice. It’s not until my stomach rumbles that I look up. Constantine heads to the backdoor, and I follow him through the kitchen and let him into the yard. I sweep my gaze around the open space like I always do. Old habits die hard.

The moment I look to my right, I spy a manila envelope on the table. When I shift my gaze, I scrutinize everything I can see. I inch to the table, keeping my eyes searching for anything out of the ordinary. I grab the envelope with the corner of my shirt and call Constantine back inside. Immediately, I go to my office and get my testing kit out. I’m not touching this with my bare hands until I know it’s safe. I may be burying this shirt in a bag or burning it.

I exhale. It’s clean.

I rip the envelope open, glancing down at Constantine, who’s looking up at me expectantly. I swear the dog thinks anything I open must be a treat for him. I pat his broad head, and it gives me a moment of calm before I pull out the contents.

Motherfucker!

What the fuck?

I spread photos out that show me doing all sorts of things. There are photos of me working out in my garage and kneeling to weed my flowerbeds. But it’s not just my front yard. Oh, no. There are photos of me in the backyard—not flattering ones of me bending over. Whoever this is, I’ll fuck them up just for that.

There are photos of Enrique and me on our walks in the park and farther up the street from my house. These aren’t photos the dash cam could have caught. There are photos of Enrique coming in and out of my house and of the guards parked in my driveway. There are photos of them when they’re staked out among the trees separating my property from my neighbors. They were invisible unless you knew what to look for.

Touching only the very edges, I turn them over, but there’s nothing handwritten or printed on them. I hold them to the light, and I see no marks on them. I check inside the envelope again, but there’s nothing else. Just two dozen photos. That’s not meant to freak me out or anything.

How’d they get in my backyard?

I’m pretty positive a drone took most of these photos. Is it precise enough to drop the envelope propped up on a table? I don’t think it would be. I don’t know. The more reasonable explanation is someone’s been in my backyard.

When?

It had to be within the two-and-a-half hours I was out with Enrique because I glanced out the backdoor before we left. I always check the doors and scan the front and backyard in case anything’s out of place because of shit like this.

I let talking to Hunt distract me. I didn’t look out back because I forgot, and I didn’t check until Constantine needed to go out. Shame on me. I’m usually not this lax.

I pull out another kit and dust for fingerprints.

Gotcha fucknut.

There are prints where I didn’t touch the envelope or photos. I can’t run them here, but I’m certain Enrique has a way. I’m cautious as I tuck them back into the envelope. There aren’t any nudie pics of me—yet. That’s what I’m worried about. That’s the next step. If they wanted to send photos of me away from the house, they would’ve. It’s creepy enough they got pics of me in my fenced backyard. They don’t need to send me proof of going to the grocery store. If they can invade my privacy more, then that’s what they’ll prove.

Thank God Enrique and I made sure all the blinds and curtains were closed before we had our sex fest.

I grab my phone and dial Enrique’s number, which I got yesterday morning after we had at least six rounds of sex. I don’t expect him to answer, so I leave a message. I don’t want to panic him, but I need him here.

Who the fuck did this?

The most obvious is Tommaso, since the car with the dash cam was around before Enrique and I met. The photos of me working out and in the front yard are from before he walked into my life.

I’ll call Tommaso, but I want to consider alternatives first. I start with Boston families since they’re obvious.

The O’Malleys—those motherfuckers couldn’t find their asses in a bucket with lights shining out of them. They’ve fucked up so much they don’t sneeze without asking the O’Rourkes’ permission. They targeted the woman who married the O’Rourkes’ second-in-command. They’re also connected to a woman who married one of the O’Rourke twins, and that ties both the O’Malleys and the O’Rourkes to the Montreal mob. The O’Malleys are keeping their heads down, so none of the O’Rourkes get froggy and pick them off one by one.

The Iglesias—the churches. Too ridiculous to even laugh at. Those shitbags are just puppets—violent as fuck puppets—of the Espinozas who run theCuliacánout of Chihuahua. The Espinozas have ties to the Mancinellis through marriage. And they sure as fuck aren’t crossing Enrique. He’ll shut that entire enterprise down. I’ve heard the stories about his relationship with Jesus Espinoza. He doesnotlike Jesus, who isn’t particularly fond of Enrique, but understands his place in the Latin American pecking order. He’s high, but nobody’s above Enrique.

The Colombians have a presence in Boston, but they’re more low profile. It’s the MexicanCuliacánwho are the poster children for cartels. From what I know, Enrique set it up that way since he doesn’t have as large a Colombian community up there as he does here.

The Volkovs—their name means wolf. They do nothing but howl like the beaten dogs they are. Between the Kutsenkos down here—who don’t let them off a short leash—and their ongoing overlords in the Solntsevskaya bratva in Moscow, they wouldn’t reach this close to NYC.

The Solntsevskaya is the oldest and biggest modern bratva in Russia. We can thank them for the bratva arriving in America when they sent the original Ivankov over. They have ties to the Podolskaya, who are the Kutsenkos’ mortal enemies from crap that happened in the motherland and here. It’s why the Ivankov branch—run by the Kutsenkos—don’t let the Volkovs do jack diddly.

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