Page 84 of Bad Blood
“Bardi is gone.”
Three words.Three fucking words, and all my best laid plans crumble like a house of cards.
“What do you mean, ‘he’s gone’?” I grit out. “Where the fuck could he go? The son of a bitch was tied to a chair in a locked room!”
RJ stands, raking his fingers through his short hair. “I need to find out. Rocco just went down there, and the door was open along with two deadsicarios. No chair. No Bardi.”
My fingers tighten around my glass moments before I’m hurling it across the bar, watching as it shatters the mirrored walls. “So what? Did he sprout wings and levitate his way to freedom? Fucking find him! Now!”
“Santi, I—”
He’s cut off by yet another shrill ring, and then I fucking snap.
Reaching for my own phone, I silence it before slamming it onto the bar.“Don’t you know how to leave a fucking message?”
“Yes, but I prefer to deliver them in person.”
Every muscle in my body tenses as the deep, familiar accent amplifies in surround sound, controlled and deceptively smooth in its delivery. Slowly, I turn to find the cold, unforgiving eyes of my father staring back at me.
Phone held to his face.
Murder darkening his eyes.
* * *
Valentin Carrera doesn’t sit. He stands like Zeus himself, presiding over my office like it’s Mount Olympus.
He hasn’t spoken a word since I closed the door, but to be fair, neither have I. Our chilly reunion drew more than a few stares in the bar, so my only reaction was to suggest we move it elsewhere.
Somewhere more private—with fewer witnesses who could be called to testify in the event of a murder.
I lean back in my chair, widening my fingers and pressing my fingertips together. Choosing to sit rather than stand was a strategic move. My desk chair is a seat of power—a self-built throne under the watchful eye ofSanta Muerte.
This isn’t Mexico.
This is New Jersey.
And here, I’m king, not him.
My phone chimes, alerting me to a recently left voicemail. I’m in no mood to deal with anything else right now, so I toss it onto the desk between us like a grenade.
Lowering his eyes, my father gives it a half-interested glance. “So, your phone isn’t broken after all.”
I’m also not in the mood for explanations, so I reach for the crystal decanter sitting beside me and pour myself a drink. “Help yourself,” I murmur.
His dark gaze lowers to the decanter and then settles back on me. “I don’t like to be ignored, Santi.”
With my glass in hand, I sit back in my chair and mimic his calm, lethal tone. “And I don’t like to be questioned. You demanded I handle Grayson’s attack on Legado, so I did. I wasn’t aware my decisions needed a prior authorization.” Holding his stare, I take a long drink, letting the challenge hang in the air. I’ve never been anything but reverent toward my father, so we’re both treading in uncharted waters here.
“Depends on the decision,” he says, scanning my office with the same stormy eyes I see in the mirror every day. Dark brown with flickering glints of gold, which means he’s barely containing his rage. “This is quite a place you have here, son.”
It’s not a compliment.
And a flicker is nothing more than an impending fire.
Although my father’s hands are tucked loosely in the pockets of his black suit pants, it’s a dubious stance. Judging by the hard set of his jaw and unwavering stare, I wouldn’t be surprised if he drew out a thunderbolt and hurled it at my face.
“Repairs went well, I see.”
