Page 111 of Where Dark Hearts Devour
“Dead children are bad for business.”
I’ve heard enough. It’s clear my brother—my own flesh and blood—is plotting with the Mexicans to traffic humans into the country via Tony Castellano’s port. It makes complete sense now why he was so keen to get his hands on it.
A lot of other things make sense now too.
This is why Savero poisoned Father—because Father got wind of his ambitions and didn’t want him to succeed as don.
This is why Savero wanted me out of the way—so I wouldn’t jeopardize his marriage to Trilby. It needed to behim, becauseheneeded the port.
This is why he tried to drown me as a kid, and why I’veneverfelt close to him—because he’s a fucking psychopath. I mean, made men are hardly model citizens, but this takes “morally gray” to a whole different level.
“I’ll do my best, Savero, but, you know, some slip through.”
The nonchalance of the heavily accented tone makes me sick.
I draw a glock from my waistband and turn back the way I came, toward the entrance. The door, understandably, is closed and probably bolted. I can either wait out here until they emerge or shoot my way inside. Either way, I guess I have the element of surprise on my side.
I weigh up my options.
Out here is pretty open, and I don’t particularly want to subject Castellano’s workers to an open-air bloodbath—not that they’re likely to be morally pure either.
I aim the barrel of the gun at the door and roll my neck. Knots crackle along my muscles, and I hold onto that sense of satisfaction, then I gun the entire door off its hinges.
I step inside the warehouse and come face-to-face with three pistols aimed at my head. Savero and the two Mexicans have stood up at my arrival.
I laugh. “Here you all are. Now ...” I slide the glock into my waistband and stride toward them. “What did I miss?”
Savero’s eyes are wide. Understandably so—he thought I was dead.
Thankfully, he can’t shoot me in front of Miguel and his sidekick. If I know anything about this particular cartel, it’s that they don’t like infighting or betrayal. They’re old-school. A code is a code. If they saw Savero shoot his own brother, their faith in his loyalty and honor—as laughable as that is already—would be called into serious question. This deal would not go ahead.
Miguel flashes an annoyed scowl at my brother.
Another thing I know about this cartel: they don’t like surprises.
“Fratello...” Savero says through gritted teeth, sliding his pistol into his waistband.
I suppress a shudder.
“Seems like you got yourself a good yard here,” I say. “Especially for the kind of shipments I just heard you discussing.”
The two Mexicans exchange a nervous glance but lower their firearms.
I hold my hands up and sit on one of the metal chairs positioned in the center of the space. The three men tentativelysit but lean forward as though they’re ready to spring up at a moment’s notice.
“I was just walking our friends out,” Savero grits out. “Come. Let’s see them off, and I’ll bring you up to speed.”
I beam him a smile and stand again. No one is saying what they’re really thinking. This is the world I’ve lived in for ten years running casinos. I’ve seen great poker faces and terrible poker faces, and I can read them all. And I’m bathing in the awkwardness.
“Great.”
I wait for Miguel and his associate to pass. They’re still white-knuckling their firearms.
“Hide the guns, will you?” I ask. “This port is a family business.”
They both throw me another scowl but do as I ask.
Savero pauses when he reaches my side. He’s pissed—either because I’ve interrupted his meeting or because I haven’t died.
