Cadillac Payback: Rising Tide Page 3

  “Just tell me you won't roll in there, guns blazing, and start trouble,” he says.

  For a long time, my voice is just a knot in my chest. He's saying he won't fight it. He's right, but it stings a little. We're almost to the house in the Garden District where we will meet Abuela.

  Finally, quietly, I say, “Fine. Not a word.”

  Chapter 5 Si, Señora

  Maria

  The house is ridiculous. No matter how many times we roll into the driveway, I'm surprised by how huge it is, every time. In this part of town, the houses occupy entire blocks. This one sits catty-corner on its lot, the driveway winding around a black fountain in the back, the yard shaded by magnolia trees. I've never been able to figure out who exactly owns the place, but we meet here from time to time.

  It occurs to me that I could ask Frederick. He probably knows.

  He's quiet beside me, as he has been since he broke his big news. I won't prod him farther, it would be terribly disrespectful. He's never demanded as much from me, and I can't afford to start thinking about losing him now. So I finger the braid out of my hair, run my hands through it a few times, and check myself in the visor mirror.

  My aviators hide my tired eyes for now, but the sun is gone. There's no shield against a meeting with Abuela. Not even Freddy can save me here. And I didn't put on makeup.

  We're silent as we step out of the car. There's no breeze, just heavy air hanging around us, pushing against us as we make our way toward the door. The sun's long gone by now, but the heat just radiates off of everything. It feels like we're moving in slow motion. My nerves stir, and I feel light-headed.

  We're greeted at the door by a maid. She's white, I notice. Seems like my grandmother did the hiring. She leads us down a hallway with impossibly high ceilings, carved moldings, and a chandelier off in a verandah.

  Deeper inside, we check our guns with security. I wonder, fleetingly, if Mateo is here. When the guard smiles at me, I just glare back. It's not his fault he's on my shit-list, he just happens to be in the way. I don't say a word, just follow him through some more rooms and hallways.

  We stop at a tall door with an ornate handle. He knocks twice, then opens the door. He doesn't enter, only ushers us forward with the movement of his arm.

  I can't quite banish the nerves as I cross the threshold first. I scan the room as I enter, the opulent library, with its rows of hard-backed books and antique furniture. Of course Mateo is here. I bite back a curse. Protocol demands that head of security is Abuela's right hand when it comes to a meeting of division heads.

  Except I'm not a division head. Not quite. I run the most territory stateside, but distribution still belongs to my dear Abuela. She's given me a lot of responsibility quickly, but after just a year, she doesn't feel I'm seasoned enough for any more advancement.

  Abuela is seated behind a big mahogany desk. Mateo is seated in one of three armchairs in front of the desk. Mateo stands as we approach, and he looks damned debonair in his cream button-up, and tie. His sleeves are rolled up, but he still pulls off formal.

  He's five or so years older than me, has several years’ tenure on me because of the age difference, and he's just as ruthless as my bloodline. We were always acquaintances, until Charlie was murdered and I stepped onto the scene. More than any other impression I get from him these days, he views me as a threat. Even though our divisions are completely separate.

  His gaze skates down my very not-formal attire as he opens his arms for a hug. We're almost cousins, after all. His arms barely touch me as he leans in and fakes a kiss on my cheek. I equally don't touch him as I wrap my arms around his back.

  It's over in a matter of seconds, and the encounter leaves my heart pounding in my ears. Of all the words I want to say to these two, I've agreed to say nothing. Fucking sharks.

  “Please, sit,” says Abuela, nodding toward the chairs.

  She speaks Spanish. Sometimes she does it purposefully, if not all present parties know the language. When she knows everyone speaks it, she uses it because it is her native tongue.

  She's wearing a white suit that makes her brown skin glow. The expression on her face is the same as it usually is, hard, shrewd, the resting bitch face to end all. I take the middle chair.

  “I understand we have an issue to address,” she says.

  How the fuck does she always know? Does every single person who's not me report everything to her immediately? I nod.

  Beside me, Frederick is utterly still. I can only imagine what's going on in his head, sitting in a room with two people who are playing him like a game, knowing it won't be addressed. Does she really believe he wouldn't tell me?

  “What is the problem?” Abuela asks.

  I lift my chin, ignoring both men, and say, “I need the authority to renegotiate pricing.”

  She stares for a long stretch, during which I don't believe any one of us but she is breathing. When I told Freddy I didn't have a clue what I was going to do, it was only partially true. I had the gist, I just hadn't decided the best way of throwing it out there. It seems straightforward is on the menu today.

  Then she cocks an eyebrow and says, “Your reasoning?”

  Her tone isn't quite curious, nor is it threatening. She'll never give me an ounce of anything in a meeting like this. Always, it seems, there's another test.

  I'm silently praying that my rattling nerves won't come through in my voice when I say, “I'm losing deals. The current product will hurt our reputation. If we don't budge on our agreed prices, we'll lose a significant chunk of our asses. Sure, we'll take a hit if we agree on less, but the hit will be manageable – if our next shipment isn't the same dirt brick shit.”

  I didn't mean to say ‘shit’ to her. It just rolled on out with the rest of my words. I didn't even notice that I’d switched to English until that one little word kicked its way into the conversation.

  I nearly tear a chunk out of my lip when I bite down on that last comment. The pain does little to distract me from the minute lift in her eyebrows, the most demure surprise I think I've ever seen.

  In my peripheral vision, I see Mateo's head turn toward me, but I won't take the bait. I keep my attention forward, on my grandmother and kingpin. I'll take whatever wrath I earn on my own. My cartel cousin Mateo will not steal any thunder of mine, in his dress slacks and manicured hair, with his perfect chin strap, and Rolex.

  Abuela's hand moves, and it takes every bit of my resolve not to follow it with my eyes. My possible offense isn't enough to garner a bullet to the chest, but still a cold fear rips through me. There always remains the fact that she once ordered my death, and the death of my brother. She obviously wasn't completely serious, because she caved under Charlie's reasoning. But she still passed that sentence down. It didn't come from the top.

  She retrieves a half of a cigar from an ashtray I hadn't even noticed. She takes her time setting a flame to its end and taking a few long pulls. She puffs the smoke out at the ceiling and sets the thing down. It smokes idly from the ashtray, then she says in English, “Your request is reasonable, and – I never thought I'd say this to you – but it's smart.”

  Only she could make such a compliment feel like a blow to the gut. I wonder if she ever back-handedly called Charlie stupid to his face?

  I say nothing but, “Gracias.”

  The smell of the cigar lingers around us as the smoke dwindles, and the cherry dies.

  She says, “I will allow you permission to renegotiate for this shipment. I advise you to continue to be wise with how much of a cut you decide to make. I am already dealing with the quality issue, so you need not concern yourself with those particular details. I also suggest you mind your mouth better in the future.”

  I do my best to string my sigh of relief out long enough to seem like just another breath. I can't guess at whether it works.

  I do know my voice holds steady when I answer, “Si, señora.”

  Yes, you fucking backstabbing bitch. That's what I want to say, but I don't want to die today. All I can do is acquiesce. Damn it all, Frederick was right.

  She cuts her eyes to Frederick, which – I believe – surprises us both. Neither of us moves, at least as far as I can tell from my periphery. I would guess that we're also both expecting her to say something, but she doesn't. She looks back to me, and it occurs to me that she's checking his mettle. Will he lose his shit under pressure?

  Not likely. I don't think she believes he will any more than I do. Could it be she's already guessed that he told me, or that she wonders if he has?

  She continues as though nothing strange happened.

  “I expect another report tomorrow evening. It will be by phone. I will see you again in three days. There will be a family dinner at my house.”

  I want to nod as much as possible, just agree and get the fuck out of this house. It's all a little much just now. But I can't buckle.

  I say, “Yes, ma'am,” again, and it sounds distant to me. I focus on my breaths, and the mask, for whatever it's worth.

  A family dinner means division heads and right hands, a business dinner of sorts. I won't need just my right hand, though. I'll need Josh to come. It's a call to court, and I'll be expected to attend with the most ranking of my crew. It could mean she has news to share, or it could be that she wants to gauge everyone's progress under one roof. Either way, it's the last thing I want to deal with.

  She says, “Good evening, Maria, Fredrico.”

  “Buenas noches,” we say in chorus.

  We don't say anything else as we leave, as we collect our weapons, get in the car, and drive away. And there's not another word spoken until I drop him off at his tiny apartment in the Quarter.

  I've never seen the
inside, but I know how these places are. It's probably scarcely more than a closet, probably complete with a false wall or two, behind which waits an array of weaponry. Somewhere else, there's a stash of money, in case he needs to disappear.

  He hesitates with his hand on the door handle, denying me his attention. This is what we've become, awkward, far away, and guarded. Fake.

  “Be safe,” he says softly. Then he shoves open the heavy door, and steps into the young night.

  I watch him for as long as it takes him to unlock his door and disappear. He doesn't look back.

  Chapter 6 Meet the Mask

  Isaiah

  “No.”

  Mona makes an exaggerated pout, and cocks her head to the side. She puts a hand on a hip, and says, “We're never going to get anywhere if you keep acting like that.”

  Do I really need to remind her that I'm perfectly fine not getting anywhere, whatever the fuck she means by that? I could point out that playing dress up for her isn't exactly my idea of fun, but she wouldn't listen. She has a special way of pretending you didn't say something she doesn't want to address.

  She extends the shirt toward me again, a long-sleeved button-up, and she says, “With those eyes and that tan, baby blue is perfect for you.”

  She slides her eyes over the shirt I'm currently wearing, a short-sleeved gray button-up. I'm waiting for the disapproval, so when she frowns, I'm flatly expecting the bullshit she's about to say.

  “Gray is so boring. I just want you to look your best,” she says.

  Her blonde hair is perfect against her shoulders, pampered to the point that it glows in the store's low lighting. She's wearing pink, a color I find entirely annoying. Like her, as a whole. Still, the cleavage is enticing, and her legs are honed by living in heels.

  For a moment, I miss the beach and those stupid twenty-somethings. Mona is a year younger than me. She might play dumb – a lot – but she's a snake. She knows exactly what she's doing, and what she can do to the male libido.

  What is it with bitches who think they're the only ones who can play that game? They make it so easy when they want what they can't have.

  Slowly I begin to undo the buttons of the gray shirt. The edge in my expression disappears, and Mona meets the mask I've been developing for six years – the one built to withstand a devastating and insatiable little sister. The same indifference I used to deflect Maria's sexuality will serve to entice the only person I truly fucking hate.

  I won't be rushed, even by the princess herself, and I willfully hold her gaze. She's watching me like a cat watches its prey from cover. She's trying to read me. Good luck, sweetheart.

  I shrug out of the shirt, let it fall to the floor, easily forgotten. When I take the blue shirt from her, I let my fingers brush her hand. Her eyes get heavy, the tiniest bit that would be easy to miss if I weren't staring at her.

  I'm a little surprised she hasn't broken and let her eyes devour me. I'm standing before her in nothing but a pair of stupidly expensive dress slacks that she picked out, holding her attention. Silently challenging her self-control.

  Then I turn away, toward the trifold mirror. There is a little truth in this, I'd rather look at myself than her. I watch as I slide into the clothing with intensity, like there's no one else I'd want to fuck more. She's right, the color makes my eyes stand out something crazy, I'm just not the type to want that much attention. It's not my style, but I can fake it. That's always been true.

  I tuck in the shirt, and take the time to roll the sleeves up. Sure, I'll suffer these stupid dress clothes, but I'm not doing sleeves, not in the late autumn burn of Florida. I won't wear a tie either.

  I've ignored her long enough that I'm confident that her eyes aren't on my face anymore. I cut my gaze to her in the mirror. She's staring at the way the pants fit my ass.

  I shrug.

  “It'll do.”

  She looks up, realizes I've caught her, and her eyes narrow. I'm tempted to smirk at her, so she's sure it's my point, but I'd rather make her think.

  So I turn to her with a bored expression and say, “What's next? Let's get this over with, so I can hear about a bunch of shit I don't want to know.”

  She has a mask, too, one that coolly slides into place now. It's comprised mostly of bitch.

  “Oh, have you decided to stop acting like a baby?” she asks, lifting one eyebrow.

  I hold out my arms, palms up in a dramatic shrug, and say, “I thought you wanted a puppy.”

  Her lips press together in a red line, and her eyes flatten. Restraint is not something I remember her for, and it seems I'm not the only one who has changed. Whatever thoughts just rapid-fired in her brain did not come out of her mouth. It might be the most amazing transformation I've ever seen. Or it might be the first time she has ever shut the fuck up in favor of talking.

  She takes a leather belt off a nearby hook and hands it to me. She says, “Now that I know your sizes and cuts, I'll have someone handle it. You can wear that out of the store, I'll tell the cashier to charge my account. By all means, let's get to the shit you need to know if you want to survive.”

  Then she turns on her giant heel and stalks away.

  I turn back toward the mirror, staring at the character she has created. Or is it an old character she tried to recreate?

  Bitch. Walking away is my gig.

  Chapter 7 Florida Queen

  Isaiah

  Mona might have mentioned we're meeting Daddy on his yacht. She didn't, and now we're skipping away from the marina in a speedboat to where the Florida Queen is anchored. The wind feels good harassing the new clothes, but I'd rather jump over the edge at current speed, and break a few bones, than board the yacht.

  As I watch the water race by, the option loses luster. Then I'd have to do whatever is to come with broken bones. Maybe more than the escape attempt would cause, once they got through with me – after they dragged me out of the water.

  Beside me, Mona is holding her hat down, looking for all the world like some Hollywood starlet. Her oversized sunglasses hide most of her expression, and I'm not interested enough to investigate. I'd imagine she's feeling smug, but I think she probably spends most of her time doing that.

  The man I'm about to see is the one who turned me out six years ago. It wasn't his fault, not really. He did the right thing, but he based his decision on a lie. In the end, I was just a scapegoat for his darling angel, and I never said a word.

  I didn't expose her. I could have, it would have been easy. The bitterness of her betrayal was enough to want to walk away. It worked well enough when it was in the past. The problem now is that he still thinks I'm the one who fucked up.

  I can still see her feigning horror and surprise when Daddy brought his verdict down on me. I've managed not to think about that day in a long damn time. Now it feels close to the surface. It was her pleas that kept him from killing me, her claims that she loved me, which in retrospect was probably never true. I guess it was her way of thanking me for not blowing her world out of the water.

  I glance at Mona again. I wonder if she's considered that I might not care to let the truth slip. I'm not exactly chivalrous these days. Maybe she thinks her precious daddy would never believe me. I think that when it comes down to his business and his hide, there's a line that even she can’t cross. We may yet see.

  She catches me watching her, and smiles. Without seeing her eyes, one could almost believe the gesture holds no poison. Not me. I smile back, and hers catches. I look away, to the quickly approaching ship.

  I don't have any weapons, but I'm patted down anyway when we board. Mona is not.

  The boat rocks softly as we stroll through a lobby. I suddenly wish it were storming, so it would actually feel like we're on a ship. This luxury vessel is too much for me. Give me crab cages and cast nets, sea birds screeching overhead, tying knots, shooting sharks. There was a time I thought I wanted this kind of opulence. Once I left it all behind, I never did miss it.

  My nerves are wound in a tight coil around my internal organs. There's no way to make this not suck, and just now, that pisses me off – more than I'm already pissed that I'm just a walking puppet. I'm not one to be inclined to violence, but this family breeds it in me at an unhealthy rate.