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My men got behind me as we waited for the elevator to come back up.
“Emily, you ask why I am coming to New Orleans, and my answer is to referee a possible pissing contest of mega proportions.”
“And who do you think will be pulling out their dicks to piss?”
“Well. . .we have the Lion in one corner.”
I pursed my lips. “And on the other side—the Cartel?”
“Correction. Cartels.”
My heart hammered in my chest. “More than one cartel?”
“And it is not just two cartels on the other side. You also have a bankster.”
“A what?”
“A billionaire. Old money. Very old. From a dynasty whose wealth traces back to the brutality of slavery and the riches of Jews that died in the Holocaust. The sort of money and power that makes my empire or Kazimir’s looks like a tin can collection.”
“What is the bankster’s name?”
“Archibald Montague Harrington IV.”
“Yeah. He sounds like a racist, rich, piece of shit.”
“And he is dying.”
Before me, the elevator doors slid open, revealing an empty space inside.
“Okay.” I stepped on. “He’s dying from what?”
Lemon and my men followed.
“Harrington IV’s immense wealth and influence cannot block his failing heart, especially after decades of smoking.”
The elevator doors slid closed.
“How old is he?”
“85 and he needs a heart transplant.”
“He’s rich. That shouldn’t be a problem.”
“You will be surprised how hard it is to find a compatible heart. Add the fact that he is number 109 on the transplant list.”
“Damn.”
“And the things that he did to just get that number. . .well. . .it would give you nightmares.”
I widened my eyes.
“The stark reality of organ transplants is that the demand far exceeds the supply. In the US alone, tens of thousands of patients are waiting for organ transplants at any given time, but only a fraction of those in need will receive one.”
The elevator lowered, and the floor numbers on the panel decreased.
Jean-Pierre continued, “There’s a mortality rate for patients on the waiting list—”
“Alright. Alright. What does this have to do with my baby?”
