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“I am not doing this free of charge.”
I got to Kaz and he studied me, probably wondering who I was on the phone with. “What do you want, J.P.?”
Kaz sneered.
“Thank you for asking, Emily.” Humor hit J.P.’s voice. “I want territory in Moscow along with the permission to do our own business in Russia. Giorgio will lead this new territory.”
Kaz would never go for it. He already thought too many French were in Russia now. Forget the fact that, if the Corsican got a foothold in Moscow, they would be weaseling into Brotherhood business.”
“Emily?”
“Yes.”
“Your response?”
“I can’t make any guarantees on Brotherhood territories.”
Kaz quirked his brows.
J.P. chuckled. “But, you will talk to him—”
“I will, but understand this. I want to be at the dinner tomorrow night—”
“There is no need for you to be at the dinner—”
“Make sure they have two chairs for Kaz and me, or any talk about Moscow is done.” I hung up.
Kaz studied me. “The Butcher?”
“Yes, and. . .we have a problem.”
He began pushing the stroller forward. “Tell me everything.”
Chapter twenty-nine
What Would the Mouse Do?
Emily
Our little convoy strolled through the multicolored streets of the French Quarter—Kaz, Emilio, Max, Paolo, Harlem, me, and a whole army of tattooed security, wielding guns at their sides.
With each block tons of women stole glances at Kaz, and crowds of surprisingly already drunk people instinctively gave way to our imposing entourage.
It was super interesting how most received us.
The curious glances from onlookers ranged from subtle double-takes to more overt stares as they tried to reconcile the sight of our family, accompanied by such an armed entourage.
Many people pointed and gazed our way, probably wondering who the hell we were.
Others took out their phones to capture a video or picture. Kaz’s men promptly grabbed their phones, scrolled through their galleries, and deleted any such video or photo.
Meanwhile, the whole walk, I summarized as much as I could for Kaz—the Colombian’s black-market organ harvesting, the Mexican’s wanting their leader out of the US prison, and the billionaire who would do anything for a heart.
The whole time, Kaz remained silent.
And in between yapping, I took in the Quarter.
Brightly painted buildings—in pastel hues of pink, green, and yellow—lined the cobblestone paths. Each building boasted ornate wrought iron balconies, some adorned with potted plants and colorful window shutters.
