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Rage rose within me. “For the next days, we are going to dismantle them piece by piece, starting from their lowest ranks and working our way up. No one, and I mean no one, associated with Sinaloa Cartel remains untouched. Baggers to money launderers, assassins to lawyers and tax preparers. Get the message out that if you work with them in any way, you die. Your family dies.”
I pointed at Tisha and then Valentina. “I want the Sinaloa Cartel to feel our wrath in waves, relentless and unending.”
Valentina eyed me. “You said our vengeance begins tomorrow evening. Why not the morning?”
“My mouse and I had planned to meet the Mexicans, Colombians, and a representee of this rich man that started it all—”
“You cannot.” Valentina shook her head.
“I want to see if my mouse still wants to go to this dinner on neutral ground.”
Valentina scowled. “It will not be safe.”
“It will. The Butcher is hosting the dinner.”
She stilled.
While we all picked at the French and called them pansies, we knew the Butcher was still the Butcher.
“The Perfumed Pansies are not just sweet-smelling little dandies.” I shrugged. “Jean-Pierre will make sure that no one comes with weapons and no one violates his rules. And I am sure that he has precautions in place for those that do.”
I looked off in the distance. “But it will be up to my mouse if we attend. For now, wait for my signal to push things along.”
Tisha bobbed his head. “And when you give the signal, Kazimir, what do you want to happen first?”
“The Hunter goes. Take their hope away from them. Then, we strike them where it hurts most. Their operations, their homes, their sense of security. . .by the time we are done, Sinaloa will be nothing but a whisper of fear. A legend about a forgotten group of nobodies that made the Lion roar.”
Chapter thirty-six
A Numbing Haze
Emily
The ride from the hospital was a numb haze, the world outside the car window, a blur of passing lights and shadowy buildings.
All meaningless.
All distant.
Even the car’s motion felt surreal, as if I were floating in a void between reality and a nightmare I couldn’t wake up from.
Kaz held me in his huge, muscular arms, and his presence beside me—the warmth of his body, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat—was the only anchor keeping me tethered to the present.
Yet, it still wasn’t enough to stop all the memories of Max flooding my mind, each one a sharp stab to my heart, triggering waves of pain, of suffering.
Max’s laughter, his teasing, the way his eyes lit up.
I saw Max and me sprawled on X’s living room floor, arguing about which rapper was number one—Tupac, Biggie, or Jay-Z—and always when I brought up Lauryn Hill he would be ready to storm out of the apartment altogether.
And then the scene shifted to the night I first met Kaz, and Max gave me advice in the alleyway, telling me to be sexy, to flirt just enough with the Russian.
You have to wake up.
During our time in New York, Max’s protective presence always lurked in the background—even as he harbored my dark serial killer secrets.
It was a cruel irony, the way the most significant moments of our lives were intertwined with secrets and lies yet bound by an unbreakable bond of love and loyalty.
All the things you have done for me. . .I could never pay you back. . .
