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“Good. She must get her rest.” I took my cousin in.
Exhaustion covered his face. His eyes were heavy and drooping, dark circles etched underneath. At least a new bandage was wrapped around his body.
Clean and white.
It was a stark contrast against his dirt-stained clothes.
I frowned. “Go to sleep, Tisha.”
He shook his head. “I am on right now. I will sleep later—”
“You are tired and—”
“Sinaloa Cartel delivered sicarios to New Orleans.”
Goddamn it.
The weight of Tisha’s words brought all that pressure back to my chest.
Sicarios. . .here. . .and so close to my sons and mouse. . .
The term wasn’t foreign to me. In fact, it’s very mention conjured images of cold-blooded assassins.
The sicarios were the stuff of dark legends, a nightmare brought to life from the underbelly of the criminal world.
Brutal psychos with no code.
No mercy.
No remorse.
Vicious men and women drenched in bloodlust.
They would slaughter a man’s mother, wife, and kids right in front of him, and then take his life after hours of torture.
Even the Brotherhood had a thin moral line to keep us somewhat human.
They had nothing.
No lines.
No souls.
I gritted my teeth. “So, Sinaloa has decided to raise the stakes, even higher.”
Tisha’s nod was grave. “I have discussed this with King David.”
I quirked my brows.
He is king now?
Back in Moscow, Tisha had joked about David’s title. After tonight. . .Tisha now chose to call him king.
Apparently, my number one had utterly earned my cousin’s respect.
I smirked. “What did you and David discuss?”
“The Cartel knew we blocked ports and all ways into New Orleans. David and I believe that the strip club bombing was not truly about killing you or Emily.”
