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“She said it was—”
“I heard what you said,” I snap. Zé’s not a huge fan of Lexie. He thinks she’s trouble—and she is—but he wouldn’t throw her under the bus if he didn’t think it was important. “Did she say why Alexis wanted to party here?”
“It’s a fun place.”
Bullshit. “Is the principessa involved with the traffickers?”
He shakes his head. “Only if they promised her a lifetime supply of Armani or Chanel. Otherwise, it would take too much effort.”
“Those bastards in the storage shack better have some useful information,” I snarl through gritted teeth.
This has all the hallmarks of a psychological thriller. Pretty rich girls who ditch their bodyguards to go clubbing with flesh traders masquerading as good-looking college boys. By the time the girls figure it out, they’re on a ship to be auctioned like chattel.
Before this, the authorities were struggling to find any real connection between the women who had been abducted. Now both Lexie and Francesca have ties to Saint Phil’s.
“I don’t like the Saint Phil’s connection. Increase Valentina’s security.”
“You do remember that we’re not in charge of Valentina’s security.”
“I might have heard that once or twice.” Didn’t give a shit then, don’t give a shit now. “I don’t care about hurting Marco’s little feelings. Just do it.”
He nods and pulls out his phone.
“Xavier says they’re about ready to be questioned.”
“Good.” I down the bourbon.
“I don’t know if you heard me earlier,” Zé says cautiously, “but you don’t need to get your hands dirty.”
He knows this is going to be a high-profile case with the ugly details splashed all over the media, and he doesn’t want any of the scandal to blow back on me.
“We have a lot of men eager to teach them a lesson,” he continues. “I’d be happy to do it myself.”
“My club. The women who walk in here are my responsibility. This is exactly the kind of thing I should dirty my hands with.”
“Rafael,” he pleads, brow furrowed.
“I don’t pay you to be my babysitter.”
“No. You pay me to be honest with you, and to speak up when I think you’re making a mistake. That’s what I’m trying to do.” He pauses as though weighing his words. “Antonio’s on his way out, and everything will be yours. You’re going to be the face of the region. The leader. This has the potential to dirty you.”
No one who works for me, besides Zé, would ever speak so plainly—even privately. He’s right—it’s what I pay him to do, among other things. But his reasoning is misguided—just plain wrong.
“I’ll never be an effective leader if I’m afraid of a little dirt. You can come with me and watch my back, or you can stay here. But either way, I don’t want to hear another damn word about it.”
8
RAFAEL
When we get to the shack, the state-of-the-art storage facility behind Sirena, I hear the pathetic wails of the man who’s hanging from a hook on the ceiling, like the animal he is. He’s been roughed up a bit, but nowhere near as much as he deserves.
“He tried to escape,” Xavier sneers, his knuckles bloodied. “His buddy too.”
“Is that so?” I tut, slamming my fist into the bastard’s gut, hard enough to silence any cries while he gasps for breath.
There was never any risk of escape. Xavier’s men kept the bindings loose so that the prisoners would try to run. If they run, we pursue, of course, and bad things happen during pursuit—like cracked ribs and slashes made with a sharp blade. Everyone knows that.
Ordinarily we don’t need to provide explanations for anything that happens to assholes before we turn them over, and if it was just the Porto police involved, we wouldn’t have bothered creating the ruse. They would have ignored the broken bones and deep gashes, happy that we did their dirty work for them. The Intelligence Service is more by the book and prefers to do its own dirty work. Interpol is always the wild card.
