“Maybe?”
Sarcasm drips from that one word as I put up my hand in front of the camera. A voice barks an order, and the beating stops.
“I didn’t ask Humberto questions, but there was definitely someone from New York involved. I met another Latino man at a restaurant. He gave me a deposit to convince me to get Florencia to work for Humberto. I didn’t ask who he was or who sent him.”
“Was there any hint of an accent or a dialect?”
There’re tons of dialects throughout Latin America. People estimate there are somewhere between six and fifteen varieties of Spanish spoken in Colombia alone. If it were someone other than Ernesto, they might have a difficult time telling me whether it was a fellow Colombian. But he’d know if it were a homegrown rival. Ernesto shakes his head.
“Maybe Guatemalan or Mexican, even Costa Rican.”
At least that rules out Cubans. We had some problems with them a few years ago. They got involved in a sex trafficking ring, and one of their leaders set his sights on Maria Mancinelli. Fucking idiot he was. He went after the most untouchable woman in the underworld. She’s a don’s niece, aconsigliere’sdaughter, an underboss andcapo dei capi’ssister, and wife to one of the seniormostcaposin the world.
It wasn’t just the Mancinelli family. This same ring of traffickers also scooped up a woman who became Misha Andreyev’s sister-in-law. Misha is Maksim Kutsenko’s cousin. Maksim is the bratva’spakhan.Their equivalent to ajefe.
It was one of the rare times any of the other three families saw a more humane side of us.Tres J’stook care of the Cuban and made sure Maria could see a doctor when she needed it.
Shitty trip down memory lane. I force my mind back to the present as I continue interrogating Ernesto.
“That money we intercepted here in New York. Do you have any new thoughts on who it could be from?”
“Probably the same person who sent the nameless man I met in the restaurant.”
“That’s not enough to go off of.”
I look down at my phone and dip my chin. The beating recommences, and Ernesto watches in horror as one of my guys uses pliers to pull out two of his grandson’s teeth. Blood streams from the young man’s mouth as he whimpers. A wet puddle forms on the front of Pedro’s underwear.
“I know nothing more. Please stop! Stop! Don’t hurt him anymore. It’s not his fault. He has nothing to do with this.”
I don’t give any orders, so my men continue to work Pedro over. Ernesto witnesses one of my men stick bamboo shoots under his grandson’s fingernails. Then, using the same pliers that took out a couple of teeth, the guy inches off a fingernail, making it as excruciating as he possibly can.
“I think it’s the O’Rourkes.”
Ernesto’s outburst surprises me, but I refuse to allow my expression to show it. I wonder if this is payback for our involvement in the demise of a mob leader in Albany. Javier’s fiancée—my childhood neighbor Madeline—lived in Upstate for years and wound up involved with the mob leader.
I know the O’Rourkes feel no loyalty to the O’Sheehans, but they do feel some obligation since the O’Sheehans are the O’Rourkes’ vassals. It could be retribution and retaliation for that, or it could be something entirely different.
“All right, let him go. Keep an eye on him, though.”
The camera spins to show the two back doors of the van opening, and two of my men push Pedro onto the street before the van moves. The doors close as they drive away. I spit in Ernesto’s face to prove I can.
“You should’ve cared about Flora as much as you did Pedro.”
I drive my fist into his mouth. As much as I’d love to throat punch him, I’m unconvinced I won’t have more to ask him later. Instead, I have another call to make.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Flora
I’m not hurt, but I’m fucking pissed off. Theseputa de madres.
I force myself to inhale yet another deep breath to keep from losing my shit. I’m still terrified of what might happen next. But so far—besides the whole motherfucking taser—they’ve only manhandled me. I remember writhing on the ground in pain. My head spinning and my body aching like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. Two guys scooped me up and hauled me away like out of some shitty TV show, with one guy carrying my legs and the other one with his arms wrapped underneath mine. A different man pulled the little electrode-dart-fucker-thingies out of me in the van they tossed me into.
All I know so far is that these fuckers are also Latino. I heard them speaking Spanish to me even though I was in a daze when they shoved me in the vehicle. But now we’re at some house in a place called Yonkers. I was out of it for most of the car ride, but I saw road signs out the window. They’re utterly inept kidnappers or they’re pretty fucking confident I won’t get away, so it didn’t matter if I saw road signs and street names.
From listening to them, I’m pretty positive they’re Mexican, but I can’t be entirely sure since they could be trying to confuse me. However, some things they’ve said make me believe they must be. They use terms other Latin American countries rarely do. Two guys are arguing right now about where they were going to sit while they babysit me.
“Vete a la chingada.” Go fuck yourself.
