Seeing his bullet-ridden body had changed me.
Perhaps I’d been living in a fairytale up until then.
“You know this business is dangerous, son. Your father knew the risks. He handled them with grace. Everyone involved in our world knows what to expect. That’s something you need to keep in mind. Unless you don’t want the job. Word on the street is that you’d prefer to live in the lap of luxury rather than handling business.”
As always, he enjoyed goading me.
Bristling, I took a step closer and Uncle Claude made his appearance known.
Which was good because blood was about to be shed.
“Any confirmation on the killer?” He was often the voice of reason, forced to come between Uncle Armand and my father over the years. Without it, I might have lost my control.
“No formal confirmation, but there is no doubt,” I answered, still glaring at Armand. We had our share of other enemies, but there hadn’t been a gangland-style shooting in almost thirty years between us or our enemies. If not longer. There was no need any longer for the majority of crime syndicates no matter if American, Irish, Italian, or any of the other smaller mafia groupsscattered throughout the south, almost all of whom were shifting away from violent crimes.
“I’ve heard you are continuing to have issues with the Russos,” Armand threw in as if testing me. In my family, I’d only told Sinclair about what Randy had told me. Both Montgomery and Jaxon were prone to flying off the handle. That I didn’t need while tracking down the person responsible. “Maybe you’re right they are to blame.”
Sinclair eyed me carefully, curious as to what I’d say. “They stole over a million in product. I’m with Alex in believing they are responsible.”
“Just remember when things seem crystal clear, they’re often a falsehood.” Armand’s comment stuck in my craw.
I almost asked him if he was admitting guilt but refrained.
“I’ve also heard the Barishnikoff Bratva has the most to gain,” Uncle Claude pushed casually. While I would never disrespect him, given he’d retired early from the business, taking his millions and settling in Key Biscayne, he certainly didn’t have his finger on the pulse of activity in N’awlins.
“They also have too much to lose,” Sinclair told them. “We could crush their proposed real estate ventures with a single phone call. They wouldn’t risk it. At least not now. The Russos on the other hand have much to gain.”
“We need to find out who our father was meeting with before he was killed.” The only reason I’d yet to act on my intention of killing Russo was because our father had just left some clandestine meeting, the other participant unknown. He’d left the house without a single soldier keeping guard. Why?
Standing off to the side where he’d remained quiet throughout the processional, my father’s best friend and a man considered the family’s top advisor lifted his eyebrow as he locked eyes with mine. Jacques Cornwell had a reputation as being a bulldog, his personality complementing my father perfectly.
“Mother said his behavior was very strange over the last week before he died,” Jaxon said.
Why did I have a feeling that Jacques had an idea about the details of the meeting?
“How so?” Uncle Claude asked.
“Strange phone calls, a few meetings out of the house. She had no idea what he was doing.”
I shook my head. I’d asked that very question of the people at the restaurant. No one had seen my father with anyone else. How interesting.
Jacques appeared even more uncomfortable.
Eyeing the man, I had the distinct feeling he wasn’t providing all the information he had about the meeting. I’d get him aside later and require he tell me everything.
Uncle Armand smirked, understanding exactly why Sinclair and I were so angry. “It’s been several days, Alexander, and you’ve yet to identify the single person who can shed light on your father’s last hours on this earth. You should spend more time doing your job as the leader.”
When I stepped forward, Montgomery tugged on my arm. “Might I remind you that you’re a guest at my father’s house. You should act accordingly.”
The tension was high.
Sinclair threw me a look, a gentle but effective reminder that my uncle was right about one thing. People were watching our interactions, eager to record any strife. That would allow our enemies to garner a taste of the weakness in our regime caused by our father’s murder.
“We work together to protect the family,” Uncle Claude said, sneering at his brother.
Montgomery sighed, as angry as I was. “Agreed. The last thing we need to do is to become fractured. There are too many vultures eager for that to happen.”
Before I had a chance to reply, I noticed a police car and another unmarked dark sedan pulling up to the curb less than fifty yards away. What the hell were they doing here?
