“Got Mia running the full corporate pull now—owners, investors, subsidiary links, banking patterns. So far, she believes the company itself is clean. But the LLCs it’s linked to, they tell a different story.”
Buddy exhaled slowly. “When I arrested Simon and all the others, they were so fucking smug. Like it didn’t matter. Like their world would still fucking turn. They kept telling me, I’d never save them all.”
Dove looked up, forehead scrunched. “Has Flagler been able to get Simon to talk?”
“Doesn’t matter if he did,” Buddy said. “This is either someone he trained or someone he worked for—someone who learned the system—someone who hates me enough to take the long route—someone who’s fucking patient enough to watch me sweat before destroying what he thinks I love. What I hold dear.”
A soft knock sounded in the open doorway.
Decker stuck his head inside, blond hair sticking up like he’d run here. Which he probably had.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Decker said, breathless. “And sorry for eavesdropping. I’ve been pacing outside for the last few minutes, and I can’t let this slide.”
“No worries. What’s up?” Buddy had learned to trust Decker. It hadn’t been easy. He’d come to Calusa Cove to hurt people. To hurt Buddy’s friends. But when fire erupted, Decker did the right thing.
“Did you say EJV Industries?”
Buddy straightened. “Yeah. Why?”
Decker stepped in, shutting the door behind him. “When I was a kid in Miami—in my old neighborhood, when the cartels were moving in—there was a dude by the name of EJ. No one said his name out loud. And no one ever saw him. My uncle used to skim cash for one of his LLCs through fake tile imports. Laundry front. It’s where it all started.” He rubbed his jaw. “It was just one of many fronts, and I believe the Barbaros struck a deal with him, but there’s always a play going on for small businesses near the ports.”
“The Barbaros? As in Ken’s in-laws?” Buddy rubbed the back of his neck.
“Who’s Ken?” Sterling asked.
“Baily’s brother. Also a decorated SEAL who was on the same team as Dawson, Keaton, and Hayes. But more importantly, he was married to Julie Barbaro, the daughter of a big crime family that run drugs, guns, and people,” Decker said. “They owned my family. I thought I got away, but they fucked with my business and nearly destroyed me.”
“All in the past.” Buddy held Decker’s gaze for a moment. “But I don’t like how it’s tied to EJV Industries.”
“Your uncle worked for the Barbaros and this EJ guy?”
“I don’t know how long my uncle did work for EJ, but I remember he once mentioned EJV Industries and that if I ever came in contact with that company, to run. But the Barbaros were the ones my uncle answered to. Unfortunately, he died in prison last year.” Decker’s gaze hardened. “His son—my cousin—he’s still inside—same penitentiary. Low-level, but he remembers shit. Might talk.”
“Might?” Sterling asked.
Decker shrugged. “Fear keeps people quiet, and some of them see me as the enemy. I turned on the Barbaros and some blame me for the collapse of their empire. They were promised shit when they got out. Now that might not happen, so they might not be willing to speak with me. But I’ll try.”
Buddy rolled his shoulders. “I don’t want you to do anything that’s going to upset anyone. You’re getting married soon, and you don’t need to poke that bear again.”
Decker dipped his chin. “I can’t sit back and do nothing. I did that once, and I ended up hating myself.”
“Thanks, we appreciate it.” Buddy stretched out his hand and Decker gave it a good shake before strolling out the door.
Buddy shoved aside another stack of photocopied reports and stared at them, but his vision wouldn’t focus. His muscles twitched and tightened from too many hours leaning over that damn table. He needed to move, needed his blood circulating, because sitting still with this many files felt like drowning in paper. He paced to the wall, turned, paced back. Three steps one way, three steps back. His boots scuffed against the floor. The repetition didn't help. The tension still crawled under his skin.
He found himself at the window again. Blinds half-drawn, Florida sun cutting harsh lines across the floor. He'd been doing this for the last ten minutes—table to window, window to table—burning off energy that had nowhere else to go.
He nudged a slat with his knuckle.
A black Dodge Charger sat across the street. Parked. Engine running. Tinted so dark the glass looked like obsidian. Not just illegal-dark. Intentional-dark.
Sterling looked up from the paperwork he was sorting. “What?”
Buddy didn’t shift his gaze. “Charger. Across the street. It fits the description of the one Fallon saw.”
Dove pushed off the table and joined him, leaning sideways to get a look. “Are you sure?”
“Same model. Same tint. Same attitude,” Buddy said. “Can’t see the plate.”
