I’m sure I should be worried myself, given that I doubt Mansur will offer the same kinds ofexceptionsfor my business that the Russo’s have for decades. But honestly, I can’t find it in myself to care. I have too much going on here to worry about the future.
Too manynew developmentson this island have captured most of my attention.
Plus, I’m nothing if not adaptable. To paraphrase Dr. Ian Malcolm,The Ivory, uh uh uh, finds a way.
Anyway, it’s because of all this drama that Russo won’t let up. He calls Yari every day, threatening to come out here, which he’sneverdone before, mind you. Notoncein the history of this island has anyone from the board come here. But now, all of a sudden, out of the blue, Russo is desperate to check on things.
Yea, I smell an ulterior motive, and I can’t have it.
Not only is this the worst possible time for him to come here—what with the insurgency and all—but there’s something missing that I know he’ll expect to be here should he show up…A certain pouty-lipped Russian bank robber with a world of chaos in his head.
Despite what I promised Alexander when he escaped, it might be time to get Dascha back here, just in case ol’ Russo decides to pop in for a visit.
The only problem is that we can’t seem to find him.
I know. It’s ridiculous.
We tracked him down in Mexico, but when my guys down there went looking, he and Kellan Kemper—who apparently found his way to Dascha after quitting to get away from him, make it make sense—had conveniently vanished. Now they’re in the wind somewhere, and it’s not great.
I just need him to be here if Russo shows up. I’m not in the mood to find out what kinds of problems he’ll cause if he finds out Dascha escaped. And worst of all, I have to ensure Dascha remains unharmed throughout this process, otherwise his fucking father will tank my Vegas connection.
These Reznikov’s, I swear to God…
Family matters aren’t all laughable hijinks like the nineties sitcom would have you believe.
It’s all highly aggravating. Jonathan is upset, leading an army ofmyprisoners in an uprising against me rather than listening to reason. Dascha, the sneaky little Russian doll, is God knows where with yet another ungrateful former employee, being protected by his father—knowingly or not.
And FelixfuckingDarcey, who was picked up by Byron Kang and Trevel Fenwick the night of the storm, somehow escaped their custody, and is hiding out in the woods taking out my men with a goddamn buoy knife and a prayer.
Loco, todo eso.The fact that I’m able to smile at all amongst this much stress and ruin is a true testament to Angel Alvarez’s abilities.
God, all I want is to bedonewith this day so that I can go get him out of his cage and bring him up here.We don’t even need to fool around!I’d be perfectly happy just touching him, maybe sniffing his hair and watching his mouth…Okay, I’d probably need to get between his legs at some point, but it’s not just about that.
He is positively perfect, and I’ve known this for years, since our first encounter. Not five years ago, though I feel like I’veknown him much longer. I suppose I have, in a sense, but that night at Club Edge, when I encountered the beautifully broken force of nature he’d become, I realized that he was the true reward. The cartel, the power, this empire… All of it pales in comparison to what Arturo gave me in his son. Angel Alvarez.
I knew from that moment I’d do everything in my power to get my wicked Angel back. And I have.Finally, he’s right where he belongs, in his cage, tucked securely in my castle, surrounded by flowers and other little birds.
I won’t allow him to get away this time. Even if I don’t understand it, even knowing it’ll likely end in death or calamity, or both… I willnotlet him fly away again. Because he ismine.
Love makes you weak…
It will be your ultimate ruin.
The satellite phone on my desk rings, startling me out of my restless reflection.
Clearing my throat, I pick it up. “Si?”
“I have Tomas,” Yari says, and I hum out of relief.
“Good. Put him through.”
I’m fiddling with my pen as the young man greets me over the line, sounding far away, since it’s a satellite phone and all.
“Jefe,” Tomas grunts, and I can tell from his tone in that one word this will not be a celebratory,yay we did it,call. “So… there’s really no easy way to say this…”
Called it.
“Thereis,” I grumble, instantly impatient and irritable. “It’s called just spitting it the fuck out.”
