Chapter Thirteen
“Ispotted Zayas inthe crowd, but he got away,” Enrique told the detective in Santiago’s office.Gravel thickened his tongue as though he’d swallowed a bucket of rocks.The acrid tang of blood and gunpowder still clung to the air.
Across the room, Detective Patricio Ibarra leaned against the dark-gray wall with a grunt and scribbled in his notepad.His calloused, sausage fingers strangled his pencil.
With his long memory and his conveniently short list of priorities when it came to who got arrested and who didn’t, he’d helped the Lozano Cartel out of more than a few jams.
Ibarra sighed so heavily his double chin wagged.“First, you show up here with Señorita Villegas, then Zayas walks in with a fucking machine gun.That’s no coincidence.You moving in on his woman gave him motive.”
Enrique’s nostrils flared as he stared down the older man.“She was never his.He made a deal with her father.Lourdes didn’t agree to it.”
“Maybe not.”Ibarra shrugged, unrepentant.“But this isn’t a courtroom.It’s the street.To a man like Zayas, she was his bride.”
Jaw tight, Enrique faced the window and bent down a few rungs of the plastic blinds.The man was right.Not that he cared.Beyond the floor-to-ceiling wall of bulletproof glass, a parade of uniformed officers scoured the wreckage with evidence bags and flashing cameras—the last thing he had ever wanted to see at La Paradoja.A headache pulsed in his temples, reminiscent of the club music from an hour earlier.Only the sounds of the officers’ muffled voices and beeping equipment now penetrated his ears, the soundproofed office a godsend.
“I’m handling this in-house,” Rubén announced, drawing Enrique’s attention.
He released the blinds, letting the rungs snap back into place.
Behind Santiago’s sleek black desk, Rubén scowled at the computer and clutched the mouse so hard that his knuckles blanched against his bronzed skin.He likely replayed the silent surveillance footage for the umpteenth time.
Enrique had already watched it from the flashing lights and gyrating bodies to Zayas unleashing his fury on the unsuspecting crowd.The black-and-white images cycled through his mind on an endless reel.
“In-house?That might prove tricky,” Ibarra replied and slid his notepad into the breast pocket of his jacket.“Eight dead.Fifteen wounded.Over fifty eyewitnesses.Even more who fled the scene before we arrived.Someone filmed the shooting and already posted it online.My guys are busting their asses doing damage control with the press.Doesn’t matter who fired the shots.This place is closed until I say otherwise.”
“I don’t give a shit,” Rubén snapped.“My pregnant wife was here.One of my capos turned traitor.Zayas is done.I’ll bury him myself.”
Santiago paced in front of the black leather sofa along the far wall.“This is my operation, Rubén.”He stopped and spun around to face the jefe.“Even though this place is legally yours, it’smycrew.My reputation.My club.And now it’s a crime scene with national attention.”
“Which is why I’m stepping in.”Rubén cracked his knuckles, still staring at the screen.“This isn’t just bad press.It’s a fucking crack in the dam.We cannot afford for public opinion to waver again.”
Snorting, Enrique adjusted his shirtsleeves and grazed his silver cufflinks.
The war with the now-defunct Tronco de la Muerte Cartel had left several brothels, forced labor camps, and drug distribution factories across two states burned to the ground, and the federales nipping at the heels of both cartels.Only bribes, blackmail, and the opening of a women’s rehabilitation clinic had tempered the waves.
Ibarra lifted his chin.“You had better find Zayas beforewedo.If he’s arrested and tried, that courtroom is going to unravel threads.And those threads?They lead straight back to you three.”He jabbed his thumb toward Enrique.“And your princess fiancée.”
Enrique stepped forward, but Rubén’s raised hand stopped him cold.
The detective smirked at Enrique.“I’m not threatening you.Just stating facts.”
“You’re on our payroll.”Rubén’s icy, quiet voice jolted the detective upright.“If I’m not mistaken, your grandson still needs weekly dialysis, doesn’t he?”
Ibarra coughed, then wiped the back of his hand over his mouth.“I never said I wouldn’t help, but this scene is radioactive, Rubén.You’re not sweeping it in a night.”
“WhencanI clean up?”Santiago flicked his metal lighter, igniting the flame before snapping the lid shut.Then he reopened it to flick the tab again.“This place looks like a war zone.”
“A few days.Tops.Until then, nobody moves a table, paints a wall, or wipes blood off the floor unless they’re wearing a badge.”
Santiago grimaced.“I’ll need a full reconstruction crew on standby.”
