His expression tightened.
“What does that mean?”
“It means Varga’s in charge of all of it.”
Cal blinked.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“Izzy, what the hell are you saying?”
“Oh, come on, Cal.” She stared at him in disbelief. “You seriously expect me to believe you don’t know your father’s tied to the Varga cartel?”
“Cartel?” Cal shook his head sharply. “What are you talking about?”
“Ghost Ice.”
The words landed hard in the metal building.
Cal frowned deeper now.
“I’ve heard the name on the news?—”
“Your father’s storing raw material for it.” Her voice cracked with anger and fear. “Vance Varga handles logistics. Your dad handles movement and holding locations.”
Cal stared at her.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“My father does business deals, land deals, horse deals?—”
“He does cartel deals.”
“That’s insane.”
Izzy gave a hollow laugh.
“Is it?”
She leaned forward as far as the restraints allowed.
“Hell, I’ve been here two weeks and figured it out. You’ve lived with the man your whole life, and somehow you know nothing?”
Cal’s jaw clenched hard. Outrage came first—hot, automatic—but underneath it something colder slid in. A thin crack of disbelief.
Cal looked genuinely shaken now.
“Izzy, listen to yourself.”
“No, you listen to me.” Tears burned suddenly behind her eyes. “I found those paintings. Clara Vale saw something out here twenty-seven years ago, and then she disappeared.”
Cal went quiet.
He thought of airstrips cut into ridges, trucks that came and went at odd hours, deals his father never explained because he’d never asked. It had always been Hollis business.
