Page 52 of Maximum Bet

Huddled around our laptops, Marco, Leo, Nico, and I watch our streaming feed from Jorge Santos’s Puerto Rico condo. Leo and Lucas set up our computers with the surveillance program before we left Las Vegas.

“How long until they arrive?” Nico asks, placing his headphones around his neck.

Leo checks an iPad next to him. “Our guys are only a few minutes out.” Our guys are three associates we brought along for grunt work, like following Kozlova and Perez from the airport to the condo, just in case they head to a different location.

“So, they’re definitely going where we think they are?” Marco asks.

Leo nods. “They just turned on Avenida Ashford. I doubt they’re going anywhere else.”

I check the audio on my laptop. “Everyone’s devices working?”

“Yep,” Nico answers while Marco gives a thumbs-up.

“They’re turning into the garage,” Leo says, placing his headphones over his ears.

“Let’s go!” Marco locks in, turning up the volume and leaning toward his screen.

A few minutes pass before anything happens. At the sound of a deadlock turning, our backs straighten, and we hone in as the condo door opens. First in is a Kozlova enforcer, followed by a few Medina associates, and then the men we’re waiting for. Anatoliy Kozlova and Esteban Perez.

“Ah, yes,” Esteban says, walking to the dining room table and placing down a laptop bag. “But have you tried their fried plantains? That’s what the place is known for.”

Kozlova chuckles before dropping to the couch and spreading his arms along the back. “Of course. They were eh.” He holds out his hand and wobbles it side to side.

Esteban shakes his head and takes a lounge chair across from Kozlova. “Blasphemy.”

The men’s laughter dies quickly as the atmosphere between them shifts.

“It’s been a while since we’ve talked,” Perez says.

“There hasn’t been a reason to.” Anatoliy turns to one of his men and motions for a cigar box sitting on a nearby wet bar.

He sets the box on the coffee table between Esteban and himself, and the two take a moment to light cigars.

After a long drag and blowing a puff of smoke into the air, Anatoliy continues. “Our sales are going well.”

“Remaining steady.” Esteban nods. “Despite those who aim to stop us.”

Anatoliy snorts. “We’ll get to the Tariellos soon enough.”

“Very soon,” Esteban says.

The hair on the back of my neck rises as I share a look with Leo.

“I’m having some issues in Chicago.” Esteban taps ash off his cigar into a tray.

“What’s your plan?”

Esteban leans back, sucking on the cigar. “I’m workin’ on it.”

“Fuckers,” Nico mutters while cracking his knuckles.

“But that’s less important than our business,” Esteban continues. “Santos will help me deal with that.”

I glance at my cousin, who is glaring daggers at his monitor.

“Business is going well,” Anatoliy says. “Revenue has been better than expected.”

“True.” Esteban nods. “Let’s say our market is strong.”