Page 69 of Savage Saint

I pick up the paper and unfold it; one glance at the handwriting and my brows pull together. It’s fucking horrible. Letters tilt in different directions, some stretched too large while others crash into each other. Nothing follows the line on the page, one word stopping toward the edge while another begins almost beneath it but is cut in half. Still, I make out each:

Montalvo.

Montalvo,

Ferrero.

Montalvo.

Ferrero.

Montalvo.

Over and over. Sloppy, and often the letters cross over each other, but it’s always the same two names, no deviation.

“Henry wrote this?” I ask.

Rizos nods, his finger drumming on the table. “Thiago and Ivan left him paper and a pen. Told him to confess his sins.”

The threat beneath the act is clear, but a man knocking on death’s door wouldn’t usually care either way. Why would he spend his final hours repeatedly writing two names? One of them is asking questions, sticking his nose in areas that I don’t like.

I lower into my chair and place the note flat in front of me. “Ferrero is the commandante behind Safe Independence?”

“Yeah,” Trojan answers. “That azaroso’s running for a political appointment this year.”

“And Montalvo?”

Trojan points to the folder. “Open it.”

Enrique Montalvo’s face fills the first page, along with enough registered companies beneath his name to make my eyes narrow. Real Estate. Hotels. Imports and exports. A few private investment groups that work as a conglomerate, many of these spread across the island from the capital city to Punta Cana and San Francisco de Macorís.

Puerto Plata, though, seems like his next interest.

“The Montalvos have money. A stupid amount. Emilio says his father’s always looking for new investments, but I’m getting tired of every conversation turning into twenty questions about Puerto Plata and not one about us.”

“He’s got a hand in everything, but something tells me it isn’t all legal.”

“And you’re right.” Trojan shifts in his chair, tapping on his laptop before turning the screen toward me. On it, he’s compiled a list of possible criminal connections, and the name Volkov appears twice. Once, during the aftermath of a hurricane that damaged the coast, Montalvo bought a large amount of property then, and his investor is listed only as Volkov. The problem is, we don’t know which. Uncle or rogue nephew, not that either should have any business on the island. “Publicly, he’s clean. A respected and generous donor who likes getting photographed shaking hands with anyone who matters…mierda like that.”

Nodding, I look down at the file in hand and flip another page.

Three photos. Different events. Same two men titled beneath each.

One is at a fundraiser, another is standing beside each other at some charity event, but the last looks private. Both men are holding glasses while a handful of people mingle around them, slimy grins on their faces.

Enrique Montalvo and Commandante Ferrero.

“Very friendly.” Kaos looks at the picture, and I move the page closer. His gaze is knowing, and he points at the woman standing just to Ferrero’s left, one hand curled around his arm. “I’ve seen her before.”

“Where?” I ask.

He squints for a beat, then meets my eyes. “One of those midday bochinche shows Mami watches. She was all over a few episodes months back, some high-end cuero that spends her time with a certain group of married, successful men. She’s well known in that type of show.”

Trojan turns his laptop back toward himself then. “Give me a second.”

Kaos shifts in his chair, tries to lean in, but stops with a grimace. A few expletives leave him, and I almost smile. “Every person she was seeing was either a judge, politician, or businessman. Men whose names open doors.”

“Or close mouths,” Rizos adds.