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He wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Nah. But there’s definitely something different.”
“Eat your food,” I muttered.
He raised an eyebrow, the slightest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He knew Belle was with me, so I knew exactly what he was implying.
The meeting with Jean-Pierre was at his compound on the other side of his island. Yomi drove as I went over the numbers he’d put together. Jean-Pierre Etienne ran a pipeline from Miami up to New York and most of the Southeast US. His operation had been running efficiently for over a decade—no federal indictments, no major enemies, no mess.
The compound was gated with armed guards posted in a guardhouse out front. The property itself was a hacienda-style mansion that sat on a hill overlooking the beach.
Yomi gave the guard our information and after a quick check, the wrought-iron gates slowly opened. After we parked, we were patted down by two armed men before we could enter the house.
Jean-Pierre was waiting for us on the veranda. He was a dark-skinned man in his mid-fifties. He had a solid build, though the slight pudge protruding from his white shirt let me know he enjoyed his food and drink. He shook my hand with a firm grip and an easy smile.
“Cardez. I’ve been looking forward to this.”
His assistant brought us fresh squeezed juice and fruit as we sat down.
Jean-Pierre was impressive. He walked us through the basics of his operation—sourcing, the distribution network, and his pricing undercut Castellano by about ten percent.
“I understand you and Victor Castellano have had some issues lately,” he said before eating a forkful of pineapple.
“Victor has a leak in his operation and refuses to take accountability.”
“Victor’s a racist piece of shit and doesn’t like a Black man making more money than him,” he said. “And you’re younger than him, set to take over your father’s empire? That shit makes his ass itch.”
“Sounds like a personal problem.”
“He makes enemies the way other men make small talk. It’s a habit that will bite him in the ass sooner than later.”
We agreed on a trial shipment to test the logistics and product quality. If it went smoothly, we’d scale up.
“I love it when shit goes smoothly,” Jean-Pierre said, shaking my hand. “Next time, bring your lady friend. I have a huge pool in the back. My wife loves entertaining.”
I wasn’t surprised that he knew Belle was with me. Jean-Pierre and I operated similarly—we made it our business to know everything about the people we were getting in bed with. I respected it, even if it put me slightly on edge.
Yomi and I were halfway back to the resort when my phone rang. It was Marco.
“Yo,” I said.
“Dez, we got a situation.” Marco’s voice sounded tight. “It’s the spot on Tremont.”
“What happened?”
“It’s gone.”
“Fuck you mean it’s gone?” I said, my chest getting tight.
“Somebody hit that shit last night—I don’t know how much they got because they burned it to the ground.”
I put the phone on speaker. “Say that again?”
“The house burned down, fam. Three alarm fire.”
“Shit,” Yomi muttered.
“The neighbors are saying it went up fast too. This wasn’t an accident.”
My jaw was clenched so tight, my head was starting to hurt. Burning down a stash house meant somebody was sending me a message.
