But it wasn't my life that was in danger. It was his.
Miguel was going to die. Miguel
Death.
I'd been around death my entire life, privy to lost innocence. My father had made certain that I understood that death was our friend, a necessity in keeping the peace. I'd learned all about required brutality, understood the various killing methods. All used.
All perfected.
An old English saying had been instilled in me since I'd been a little boy. Death has no calendar. Perhaps I'd never fully understood the meaning until now. Then again, I'd always been the impetuous boy, the fast and furious teenager, and the reckless young man.
And now?
Maybe I was simply too cautious, my inability to seek wrath at any cost a determining factor in the attempt at taking over the Garcia operations. My father would certainly agree. Maybe my sweet mother, a righteous and kind soul, had instilled a sense of fairness. I took another sip of coffee, the taste much more bitter than normal.
I'd never considered myself a cruel man, including the use of excessive force with regard to my enemies. Since seeing the heinous acts performed by the Rivera cartel, I realized I'd been right.
Maybe it was time to alter my methods. I half tossed the mug onto my desk, shoving my hands into my pockets, disgusted with my cavalier attitude.
I'd been a fool to leave the wretched pictures in a position where Valencia could possibly find them. She'd recognized several of the locations within seconds, her initial subdued reaction more out of shock than anything else.
Then she'd locked onto a single picture more than any of the others, finally breaking down into sobs. No amount of questioning had been able to break through. While she'd tossed the group of photographs in my face only seconds before locking herself in her room, I'd been able to figure out the single picture that had taken the utmost toll.
I stood at the window in my office, glaring out at the quiet seas, wondering how Aleksei had managed to get his hands on the information. From what I could tell, the photographs weren't from law enforcement records, but handled more like art. If I was right in my assumptions, Santiago Rivera was a very sick man, his penchant for death unlike anything I'd experienced before. The pictures were merely trophies for his particular proclivities.
Slaughter.
My connections with the Coast Guard had confirmed the boat was a total loss, a million dollars' worth of product washed out at sea. Cordero's early phone call had indicated the rumor mill was saturated with utter bullshit on the streets. Sadly, that would only increase if I didn't make a direct hit sooner versus later.
And still no sign of Santiago or indication that he'd left the country. When I found the little prick, he was going to learn what it meant to cross a member of the Garcia family.
Hearing my phone made me snarl. I needed time to process and plan, the interruption fueling my impatience. I knew exactly who to expect on the other end. "I anticipated your call." I could hear my father's raspy breathing and sighed.
"I just bet you did. Another shipment ruined?" my father snarled, cursing under his breath. "What the fuck is going on? Is this Rivera's doing?"
"I'm still uncertain."
"Then what the hell do you know? We can't have this crap going on, Miguel. You know that better... than... I..." He was forced to stop, wheezing and coughing violently.
Goddamn it. The last thing my father needed was for his blood pressure to rise. My suspicions regarding his health were on the uptick. He was a proud man, refusing to let anyone else see his weakness. While he was also a fighter, I realized his years of heavy smoking had taken a significant toll.
I shifted away from the window, peering down at the photograph. The quality was outstanding, capturing every detail and nuance of the kill. Whoever the young man had been, it appeared he knew his assailant. Either that or he'd been with someone else prior to his murder. The items placed on the table in the background indicated either a meeting or something more intimate for two.
"What I know is that caution is in order and that Rivera is a sick fuck. We need to use prudence in order to determine the best course of action." My words sounded far too practiced and similar to what I'd said at his house only days before.
"Goddamn it, Miguel. This shit is getting out of hand." When my father hesitated, I was prepared for whatever bad news he'd avoided. "However, I have something that might prove useful."
"Which is?" From what I could tell, the young man in the photograph couldn't be more than in his early twenties. While several of the victims depicted had their faces blown off, the brutality used on the poor sucker's murder had been particularly gruesome.
But his face had remained unscarred.
A message being sent.
"I suggest you come by the house this morning."
There was no sense in arguing. "Fine. I'll be there in an hour." My agenda was full, quieting the rumors in an effort to keep my ranks free of defection. I was no fool. Whoever was attempting to muscle in on my regime knew the best way to do that was unravel from the bottom up. Killing top members of my organization, or anyone in my family for that matter, would only prove to drive loyalty in my direction. If my laborers believed I was incompetent, they would be easily swayed to work for another organization.
Another wave of rage shot through my system like a jolt of electricity. I slammed my fist against my desk, savoring the slice of pain.
"Such an angry man."
The sound of Valencia's voice was far more soothing than I could have imagined, even if her tone was filled with disdain. I eased the photograph into my pocket as I studied her face, her swollen eyes keeping my anger full blown.
She watched my actions, biting her lower lip and maintaining her distance. I could tell she blamed me for forcing a devastating realization about her father. At least she was up and dressed, the attire obviously provided by Sylvie.
"I've come to tell you that I'm leaving now with one of your armed guards. Just as commanded. Sir." Valencia's words were succinct, laced with acid.
"Sylvie," I said matter-of-factly.
"Yes. Is she your girlfriend? I must say, rougher around the edges than I would have imagined you being with. Should be an interesting day."
"I suggest you lay off the insults. Not only is Sylvie highly trained and skilled in areas of marksmanship and martial arts, but she takes no shit from anyone. Especially from a mouthy brat." I moved around the desk, chastising myself for sparring with her. "And as I told you before, I don't have a girlfriend."
"A brat. Interesting choice given your actions as of late. By the way, I suggest you lay off the insults. I obviously have every reason to be mouthy. It's not every day you're forced to accept just how disgusting your entire life is." She walked a few inches closer, her body language completely shut down. "Just so I know, were you planning on springing those pictures on me over a bottle of champagne?"
I knew her method of dealing with pain and frustration well. I'd perfected the model over the years. I walked closer, fighting my natural dominating urges when she took a giant step backward, and lowered my voice. "I meant what I said last night. I never wanted you to see those photographs."