Page 174 of Morally Corrupt

BIANCA

I'm holding tightly onto Adrian's arm, trying to prevent him from doing anything stupid, especially when the other man is still holding a gun.

I understand his anguish, not because I feel it too, but because I'm aware of the consequences of Jimenez's death.

But do I have anyone else to blame but myself?

When Jimenez had taken me to this room, he'd been nothing but gracious and had started talking to me about his grand plans of taking over New York. He'd started by telling me how he'd managed to ingratiate himself with the Gallaghers. His father, Diego Jimenez, had been an extremely wealthy man in Colombia with tight ties to Escobar. The Gallaghers themselves had long been rooted in the crime scene in Boston.

Matthew Gallagher's father, in particular, had consolidated the foundation for their illegal fighting empire. At some point, though, he'd gotten into serious trouble with a Mexican cartel, who, coincidentally, was also an enemy of Diego's. And so, the Gallaghers had sought refuge with Diego Jimenez in Colombia. Jimenez himself had met Matthew as a child, and they'd become fast friends. And so, a close relationship born out of debt was born. Jimenez had been quick to take advantage of that when he'd wanted to spread his influence into Boston and the East Coast. Using the many connections he'd built at Princeton, he'd amassed a network ranging from the lowest intermediaries to the highest public functionaries.

The list Martin had so carefully guarded? It held less than a fraction of the people who owed Jimenez.

"The key to longevity in this life is to lead from the shadows." Jimenez had proudly related. "You were smart to check the photobooks, I'll give you that." At my small gasp, he'd chucked. "Oh, you think I didn't know? It's all the fault of that disappointment of a son of mine. He just couldn't keep his mouth shut. Because of his carelessness, we had to speed up all of our plans, including getting rid of the Agostis."

"Why didn't you get rid of the photobooks, if you're so smart?" I'd asked sassily.

"I'll take that asmy onemistake. After becoming Andrew Gallagher, it seemed redundant. The Jimenez name was only used to inspire fear. No one actuallyknewwho I was." It seemed off that as proud a man as Jimenez would admit to a mistake. But I'd soon found that not only was he intelligent and cunning, but he was also self-reflective.

Maybe that's why his brand of cruelty was so potent; it was borne out of a distinctly analytical mind. With no one to recognize him, he'd been able to slowly consolidate his empire and annex any adjacent smaller powers. He'd been playing games with everyone, but he'd been the only one aware of the rules.

While he'd not told me the exact reason why he'd assumed the identity of Andrew Gallagher, he'd revealed enough that I realized that the Gallaghers had soon found themselves under his rule. The possibilities had been endless, mostly as Jimenez was slowly but effectively gearing up to take over New York. He'd only had one obstacle—the Italians.

The five families weren't what they'd once been, he'd happily recounted. They'd split the territory amongst themselves, and more often than not, they were at each other's throats, taking every opportunity to wage war amongst themselves. Jimenez had just played on their own weaknesses by sowing a little bit of dissent here, a little there.

Soon, the families found themselves isolated and looking at the outside for support.

It had all been very carefully planned. A character study had given Jimenez the necessary target, banking on Enzo Agosti's desire for monopoly and exploiting his excessive pride.

"Enzo is… wasan architect, just like me. When you encounter your likeness in every way… Well, it's easy to target the weak spots," Jimenez had said, implying that Enzo was probably dead by now.

"And with the Agostis out of the way, a large part of New York is already mine." He'd smiled at the prospect.

So engrossed in his storytelling I'd been that I hadn't even given one thought to accepting a drink from him. Not when my mouth was sore and dry, my tongue still suffering the aftermath of my not-so-bright plan.

And this is how I find myself now, looking at a long, drawn-out death, thanks to the same trickery I'd been admiring only hours prior.

Adrian tries to shove my hand away and head for Jimenez's killer, but I apply all of my force to keep him rooted to the spot.

"Why?" A painful cry slips from his lips.

But then the assailant shocks everyone when he looks at Marcel and adds an ironic, "Sorry,fratello."

* * *

Both Adrian and I are now staring at Marcel open mouthed.

"Marcel?" Adrian croaks, and a prickling feeling tells me this night of revelations is yet to be over.I sneak a glance at Adrian and see his face morph into a myriad of emotions.

The man looks at our shocked expressions and laughs.

"You did good, Marcello. Better than even I could have done it," he drawls. Marcel just looks at him as if he's seen a ghost.

"Who are you?" I ask, and he gives a sarcastic laugh.

"Valentino Lastra. At your service." He does a mock of a curtsy with his cane. "Marcello's brother."

Valentino looks to be in his mid-forties, thin and barely holding himself upright, needing a cane to keep straight.

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