Page 90 of Mob Saint

“Diazes. He at least knows some of his limitations. He hasn’t mentioned Enrique, but he wants Alejandro. He thinks he’s senior enough to make a good impression on the brass but not so high that he can’t reach.”

“The Kutsenkos might be trained psychopaths, but the Diazes are by birth.”

“You know that. I know that. Every cop in the city knows that except my dipshit trainee.”

Enrique, the jefe, grew up in Colombia with time spent in America, getting an expensive education. Since Enrique has no kids, his nephew through his brother, Pablo, is the heir presumptive, just like Dillan was in my family. Pablo grew up in New Jersey, so he had as normal an upbringing as I did—it’s all relative. He’s their head enforcer. His soul is dead.

His cousins—fucking hell. Tres J’s—Javier, Joaquin, and Jorge—didn’t come to America until they were teenagers. They basically grew up like an undomesticated pack of mongrels on the streets of Bogota. They had more money than they knew what to do with, but no rules or consequences.

They are the quintessential poor little rich kids because Enrique’s sister—their mom—couldn’t keep up once her husband died in a deal gone as wrong as it could. She eventually gave up trying to tame them while keeping herself alive and unmarried. They came to America to give the boys a chance to learn how to be cartel leaders rather than learning on the streets with guns to their heads. Now they hold the guns.

But Alejandro. Double fucking hell. He grew up in Queens, but he’s spent his adult life going back and forth to Bogota. He deals with Enrique’s uncle who’s still the jefe down there. No one’s proven it, but the guy committed—commissioned—fratricide. He had Enrique’s dad killed, so he could assume control. Enrique’s never forgiven the guy, so he made his tío his bitch.

Alejandro makes sure everyone in Latin America knows Enrique is the jefe de jefes. Boss of bosses. We might run the Irish along the Eastern Seaboard and may be the oldest crime organization in America. The Italians might have dominated for generations before mine came along to knock them off their pedestal. And the bratva might be the newest syndicate and armed with paramilitary tactics. But Enrique Diaz runs a continent and a half. No one in Central America or South America wakes up each morning without thanking God that Enrique hasn’t looked in their direction.

Alejandro is their chief strategist. He’s their version of Dillan. He doesn’t want to be jefe. He doesn’t aspire to replace his cousin. He’s happy to be the one to represent his uncle and remind pretty much everyone south of the US-Mexico border they live because he allows it. Enrique’s given him carte blanche to take out anyone he doesn’t like. He doesn’t like anyone. The man drinks the blood of his enemies.

Thompson’s going to run to us for protection.

I shrug my shoulders nonchalantly. “Thompson’s going to learn fast what happens when he goes near Alejandro. I recommend you give him some space, or you’ll wind up skinned alive too.” I’m not exaggerating.

“I’m four fucking years from my pension. If that shitbag gets me killed…” Ron’s expression hardens as he looks toward Thompson, who’s chatting with some other young cops.

“Do what you have to, or we will.”

Ron nods. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s trained a rookie for real. Most catch on. A few don’t and meet untimely on-the-job deaths. We’ll take care of it for our own sake, but we’ll let Enrique know they owe us a favor.

“Does Thompson have connections anywhere else?”

“You mean other precincts?”

“In general.”

“Not that I know of. Just his uncle.”

“Okay.”

Along with Tiera’s phone, I’m going to ask Sean to look into Thompson. Finn could do it, but if anything comes up, I want Sean to follow it to Earth’s core if he has to. I want to know everything from his first cavity to the last time he shat.

Maybe I’m seeing shadows where there are none. But what if he’s connected to someone in Trenton or knows someone who knows about Tiera? How can I not look into him?

Mitchell and I walk out to the town car waiting for us. My driver, Joey, grins at Mitchell.

“Fucking Slick Rick in the skin. Have a pleasant stay?”

Mitchell flicks off his best friend before laughing. He gets in the town car on his side while I slide in on mine. I just need to drop him off.

The door’s barely closed before Joey drops the privacy glass. He glances at Mitchell in the rearview mirror before he meets my gaze for an instant as he pulls away from the curb.

“Shay, are you involved with a woman named Tiernan?”

“Why?”

“I heard two cops say your name and hers as they walked by. I didn’t catch everything, but one of them said something about a friend in the Trenton Fire Department who knows her. It sounded like there’s a warrant for her. Apparently, she was involved in some cover up while she was a fire inspector. The guy who was listening mentioned you and that he didn’t want to be the one arresting her.”

“Anything else?”

“No. They kept walking, so I couldn’t hear anything. If they wouldn’t have seen my reflection in the door, I would have followed them. But I know they saw me in the car when they walked past. They’d have noticed if I got out.”

---