Page 106 of Their Princess

“Well, what the fuck is it?” I asked.

“Diamonds and other valuable gemstones. Illegally mined,” said Ward. “Some straight up stolen.”

I blew out a low breath. I bet Adelina would like a new shiny diamond. I cringed at myself for thinking that. She wasn’t my old lady. She was just a virgin with a masochistic streak. The last time I did a virgin, she got all clingy and shit, so I wasn’t tapping that cunt. Let the guys take their turns, and when she was used up, we could return her to Massimo.

“The shipment is heading from Colombia to New York.” Ward clicked through something on his computer and then jutted his chin toward the huge TV he’d had installed near the table.

Graff’s artwork that showed as a screensaver—a row of bikes near the Hollywood sign done in charcoal—disappeared, replaced by a map.

A little glowing red dot started moving from Colombia toward the Northeastern United States.

“It’s coming into North Carolina, then travelling overland.” The red dot followed Ward’s narration, stopping somewhere in the middle of the East Coast shoreline and moving inland, following some back roads north.

“The buyer is...” Ward clicked again on his computer. “Marco Vitale, owner of Vitale Gemma Imports.”

Rafe sat up straighter, awareness or concern drawing his brows together. “He’s the largest jewelry distributor in the United States, and... the Don of the New York City Italian Mafia.”

“Fucking great,” I mumbled under my breath.

More Mafia. Just what I needed in my life. Maybe they would give me another bride, and I would have a fucking harem.

Wilde moved closer to the table with his arms crossed over his chest. “So, this is what the Rojas brothers meant?”

Ward pursed his lips and nodded. “As far as I can tell, if we intercept this shipment, it’ll bring the Barranquilla Cartel to its knees financially. It’ll make them prime targets for El Tigre of the Medellín Cartel to take over.”

Prez swiped his hands over his skull cut. “Fuck! Helping Parisi get guns across the border to the Mexicans is one thing, but jumping between two Colombian cartels getting ready to go to war?” He sighed. “Fuck!”

Rafe stiffened, leaning back in his seat. “Again, we should just pay them the fuck off. Money’s not a goddamn issue. Would someone just tell me how much we fucking need?”

Wilde glared at him, his wheels turning. Like mine. I wanted to tell him we weren’t taking any Parisi loans, but I waited to see what the Prez would say.

“Sas,” Wilde barked, “how much?”

“Don’t have exacts, but nine zeros, min,” I answered, squirming in my chair.

“Beans, do you the specific amount?” Wilde didn’t take his eyes off Rafe, perhaps judging the man’s reaction.

“I’m still working on them, Prez.” He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “But one thing’s for sure. There’s not that much in all our accounts combined.”

“It’s stupid to not use what resources we have,” said Rafe, the ice in my voice aimed for my chest.

Wilde smacked both his hands down on the table. He swiveled his head to give me a zip-it look and then over to the other end of the table, apparently sending all sorts of shut-the-fuck-up to Rafe too.

Finally, he asked Ward, “Any news on the Medellín themselves?”

If there’s one thing I could say about Wilde, he always wanted intel before making decisions. I’d always been one to flyby the seat of my pants, and goddammit, I hated to admit that I might be in over my head here.

Ward tapped the spacebar on his computer and a satellite image popped up on the TV. “The security around the compound where El Tigre lives is tight. Top-notch. Only intel I got was that people who work for the cartel are pissed about the conditions.” Our hacker zoomed in on the image. “They’ve even managed to blur the satellite images I can find.”

By the time he stopped the zoom action, the picture just looked like a smudge of green across the screen.

“So we can’t raid the place to get them to call off their dogs,” I said.

The Warden tapped his trackpad again, and the image disappeared. “Not without a hell of a lot more digging.”

Rafe, staring at the table, said, “I could do it.”

Cook, who was acting like the tall dark—or gray—and stoic asshole, shook his head. “You’re not in special ops anymore, Rafe. No breaking into that compound. Especially alone.”

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