Page 44 of Brando

I’ve spent my life focused on protecting my brothers, and I’d die for them if it came to that. But when Allegra came into the picture—when I took her against her will—it shifted everything. That was when I first felt the weight of emotion creeping in. I started to care. I started to feel. It wasn’t just about the cold, calculated moves anymore. The world, for the first time, was in color instead of black and white. And then Scarlett came along, and I was lost. I fell so hard, so fast, that now, love feels like both my greatest strength and my greatest weakness.

So when I watched Brando and Mia together on that terrace, before a single word passed between them, I already knew. Brando was gone. He was so far gone in love with her that there was no pulling him back. And Mia—Mia—she made the sacrifice. She chose to walk away from him to protect her sisters, even though that decision could very well destroy my brother.

We don’t have to like it. We don’t have to agree with it. But wedohave to respect it. And while we’re at it, we have to do everything in our power to help Mia get her sisters back. That’s why I’m here today, sitting across from Javier, negotiating a deal that will ensure we get all three girls back with minimal damage to Brando’s heart. Because there is no world in which Brando could exist without Mia.

It’s not going to be easy, but nothing worth fighting for ever is.

Javier Merchado is trying to flex his muscles and flash his weight, even though he has none in these parts. Someone forgot to pass him the memo that he’s no-one. He’s nothing. And I will easily take my gun, put it to his head, and blow his brains out if he doesn’t give me what I need. Any man willing to deal in the skin trade, willing to take innocent girls and sell them for financial gain, no matter the reason, debt or no debt, needs to be put down like the dog he is.

We’re not prepared for another war, but we’ll gladly enter one if it means we can save my brother Brando. He’s my main focus right now. I’ve seen Brando at his best. And I’ve seen him at his worst. I can’t say I like him very much when he’s at his worst, because that Brando is a killing beast. He’s destructive and he’s lethal, and he’s hard to control. I can see that’s exactly where he’s headed right now, and that’s not such a good thing; if I let the reigns go just a little, he’s going to shit all over my plans for the Maltese.

For this meeting, I’ve refused to entertain the other two representatives Brando dealt with previously. I don’t need to be dealing with little boys right now. I just want to get in, say my piece, then leave before the stench of the Maltese lingers long enough on my coat that even laundering the damn thing won’t rid me of their filth.

“Let’s cut to the chase, shall we?” My voice is edged with frustration. “You know why we’re here. Tommy Corsica’s dead, and now you have plans for the daughters he left behind.”

Mason Ironside, sitting beside Brando to my right, emits a low growl. I see Brando out of my periphery as he flexes an arm across the table, holding the man back.

Javier leans back in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin. I’m somewhat insulted that he’s so calm in my presence; most men quake in their boots when I’m in the room. “First, let’s clear the air about Tommy’s death,” he starts. “We didn’t kill Tommy Corsica. Why would we waste a debt we need to collect on?”

“Word on the street says otherwise. You’re the only one who had a beef with him,” Mason pipes up, before I shoot him a warning glare.

“Word on the street is a dangerous thing,” Javier replies smoothly, his tone calm. “Notice how it spreads faster than truth. But I’ll tell you this: we didn’t put a bullet in Tommy’shead. We had no reason to. His death was bad for business, and we’re not in the habit of killing our debts.”

Mason scoffs, disbelief etched on his face.

“If you didn’t kill him, who did?” I ask, knowing full well the Maltese have no reason to lie about it. Tommy Corsica was a gun for hire; a kill like that could make a man’s reputation.

“What if I told you that even before Tommy’s death, we were approached with a proposition by someone who had a plan to take the girls and sell them?”

I try to mask my surprise, but my eyebrows shoot up involuntarily. Brando shifts uncomfortably in his seat as Mason moves forward in his, all ears. “Who?”

“Frank Falcone.”

“Falcone? How did he get involved in this?” I ask him. Certain things are starting to make sense. On their own, every little thing that has happened means nothing, but put the pieces together, and we start to get a picture of what actually happened with Tommy Corsica and what brought us here today.

“He offered to bring us the girls to send to auction. We turned him down; you don’t mess with the likes of Tommy Corsica, especially not when it comes to his daughters.”

“And yet, he owed you a debt.”

Javier Merchado shakes his head and looks away thoughtfully, before he leans forward, folding his hands against each other. He sighs before he speaks again, and for the first time, I catch a glimpse of humanity in him. There’s guilt, pure unadulterated guilt.

“The whole thing was a misunderstanding. Tommy was one of our best hires.”

“Too late to tell him that, now,” Mason snipes back, bitterly. I shoot him another warning glare. Merchado ignores the barb and turns back to the table.

“He took a hefty contract and didn’t go through with it. Gave the money to the hit and made them disappear. That’s why he owed us that money. The client wanted their money back.”

I look around every man at the table, my mind running at a mile a minute. This visit to the Maltese was supposed to get us the answers we wanted to Falcone’s whereabouts, yet it was raising more questions than it was answering.

“Who was the hit?” I ask. I suddenly need to know what sort of a hit Tommy Corsica would have passed up.

Merchado sighs heavily, exhaling the breath that he’d been holding. “I have to tell you; I had no idea it was a kid. Or we never would have taken the damn contract.”

“Or – your greed got the better of you,” I snap. “Who was the hit?” I ask again.

“Cameron Sawyer. 12-year-old girl. Stepmother wanted her out of the way the minute she realized the husband was terminal and would leave everything to his daughter.”

There’s a collective silence in the room as we all sit back in our seats and come to the same conclusion. Tommy Corsica, by no means a man of morals, drew the line at killing children. He wasn’t a thief, like he’d been painted. He was a cold-blooded killer, but even he had rules.

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