Page 13 of Victorious Vice

I’ll study the documents the rest of the night if I have to.

“Puzo’s dead,” I blurt out.

Agudelo nods. “Yes. I’ve heard. I know why you’re here, Vincent. I know what your grandfather wants.”

He referred to Mario as my grandfather. Not my father. Probably a good thing.

“What exactly is your understanding of my…grandfather’s wishes?”

Agudelo cocks his head. “It would appear he did not make you aware of the reason you were sent here.”

“What areyouaware of, Señor Agudelo?” I ask.

“I believe I said we’ll talk over lunch.”

With a polite nod, he turns to leave, his guards following. As I watch him go, a shiver runs down my spine. The man exudes power. I must tread carefully.

Morehouse—the man who greeted us at the door—appears from the side door. He guides us through a maze of hallways and stairs to reach our respective rooms.

My room is huge. The ceiling is lined with gold and the furniture is antique and polished. It screams opulence and wealth, way more so than Mario’s or Declan McAllister’s mansions.

I settle into the plush bed, pulling out my iPad to continue piecing together the puzzle that brought me here. I scroll through the reports on Puzo and Agudelo. The documents reveal a surge of unknown transactions between all parties involved, each structured meticulously to keep their tracks hidden. But nothing remains hidden forever.

The puzzle references meetings, deals, exchanged courtesies, all so vague, yet hinting at a web woven deeper than I originally anticipated. As I delve deeper into the documents, another picture of the old woman pops up—this time in Agudelo’s account summary.

What the hell?

I focus back on the documents when a strange shuffling sound scrapes above me. I look up at the ceiling. Again, I hear the noise.

Then a tap. And another. Another still.

I stare at the light fixtures, waiting for them to flicker or something. Surely this mansion isn’t haunted. But itisold. Probably just the house settling.

More taps. Slower this time.

Shuffling. And more taps.

I stare upward.

When the sound doesn’t come again, I turn back to my work.

The hours blend into one another as I dissect each transaction.

I’m pulled out of my research as dawn breaks. A sliver of sunlight streams through the heavy velvet curtains. I stretch my stiff muscles and rub my weary eyes.

The information begins to coalesce into a clearer picture. A conspiracy of deep-rooted corruption. A sinister framework of greed and power.

But that’s not why I’m here.

Sure, Mario wants what Puzo was after.

That’s the official party line—the reason Agudelo believes I am here. To negotiate an agreement for the territory and money that Mario wants.

I’m well prepared for the task.

But as I continue to read what Mario has given me, I realize there’s a different purpose for my presence—one that Mario, at his advanced age, could not handle himself.

I cock my head at a soft knock on the door. It’s Morehouse again, bringing me a tray of breakfast—cornmeal cake, scrambled eggs with tomatoes and green onions, guavas, and black coffee.

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