Page 4 of Reign of Psychos

What a shit friend I was.

The bar was busy, filled with students taking advantage of cheap alcohol and a few disreputable types clearly hoping to sell them drugs.

I pushed my way through a group of 20-something men and women, avoiding all eye contact, but they were too busy chatting to care about a grungy-looking girl in ripped jeans and a shapeless top.

It seemed like an odd place for Dario’s father to drink in, but I trusted his judgment. We weren’t in Sicily, so the likelihood of my father’s men being in the vicinity was low. That would change once I caught the ferry to Messina.

I made my way to the bar and ordered a sparkling water. No alcohol for me, which was a pity. I could have done with a drink to ease my nerves. While the whole point of being here was to find my father and Torrance, it didn’t stop me from being afraid of what would happen when I did.

I was many things, but an idiot wasn’t one of them. Fear was good. Fear ensured I didn’t take any unnecessary risks.

The barman passed me my drink and then moved on to serve the next customer. I scanned the crowd, but there was no sign of Fausto, so I moved to a quiet corner and waited. The minutes ticked by as loud music pumped from speakers. All around me, people talked, laughed, flirted, and enjoyed the remainder of their festive break.

Most people would be heading back to work tomorrow. Back to the grind of paid employment. Not me, however. My father had never paid me for the work I did. Unless meals and a roof over my head counted.

Another twenty minutes passed. I was on the verge of giving up when I saw a hunched figure enter via the side door, wearing a thick padded jacket and a wool hat. He stood out among the mostly youthful patrons of this bar.

When the man got closer, I recognized the angular planes of his face and square jaw. This was what Dario would look like in 30 years: still handsome, but a little worn around the edges.

“Thea,” Fausto murmured in a low voice when he reached me before pulling me in for a hug and kissing both cheeks. “You look well,cara.”

“As do you,” I lied, clocking the lines etched around his eyes and pallor of his skin.

“I will be once he’s dead,” Fausto gritted out as he slid into my corner booth, well away from the main seating area. Nobody took any notice of us as we sat huddled together, although I kept a watchful eye on both exits. I’d tucked the gun into my waistband, but unless things went south, I had no plans to use it.

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” Fausto apologized. He hadn’t bothered with a drink, so I assumed he wasn’t planning on staying for long. “I thought someone was following me, so I asked my driver to take a circuitous route.”

My gaze snapped away from the guys laughing a few feet away and focused on Fausto.

“Do you think my father is questioning your loyalty?” I hoped not, or we were both fucked. I needed Fausto to pin down Dad’s location. Without his intel, it would be like finding a needle in a haystack. Sicily was his base, but he rarely spent much time there.

“I’m not sure.” He scrubbed his jaw. “He’s been on edge since the attack on the estate and losing you girls has caused him significant problems with Marku.”

That made sense. Marku had paid up-front. If my father didn’t hand me over soon, Marku would want a refund.

“Dad could give Konstantin his money back. That would resolve the problem.” It wouldn’t heal his hurt pride, though. His men had fucked up and the whole escapade had made him look weak. Dad hated weakness of any sort.

“He doesn’t have the money. He’s in debt to the Cartel. The money went straight to them in part-payment.”

“In debt? Why?” Dad had no ties to the South American cartels that I was aware of. When had this changed?

“He made a deal with the Cantaloa Cartel to distribute cocaine. Only the cops busted the shipment before it could be sold on. He’s in deep shit, Thea.”

He certainly was. Santiago ‘Angel’ Cantaloa was ruthless. He’d kill my father in a heartbeat if he thought he was trying to cheat him out of money.Hmm. Maybe I wouldn’t need to do a thing. If the cartel’s hitmen were after Dad, they’d do my job for me.

“How likely is it Cantaloa will put a hit on Dad?”

“If he can’t repay his debt, very likely. Cantaloa is not to be messed with. I did warn him, but he ignored me. But it won’t happen yet. Cantaloa will give him a bit longer.”

“How much does he owe?”

Fausto sighed. “More than he has in liquid assets right now.”

“And he lost his beloved car collection, which he could have sold.” Some of those vehicles were worth a fortune.

“Yes, that is still a sore point.” I chuckled softly to myself. When I heard about the explosion, it had made my day. Nobody deserved to lose his toys more than my father.

Fausto’s serious expression soon wiped the smile off my face.

---