Page 27 of Bad Blood
I don’t offer her an answer as I turn my back and fight my way through the rush of patrons still pushing and trampling each other toward the exit.
First, I’ll deal with the destruction and carnage she caused.
Then I’ll return and create my own.
As more of my men flood the casino floor, the ambush settles to a dull roar. I fire a couple more shots, sending two more motherfuckers six feet under.
With the main floor less congested, I survey the damage.
My casino is a mess, but the only bodies littering the floor are swathed in black and cloaked in ski masks. It makes no sense. Why barge in guns blazing, only to miss every goddamn target?
It’s almost as if this wasn’t intended to be a mass murder as much as…
I stop cold.
A suicide mission.
The gun sits like concrete in my hand as I stalk forward, past a row of silent slot machines. As I turn the corner into one of the private poker rooms, every muscle in my body coils in hatred. Every drop of blood boils for revenge. And every instinct I had from the moment I laid eyes on that surveillance footage roars with vindication.
Because that’s when I see it… A declaration of war, perfectly drawn graffiti on the back wall by a hailstorm of bullets, its tail curled up like an exclamation point.
The Santiago Scorpion.
Thalia.
Icy numbness overtakes me as I turn slowly, her name a rhythmic chant in my head.
Thalia. Thalia. Thalia.
My mind is a spinning funnel of revenge as I make my way back through the now quiet casino. It isn’t until a hand grabs my shoulder that the funnel touches down, leveling everything in its path.
“Boss.”
The deep, accented voice is familiar, but I’m too far gone to discern an ally from an enemy.
“Santi,” he tries again, stepping in front of me.
The black haze clears, and I blink him back into focus.
RJ.
“Call a clean-up crew,” I instruct, shoving him out of my way. “Get those dead Colombians out of my casino.”
“Santi.”
“And call Chief Rinaldi at the Atlantic City PD. If thatcabrónknows what’s good for him, he’ll make sure there’s no trace of a report.”
“Santiago!” he shouts.
“What?” I snap, finally turning back to face him.
“It’s Lola…”
For the second time in less than ten minutes, I stop cold. Suddenly, it’s no longer Thalia’s name drumming a furious beat inside my head.
Lola.
I’ve been so consumed by the daughter and the attack, I pushed everything else to the side—including the whereabouts and safety of my own family.
