Page 60 of Bad Blood
Hopefully, by then, I’ll have some.
A shrill ring fills the quiet room, causing Lola to stir.
“Shit,” I mutter, reaching for my phone again. Silencing the ringer, I catch a glimpse of the coded number flashing on the screen.
It’s another hand-held warning flare. His twentieth today...
I should answer it.
Instead, I slide it back into my pocket.There will be repercussions for ignoring Valentin Carrera, but I’m in no mood to deal with my father right now. He’s another who’ll want answers I can’t give.
Leaving Lola to sleep, I make my way downstairs to the Platinum Bar where RJ is waiting for me. There’s a glass of whiskey in hand and judgment scrawled across his face.
“Don’t start,” I warn, unbuttoning my jacket before collapsing into one of the oversized chairs across from him.
“Wasn’t planning on it.” Raising his palm in peace, he nods toward another drink placed on the table between us.
I can’t pick it up fast enough.Añejotequila. Straight and strong. I’ll need more than one after today.
“What has our Italian guest down below been up to?” I ask.
“Shitting his pants, mostly.”
I laugh for the first time in what seems like forever.What a dickless fuck. Not that I expected much more out of a man like Marco Bardi. “So, am I to assume he’s sung like the piece of shit canary he is?”
“Not exactly,” he grumbles. “He keeps yapping about irrelevant stuff nobody gives a fuck about.” The rest of his sentence is drowned in fifteen-year-old Glenfiddich Special Reserve.
Damn it. I assumed thatidiotawould have broken by now.
“Do we have the tape?”
He nods. “Original, plus seven copies and a plate of lasagna.” At my raised eyebrow, he adds, “Abuela Bardi was more than cooperative to help her little ‘patatino’… And insisted on thanking us with frozen casseroles.”
I chuckle at the nickname. Herlittle potatohas become a huge liability.
“Muy bien…” I say, lifting my glass in honor of a job well done.
RJ frowns, hesitation playing across his face as he pulls his cell from his pocket. A long pause extends between us as he stares down at it.
“Spit it out, RJ. I’m too tired for mind games.”
“I watched it,” he says slowly.
“So?”
“I think you should, too.”
I shake my head. “Hard pass. Not into homemade porn, thanks.”
“I’m serious.” He lowers his gaze to his phone, his heavy tone dragging mine along for the ride. “You need to see this.”
My gut churns as I lean forward and take it. The video is already queued up. I know it’s the sister on that tape, not Thalia, but something inside me is warning me not to look.
Autodefensa mental.
Ignoring it, I press play, and quickly see what RJ’s so twisted up about.
There’s a naked girl passed out on a bed. Not just any girl—one with the same heart-shaped face as Thalia’s and the same luscious black hair spilling all around her face like a dark promise.
