Page 13 of Tide of Treason
Vito sipped his wine. “Ten minutes.”
“Ten?” Francesco said, “I give it three.”
Sure enough, that uncomfortable tension was about to twist its way out of the inevitable. We made it through soup and salad before the head of the Brazilian Cartel opened his mouth, and there went the rest of my appetite.
“Did I tell you about the last time I had to execute someone, Lucius? Public executions . . . marvellous for morale, you see. No one steps out of line when they know whathappens next.” He leaned back, folding his tattooed fingers over a gold-buttoned waistcoat. “I had this little bitch, just like you, who thought he could cross me. So I taught him the error of his ways—fingers off, one by one. Then, once the screaming stopped, I slit his throat and left him hanging from Christ the Redeemer for a week. Didn’t take the vultures long.”
Twenty pairs of eyes suddenly found their drinks fascinating.
“Effective.”
Lucius’s calm was ice under fire. It also made me realise exactly why Papà had placed the two of them next to each other. Entertainment. My thoughts must’ve been obvious, because Papà glanced sideways at me and muttered, “Family dinner’s are pointless if the entertainment is dull.”
The words almost made me laugh. I shook my head. The servant had lingered a little too long beside the door, his expression tense. I gave him a pointed look and gestured for him to refill my glass. The boy moved with all the grace of a ghost. He was practically invisible, except for, of course, when I grabbed his unsteady wrist before he could pour an ocean of wine into my lap.
“How old are you?” I asked, voice low.
He stammered, “Sixteen.”
“Where are you from?”
“Brasil,” he whispered.
“You got family there?”
A shy nod.
“And your name?”
“J-Jair.”
I nodded, released his wrist, and thanked him for his efforts. He gave Lucius an awkward, lingering look before retreating.
Sergius shifted and rested his elbow on the chair, teeth clicked around a silver toothpick. I watched him blatantly stare at my cleavage without any shame until another servant arrived to replace the main course with shrimp flambé. Eyes still locked onto mine, he licked the toothpick clean, gaze sparking.
I sighed.
There was no point being surprised by his stories. They matched everything I’d heard about the Brazilian Cartel. Founded by slavers and murderers, they’d been forced out of Europe centuries ago with a bounty on their heads the size of a small country’s GDP. And from the looks of things, they hadn’t exactly gone soft in the interim.
“Ever witnessed a good, old-fashioned beheading, Kayla?”
Lucius stiffened.
“Can’t say that I have.” I didn’t add this was because women were not welcome at such events.
A low hum rolled from Braga. “Shame. If you ever want to check it off your bucket list, drop me a line. I’ll save you a seat so close, you’ll need a poncho.”
How . . . thoughtful.
The doves had melted into pathetic puddles now.
I tapped a manicured nail against the stem of my glass and focused on not rolling my eyes. I wasn’t nearly drunkenough for this circus act. Why I’d agreed to this dinner was beyond me. My sister was acceptable collateral, I supposed, and the Brazilian’s controlled three-quarters of the slave trade. A necessary evil if we wanted to stay on top, though even my half-rusted moral compass twitched at that particular business.
It was a blood trade. Women. Children. Locked crates and untraceable ports. We didn’t dress it up, we just stopped looking it in the eye. The Italians played savior in silk and leather, raising our glasses while the Brazilians did the dirty work. And if you asked the right cousin at the wrong hour, they’d call it practical.
The stem of my glass pressed into the pad of my finger until the ache turned sharp.
Empires were built on sacrifice.
