Page 50 of Redeemed
On my way home. I’ll text you when I get closer.
I send David a separate text.
Bringing someone who might want to join the pack.
Because yeah, the only way out of this mess is through.
Chapter Nineteen
David
DASH FUCKING DOLIVO. What kind of name is that? Seriously. He’s classic phouka: dark curls, green eyes, and a cleft chin. His half-smile isn’t too far from a dog’s sloppy grin. He must be Betancourt’s…what? Court jester?
“Explain.” Connor’s one-word command makes me twitch in my seat. He’s got his game face on, the one he must have worn as an Elite, a side of him I’ve only seen once or twice.
Dolivo squirms, too. “Mr. Betancourt has been getting deliveries of all kinds of stuff. Black magic stuff.”
“Any idea what he’s going to do with it?”
Dolivo opens his mouth, pauses to chew on his lower lip, then brightens. “I—”
“He doesn’t know.” The dark-haired woman makes a slicing motion with her hand. “I’ve questioned him at length. It’s enough to know that Jacques Betancourt has the Princess Tatiana and is planning something diabolical.”
“Diabolical?” Connor’s tone is measured, and I cover my mouth to hide the laugh that I can’t stifle. Melodrama much?
The woman—we haven’t been introduced but Connor clearly knows who she is—reeks of power and her attitude toward Dash Dolivo is one of tolerance. I think about introducing myself, but Connor’s still looking fierce, so I decide anonymity is better.
“Have either of you heard of Clapton Industries?” Connor poses the question to the new arrivals, but it’s Accalia who responds first.
“They deal in magical materials.” She takes out her phone and swipes the screen. “The Were Authority has been monitoring them because there have been reports that some of their shipments are less than legal.”
Dash nods, as if he’s heard that before. “I bet half of the boxes that have been delivered to Mr. Betancourt’s house have Clapton Industries on their mailing labels.”
“Wait, you know where Betancourt is hiding?” I pipe up, even though this is really Connor’s territory.
“He’s not hiding.” Dash gives me his happy puppy smile. “We had an accident at his other house, so we’re—”
“In the house in the hills over Santa Monica?” Connor asks.
The puppy grin slips. “Well, yeah, but no one’s supposed to know that.”
I catch Lydia’s eye. The angle of her brow says she and Accalia are ready to move along, and I can’t blame them. Still, Connor’s in detective mode so I try not to fidget. If he can get something meaningful out of the phouka, it’ll help Trajan.
Hell, if Connor gets something meaningful out of this flake, I’ll never call him Pookie again.
Maybe.
“But that’s not where he’s keeping the Princess, is it.” The pitch of Connor’s voice drops. He’s made a statement, not asked a question.
The woman who brought Dash to us tenses, her glare so hot I wonder how Connor doesn’t wilt. The phouka doesn’t say anything, even when she pokes him.
“He won’t tell me,” she snaps.
“I can’t.” It’s Dash’s voice, but the words are forced between clenched teeth.
The woman gives a disgusted huff and points at Connor. “Find her or I’m going to make you regret it.”
Connor slides back in his seat, his hands spread on the tabletop. “Of course,onóir amháin.I live to serve.”
