Page 81 of Corrupted Queen

I want to wave my hand at him, dismiss him with a few curt words and go straight to bed, but no doubt he would rightfully wonder what he’d done to elicit such callous treatment. He can’t know what I saw today, not until I push the truth out into the world, beyond his reach.

So I fold my features into sadness instead, resting a hand on his chest as I pass. “Can we talk later?” I ask quietly. “I just want to lie down for a bit.”

I can see the debate in his head. He wants to badger a response out of me. He asked a question, after all, and around here when Gabriel Belluci asks a question, you answer it. Plus, I can only imagine how furious he is with me for ignoring his calls.

But ultimately, the softer side of him wins out, the side that only Harry and I are privy to. He covers my hand with his and runs his other thumb down my cheek.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

I nod.

Gabriel releases me, and I head into the house. I hold onto my breath until I reach the top of the stairs and then release it in a gust, heading straight for Harry’s room. Jessica is negotiating his squirming limbs into some footie pajamas when I get there, and I take over so she can go home. Harry is a little less resistant with me than he was with the nanny, and soon he’s tucked into a layer of soft flannel. He yawns, ready for bed.

“Me too, little guy,” I say, bringing him over to the crib. “But I’ve got some work to do first.”

29

Gabriel

I hate Miguel Garcia’s face, and not for the same reason most people do. The scar doesn’t bother me. In fact, it’s his one redeeming feature. I hear he got the scar saving his brother from a machete attack.

No, it’s something about the way his smile claws up his cheeks that makes me loathe looking at him. Or maybe the way his golden eyes seem to see more than he lets on. His hair is always perfectly combed, his suit perfectly pressed. Everything about him cries out that he is a snake in the grass. He might as well rattle when he walks.

“The Cartel likes to keep a close eye on its interests,” Miguel tells me, in response to my complaint about him being here. “And the trade of purple heroin in New York City is slowly becoming the jewel in our crown. Soon we can expand the enterprise.” He peels his lips back again into that infuriating smile. “Expand the profits.”

The crane starts up behind us, swooping overhead to collect the first of the containers.

“Is the Cartel keeping an eye on its interests, or on me?” I ask, eyes narrowing.

Miguel shrugs. “They are one and the same, no? Perhaps you would not need so much supervision if you showed a little more enthusiasm for the project.”

A scowl tugs at the edges of my mouth. “This shit is killing people and you want enthusiasm? Not only is the whole operation ethically moribund, but it’s not sustainable.”

I don’t know why I expect Miguel to care. Ever since he first visited me in the hospital in the wake of Andrew Walsh’s death, he has consistently displayed an astonishing lack of morality.

He had been working with Walsh for years—the Cartel providing the silent support that allowed Andrew to beat us down after my father’s death—but Miguel didn’t shed a tear for his fallen comrade. In fact, he found the symmetry of the situation cosmically amusing. My father killed Andrew Walsh’s son. I killed Andrew Walsh. He joked that I should try not to continue my family’s legacy of killing Walshes, at least not until Patrick was no longer useful to us.

Miguel didn’t care that closing Belluci Inc.’s rehab centers sent a deluge of vulnerable people onto the streets. He called recovering addicts “our core clientele,” and pointed out that the more centers we could close, the more we could beef up our bottom line.

Predictably, he responds to my concerns now with the same indifference to humanity as always.

“This is not a market that’s easy to exhaust,” Miguel says, as if my worry is that we will simply run out of customers. “Besides, soon, we will expand. The boss is thinking of the West Coast. Los Angeles. Wouldn’t you like that, Gabriel? A chance to work on your tan?”

I grind my teeth. There is no use arguing with him. He’s simply a pawn, albeit a cocky, arrogant one.

“When do I get to meet this mysterious boss of yours?” I ask instead, changing the topic.

Miguel shrugs. “You will meet the boss when the boss wants to meet you.”

“Tell him that I’m tired of speaking with his mouthpiece.” I return his smile, though mine is more of a snarl. “No offense.”

Miguel adjusts his cufflinks. “Might I remind you that you are in no position to bargain or make demands?” he sniffs. “You know what will happen if you displease us or impede this operation in any way.”

“I’m familiar with the consequences,” I bite out.

Miguel’s glowing eyes return to mine. “Good. Then we can return to the business at hand.”

For now.

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