Page 11 of Corrupted Empire

No, Gabriel wouldn’t hurt her. But right now, I think he’s the only person who can help her.

I call Gabriel’s number, and it rings twice and then goes straight to voice mail. I hang up and call again. This time it doesn’t even ring. I swear and swipe my hand through the pile of feathers next to me, but they merely drift softly back to the ground again. Not very satisfying.

His refusal to acknowledge my existence is infuriating. He dragged me into this world, introduced me to demons and devils, and now is pretending that I no longer exist. What if I need him like I do now? Am I supposed to just tell my silent guards to pass along a message to their boss? Has my relationship with Harry’s father, the man who used to hold me and promise he would always keep me safe, actually been reduced to nothing more than a game of telephone?

I call Gabriel again, and when he still won’t answer, decide to leave a voice mail.

“Call me back, asshole. Clara is missing, and I sincerely doubt she has just gone out for milk. This has something to do with you and whatever war you’re fighting right now, and that means that you need to fix this, so help me God.”

I hang up. That felt good. While I’m at it, I decide to unload a couple other things that have been playing on my mind since he shut me out. I call again. Predictably, it goes to voice mail.

“For the record, I do not regret writing that article. Good things came out of it, and in case you didn’t notice, I didn’t include you in it on purpose! To this day, nobody suspects you of being the leader of the Italian mob, nor do they suspect Italian involvement in the purple heroin trade at all. Do you know how famous I could be right now if I’d broken the news that one of the country’s most fawned-over billionaires was the leader of a powerful crime syndicate? Do you think I’d still be writing whatever Debbie Harris deigns to chuck my way each week? Hell, I could have written a book, sold movie rights! So just...I don’t know. Think about that!”

I hang up again, heart racing as though I’d ranted to Gabriel in person instead of just at his voice mail. Not the strongest ending to the voice mail, I admit, but it feels good to get it all out there.

I peel myself off the floor and try calling Clara again before I leave. I’m going to be late to meet Ana if I don’t go now.

* * *

It’s a beautiful, sunny fall day. It’s the kind of cheery day that seems to deny all that’s grim in the world—whether it’s the oncoming winter or your best friend’s mysterious disappearance.

I sit on the bench beside the sandbox, one eye on Harry, one eye on my phone as I type out another text to Clara.

I’ve missed you so much, my angel.

What the hell does that mean? I haven’t been able to think about anything else since I left Clara’s apartment, and I even considered asking Ana if she could watch Harry for the rest of the day just so I could devote my whole brain to puzzling it out. That wouldn’t help anything, though. Clara is gone, and wherever she is, she either doesn’t have her phone or is refusing to answer it on purpose.

The playground is strangely desolate. There is only one other family here, which is odd, even for a weekday. Just beyond the sandbox, there is a small group of ratty-looking teenagers sitting in a circle under a tree. I notice another group leaning against the chain-link fence at the edge of the park, though they seem a little older. Then, of course, there’s my security detail—two men sitting on a bench across the sandpit from me, pretending like they are there to do anything other than watch me.

I let my phone fall in my lap and take a breath, devoting my attention to Harry. He’s clumping sand into a lopsided mound in front of him, but it’s not going well. His mouth is screwed up in frustration. I’ll take him to see the ducks after this. That always cheers both of us up.

He goes to grab another handful of sand but comes up with something long and thin, like a plastic tube.

I bolt to my feet and dive toward Harry, ripping the needle out of his grasp, knocking over his sand creation in the process. Harry, already on edge because of his failed engineering, starts to cry.

What kind of monster leaves a used needle in a sandbox?

I look around, noting with satisfaction that my guards have moved to the edge of the sandbox, ready to leap into action if needed. My eyes skim over the group of teenagers by the tree, and I notice one of them tying a tourniquet around his arm. There’s my answer. I look to the two sagging figures at the fence and realize both of them are drugged out. They look half dead.

No wonder this park is empty. It has been taken over by purple heroin users.

I meet the eye of the taller of the two guards. I recognize him as one of the guards who used to be posted outside of my bedroom when I lived in the mansion, though I don’t remember his name.

“Do you see this?” I say, holding up the needle.

He doesn’t reply, but his jaw tightens.

“You need to get Gabriel to deal with it.” I toss the needle onto the pavement in disgust and pull Harry into my arms.

5

Gabriel

On the same afternoon that I receive the message about the hypodermic needle in the sandbox, I get the news that an Italian business—a quiet bookstore at the fringe of our territory—has been attacked. The Cartel left me a message at the scene.

I drive out to inspect the damage personally. The whole drive, I am disturbed by the mental image of my son holding a dirty needle, perhaps more disturbed by that than by the thought of the carnage that awaits me at the bookstore. Harry should be shielded from all this. He is too young, too innocent, and the thought that the ugliness of this drug epidemic has found a way to reach him even though I have kept my distance makes my blood boil.

I tell David to wait around the block when we arrive at the bookstore. Everything seems normal from the outside, except for the drawn blinds and the sign indicating that the shop is closed, even though it’s the middle of the day.

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