“The Kings are very open to the idea of an alliance,” I tell Ricardo, settling into my seat. “But we need to know what it is that you want in exchange for opening up the trade between our factions. We’ll both benefit from trade—you’ll have access to our arms, and we’ll have access to the drug pipeline, which mostly benefits the Italians. Much of this is being moved through Viktor Andreyev’s new businesses—clubs, escort services, the like. But it’s my impression that you want more than just guns.”
Ricardo nods. “Guns are well and good, and we need more of them. A steady supply, in fact, not just for our own use but to trade with other cartels we’re attempting to keep in our pocket. But we need men as well. The Gonzalez family has been steadily strengthening their numbers to the point where they may soon have a stronger force than my own. This is a threat to us—and to you, if you align yourself with our interests. If you have soldiers to spare, or if your allies do, we need them here. Whoever you can send.”
I frown, considering. It’s one thing to open up a new pipeline of trade, but what Ricardo is asking for is something else altogether. It’s asking us to send men who work for us to another country, to work for a family to whom they feel no particular alliance. They’ll obey, of course—Viktor’s Bratva, in particular, are excellent at following the commands of theirpakhanwithout question—but the success of the three families has always largely been predicated on not taking advantage of those who serve them. Not forcing them to do things that they feel strongly about not doing. Alexei’s defection from Viktor’s Bratva and the tumult that followed was clear evidence of the havoc that one dissatisfied, high-ranking member can create. Not that we would send high-ranking men to the cartel, but still—
“I’m working on marriage alliances for my children, particularly my eldest daughter.” Ricardo pauses, and I give a short laugh.
“I don’t think we have any eligible young ladies to marry your son off to, Mr. Santiago. And as for your daughter—well, marriage alliances aren’t really going to be part of this discussion. There’s been too much marital drama in our families as of late, particularly among the Kings. We’re here to trade drugs and guns, and I’ll bring your proposal of men to add to your army to the table.”
“Fair enough. I have prospects for my daughter already anyway, and as for Ángel—” Ricardo’s eyes crinkle with the tiniest bit of mirth. I can see a hint of the man he is in more casual settings, among those he trusts.
I want to trust him, to trust the potential future that a bond between our families could offer, but I’m cautious. There’s been too much upheaval of late, too much tension and violence. We allowed time for it to settle before I left for Mexico, but still—I feel hesitant to move too quickly. The peace that exists now between the Romanos, the Andreyevs, and the McGregors was hard-won, and I’m privately unsure of how wise it is to introduce a new variable.
This is the job I was sent to do, though, the decision made among Liam, Connor, Viktor, and Luca for the future of their families. So I’ll do it to the best of my ability
“Is there a hotel we can take you to while you consider, Mr. Flanagan?” Ricardo asks. “Or somewhere you’ve decided to stay? I can make suggestions if you don’t already have lodgings arranged—”
“I do. But I also have a motorcycle rental arranged, so if your men could drop me off there, it would be most appreciated.”
The small smile twitches at the corners of Ricardo’s mouth again, as if he’s seen something in me that he can appreciate. “Very well,” he says finally. “I’ll give my men that instruction.”
An hour later, I’m in possession of a temporary bike rental, an older model Indian that will serve me just fine. I’m half tempted to open it up on the road and go for a drive out in the desert to who-knows-where, just to clear my head, but I’m bone-achingly tired at this point and in need of a shower and a good sleep. So I look up directions and point the motorcycle in the direction of the Los Desierto hotel instead, foregoing a helmet and stuffing my jacket in my bag for the pleasure of feeling the dry, warm desert breeze through my hair and over my skin instead. It’s been months since I’ve been away from the cold, away from the tense, sick feeling I get whenever I’m in proximity to Connor or Saoirse, and it feels good to be away. I feel freer than I have in a long time, some of the tension draining out of my soul, and the ride to the hotel feels all too short.
I need that shower I’d been thinking about. But instead, the moment I see the strange bed with its crisp white sheets that have no memories for me of anyone at all, a bone-deep exhaustion washes over me. I stumble towards it, eager for the first real, sober sleep I’ve had in months, and I’m not even sure my head hits the pillow before it’s lights out.
ISABELLA
I CAN’T DO IT. I CAN’T.
Ishould.
I have to.
It’s my only chance. Just once. Just to feel—something else. To have something that’s mine.
The thought that sprang into my mind during lunch—about what I possess and what I could give away—takes root and won’t let go. I keep thinking about the red dress and the possibilities it represents, all the way through my mother paying the bill and ushering us out of the restaurant. The problem, of course, is how to even go about executing the first steps in my plan. It’s not even agoodplan, half-baked at best, and I can see a hundred ways it could go wrong and end up with me caught and under more restrictions than ever—starting with acquiring the dress.
It’s Elena, surprisingly enough, who ends up giving me the opportunity.
“Can we get ice cream?” She points at a fancy gelato shop next door to a coffeehouse, the scents of syrupy sugar wafting in the breeze towards us. “Please?”
For a second, I think my mother is going to say we need to get back to the car or that Elena doesn’t need the extra calories or something else to that effect. But to my surprise, she softens, nodding. “Ice cream sounds good. I think I could use a latte, too. Girls?”
She leads us to the other side of the plaza, towards the shop, but I hang back, my mind racing. My mother glances over her shoulder, looking at me confusedly. “Isabella? Don’t dawdle—”
“I just saw a—a purse I liked. In the shop next door to where we bought the dress. I just want to go look at it.” The words burst out of my lips in a torrent, improvised on the spot, just like my haphazard, desperate plan. “I don’t need the sugar anyway. I’ll meet you at the coffee shop in like fifteen minutes?”
Fifteen minutes without my mother’s watchful eye to get in and get out. I clutch my own leather bag, a satcheljustbig enough to hold that silky dress without being noticed if I wad it up tightly enough.
My mother looks as if she’s going to argue, and then similarly to her response to Elena, her tense shoulders relax, and she nods, as if she’s finished fighting with either of us over small requests. “Go ahead then,” she says. “Quickly. Fifteen minutes, and don’t make me come looking for you, Isabella Santiago.”
My heart is racing as I scurry away from her, back down the sidewalk towards the shop—but not the one I’d told her. I can’t believe I’m doing this, can’t believe I’m eventhinkingit, but I don’t have a choice if I want to do the thing that’s been rattling in my brain, the thing I’m not even sure I’ll have the nerve to pull off in the end.
I don’t have any money of my own, not really. I have a debit card attached to an account our father occasionally deposits a small allowance into for treats. Still, there’s only a few hundred dollars in it. Not enough for a dress like the one hanging in that shop. A bitter resentment bubbles up in me because while I don’t think our father has ever meant for it to be a way of exerting control—if anything, he thinks of the allowance as a sweet gesture to show his appreciation for us—it is in the end, anyway. Without money, I have no escape. No way to leave the cage for good, even if I can slip briefly out of the bars.
So I’m going to steal a dress.
I feel like I’m going to be sick with nerves as I approach the store, glancing in the windows casually, aware of the fifteen-minute timer ticking above me. I can only see the prim brunette saleswoman and another, curvier redhead, both of which appear to be preoccupied pulling dresses for customers. I look for a security guard, but if there is one, he’s not paying attention.