Victorious Vice, page 3
Reality slowly sinks into me.
I am not in a hospital. I am home, safe and warm under piles of blankets in my own bed. The rhythmic ticking of the clock on my bedside table lulls me back, bringing with it a sort of comfort.
“The dream…” I murmur to myself as I rub my hand over my fuzzy head.
I shake off the remnants of fear that gripped me so tightly just moments ago.
That voice.
That haunting whisper telling me to remember.
To remember what?
I reach out blindly in the dark for a glass of water sitting on the bedside table. The condensation makes it slippery. I bring it to my lips, the water cool and refreshing as it trickles down my parched throat.
It’s not the first time I’ve had this dream. I had versions of it a lot during my cancer treatment. I always assumed it was a side-effect of the chemo.
The dream is always so vivid.
Too vivid.
The sterile walls of a hospital room, the relentless ringing of a phone, the lack of color at the end…
And Vinnie.
Vinnie’s face that disappeared in front of me and sent me hurtling back into that hospital bed.
That’s new. Of course, I didn’t know him when I had the dream during my treatment.
And that familiar feminine voice… The voice that told me to remember. That’s new, too.
I close my eyes tightly to dispel the images, but they refuse to be erased. The ticking of my clock grows louder in my ears, each tick-tock a reminder of the dream’s dreadful heart monitor.
I draw in a shaky breath. Echoes of that soft whisper still linger in my mind, circling around like a mournful ghost.
“Remember…”
Frustration wells up inside me. I yearn for clarity, for closure, but all I am left with is an unquenchable thirst for answers.
With a sigh, I settle back against the pillows and stare at the ceiling. The pale moonlight streaming through the window paints eerie shadows on it, turning its smoothness into a canvas of my nightmare. The silhouette of my own face is reflected across the room, and for a moment, I am transported back to that hospital bed and surrounded by sterile walls, deafening silence, and suffocating loneliness.
Remember…
What the hell am I supposed to remember? What could those fragmented and horrific images mean?
“It’s just a dream,” I say out loud to myself. “Go back to sleep. You’re safe here. Jared is in the next room.”
It was just a fucking dream.
4
VINNIE
I’ve lost track of time. How long have we been in the air? Beside me, Elmo snoozes.
And I continue to read.
Nothing particularly interesting. Just that nameless old woman whose eyes pierce me through the old photograph.
I slip the iPad into my bag and lean back in my seat, my mind racing with potential scenarios. My thoughts keep coming back to Raven. Leaving her behind was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done. But I can’t risk her safety. She deserves so much more than to be dragged into this mess.
A jerk of turbulence rocks the plane, dragging me out of my thoughts. Elmo stirs beside me but doesn’t wake up.
The next few hours pass in a blur of discomfort and tension. I plug my headphones in and try to watch a movie. I barely pay attention. I can’t seem to get my mind off of that old woman…
As we descend into Bogotá, the lights of the city cast an eerie glow through the night air. The moment we touch down, everything becomes real. The danger I’m stepping into isn’t just a series of names and faces on an iPad screen anymore. It’s tangible.
I glance at Elmo, who now sits alert. He gives me a small nod.
That’s his signal that he’s ready.
For what, I still don’t know.
We disembark into the humid night, the smell of jet exhaust mingling with the heavy tropical air. A black sedan waits for us at the edge of the runway, its tinted windows hiding the identities of whoever is inside.
Elmo walks toward the car first and greets the driver, who opens the door for him.
“Señor Gallo, welcome,” the driver says as I approach.
I simply nod and slide into the back seat. Elmo gets in next to me.
We sit in silence as we ride through the city. About an hour later, we reach our destination right before sunrise.
Jacinto Agudelo’s grand mansion looms large. The iron gates stand tall, dark, and imposing against the property, isolating and protecting it. There’s an intricately carved crest on the gate—a shield, a calligraphic letter A at its center, divided into quadrants featuring a golden eagle, a blood-red rose, crossed daggers, and a gold coin, respectively. The crest is flanked by coffee and poppy branches and bears the Latin motto Fortuna et Fatum beneath a crown of emeralds. Above the crest are subtly-placed cameras.
The gates slide open, and the driveway stretches out, lit up vibrantly in the darkness. It’s lined with towering palms and perfectly clipped hedges. The mansion is pale stone with tall arched windows. It looks less like a home and more like a fortress.
As we step out of the car, a man in a tailored suit emerges from the entrance. He is tall and lean with cold eyes and offers no greeting as he leads us through the ornate doors.
The man leads us into a grand hall with sweeping staircases on either side and a giant painting of an angry-looking man dominating the far wall.
A door opens behind us and we turn to see the man in the painting himself flanked by two burly guards. His graying hair is slicked back from his angular face, and he’s dressed in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than most people make in a year.
“Bienvenidos.” He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, which remain as cold as they are in his portrait.
“Gracias,” I reply.
“Señor Gallo,” he says. “I am Jacinto Agudelo.”
Yes, Agudelo. From the documents.
“Señor,” I say with a nod.
Already, we’re getting off to an interesting start.
Agudelo.
The old woman.
Austin Bellamy. Mario. Puzo.
All connected in a web I don’t fully understand.
I glance at Elmo for an instant before returning to Agudelo. His smile flickers at the corners of his mouth. My mind churns faster, the cogs slipping into place. He knows something.
“You must be exhausted after your long flight,” he says. “Morehouse will show you and your bodyguard to your rooms. We will speak over lunch. Be prepared.”
I nod. “I will be.”
I’ll study the documents the rest of the night if I have to.
“Puzo’s dead,” I blurt out.
Agudelo nods. “Yes. I’ve heard. I know why you’re here, Vincent. I know what your grandfather wants.”
He referred to Mario as my grandfather. Not my father. Probably a good thing.
“What exactly is your understanding of my…grandfather’s wishes?”
Agudelo cocks his head. “It would appear he did not make you aware of the reason you were sent here.”
“What are you aware of, Señor Agudelo?” I ask.
“I believe I said we’ll talk over lunch.”
With a polite nod, he turns to leave, his guards following. As I watch him go, a shiver runs down my spine. The man exudes power. I must tread carefully.
Morehouse—the man who greeted us at the door—appears from the side door. He guides us through a maze of hallways and stairs to reach our respective rooms.
My room is huge. The ceiling is lined with gold and the furniture is antique and polished. It screams opulence and wealth, way more so than Mario’s or Declan McAllister’s mansions.
I settle into the plush bed, pulling out my iPad to continue piecing together the puzzle that brought me here. I scroll through the reports on Puzo and Agudelo. The documents reveal a surge of unknown transactions between all parties involved, each structured meticulously to keep their tracks hidden. But nothing remains hidden forever.
The puzzle references meetings, deals, exchanged courtesies, all so vague, yet hinting at a web woven deeper than I originally anticipated. As I delve deeper into the documents, another picture of the old woman pops up—this time in Agudelo’s account summary.
What the hell?
I focus back on the documents when a strange shuffling sound scrapes above me. I look up at the ceiling. Again, I hear the noise.
Then a tap. And another. Another still.
I stare at the light fixtures, waiting for them to flicker or something. Surely this mansion isn’t haunted. But it is old. Probably just the house settling.
More taps. Slower this time.
Shuffling. And more taps.
I stare upward.
When the sound doesn’t come again, I turn back to my work.
The hours blend into one another as I dissect each transaction.
I’m pulled out of my research as dawn breaks. A sliver of sunlight streams through the heavy velvet curtains. I stretch my stiff muscles and rub my weary eyes.
The information begins to coalesce into a clearer picture. A conspiracy of deep-rooted corruption. A sinister framework of greed and power.
But that’s not why I’m here.
Sure, Mario wants what Puzo was after.
That’s the official party line—the reason Agudelo believes I am here. To negotiate an agreement for the territory and money that Mario wants.
I’m well prepared for the task.
But as I continue to read what Mario has given me, I realize there’s a different purpose for my presence—one that Mario, at his advanced age, could not handle himself.
I cock my head at a soft knock on the door. It’s Morehouse again, bringing me a tray of breakfast—cornmeal cake, scrambled eggs with tomatoes and green onions, guavas, and black coffee.
“Mr. Agudelo would like you to join him for lunch at one o’clock,” he says.
“Yes, I know. Gracias.”
Morehouse nods and exits.
I turn back to the documents, scanning through until my eyes catch on an encrypted message between Agudelo and an unnamed source, dated two weeks ago. It mentions an “Operation Falcon.”
No.
No. It can’t be.
Falcon can mean anything. A bird of prey can be a metaphor for an action, a plan, a person. As doctors say, when you hear hoofbeats think horses, not zebras.
But I can’t shake the feeling.
Because in my world, Falcon has only one meaning—Raven’s brother.
Falcon Bellamy.
5
RAVEN
I manage to get through the rest of the night without more nightmares—but only because I don’t sleep.
I finally trudge out of bed at eight a.m., grab a quick shower, and head to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee.
Jared appears five minutes later.
“You’re supposed to knock when you rise,” he says.
I start the coffeemaker. “I thought I’d let you sleep.”
“I’m not here to sleep.” He rubs at his forehead. “You know the drill, Raven.”
I sigh. “Yeah. I know. I’m going to try to set up a meeting with a new attorney today. I want to get right back to working on my nonprofit.”
“Are you sure? After what happened with your last attorney?”
Like he needs to remind me.
“Yes,” I say, pouring the steaming coffee into the mugs on the counter. “I can’t afford to be passive anymore. Not after all that’s happened.”
Jared looks at me, his usually stern expression softening. He reaches out and grabs a mug, sipping the liquid and wincing at its heat.
“You’re a fighter, Raven,” he says. “But remember, you’re also a survivor. You don’t always have to be on the offense.”
His words are sincere, but they irritate me. How can I not fight? Vinnie is gone, and I may never see him again. God knows what he’s doing in Colombia for his grandfather. My last attorney was murdered. My brothers have gotten in over their heads, and I’m getting texts warning that I’m in danger.
But damn it, I just beat cancer’s ass, and I’m going to get this nonprofit up and running. Beginning with the big gala in a couple weeks.
“I appreciate the sentiment, Jared.” I force a smile onto my face. “But I have to focus on something I believe in. If I don’t, I’ll be focusing on all the shit.”
Jared nods, his gaze intense. “Just remember you have people who care about you. People who want to help.”
I hear his words—I do—but they don’t sink in. It’s a familiar talk—the one where everyone subtly tries to convince me to step back, take a breather. But how can I? When there’s so much at stake?
Before I can answer, the ring of my cell gives me a welcome interruption. With a sigh, I walk over and pick it up.
“Hello?”
“Raven?”
“Yes, who is this please?”
“My name is Emily Bennett. I’m an attorney with Fox and Levinson in Austin. I got your name from your father. He says you’re looking for a nonprofit attorney.”
“Yes, hello. My previous attorney…”
“I know what happened,” she says. “I’m so sorry about his premature passing and all that you and your family have been through because of it.”
“We’re…dealing,” I say. “So my father called you?”
“Yes. I’ve worked closely with my colleagues on some of your father’s dealings when a charity is involved. He tells me you’re setting up a nonprofit for the benefit of blood cancer research?”
“Yes. All the initial paperwork has been filed, and I’ve got a gala scheduled next month to introduce the organization and help with funding.”
“But otherwise you have funding in place?”
“Yes. I’ll be handling the initial funding with my own assets and also with a donation from my sister, Robin.”
“And your father?”
“Why would he be involved?”
“I suppose he doesn’t have to be. I just assumed…”
I clear my throat. “You assumed because he’s the beneficiary of my grandmother’s estate, he’d be funding it.”
She pauses before responding sheepishly, “I suppose I did, yes.”
“I have a hefty trust fund that I’ve hardly touched. I don’t need any grand infusion from my father.”
“Good enough. The next step is to iron out the details of the organizational structure, finalize the board members, and draft all required policies and procedures. We also need to prepare for any potential legal issues that may arise in relation to your fundraising activities.”
“Okay, what’s our first step?”
“The first step is to review all the paperwork you’ve already filed. If you could email the copies to me by the end of the day, I can get on it immediately. Then we’ll set up a meeting early next week to go over everything. Will that be all right?”
“Can we meet today?” I ask, glancing at the clock on the kitchen wall.
“Well…sure. I suppose so.” Papers shuffle on the other end. “I have an opening at two this afternoon.”
“That works,” I say. “Should I come to your office?”
“Yes, that’d be best,” she says. “And bring any documents related to the nonprofit.”
“Sounds good. Thank you, Emily.”
“It’s my pleasure, Raven. I look forward to helping you with this noble cause.”
I end the call.
“So we’re traveling to Austin today?” Jared asks.
“How did you know?”
“I don’t know of any major nonprofit law firms around Summer Creek,” he says. “But are you sure you want to be out after that text you got?”
“Silly.” I shake my head. “That’s what you’re here for, Jared. What good is a bodyguard if all we do is stay home?”
Jared grins, showing off his white teeth. “You got me there, Raven.”
After I shower and dress, I gather all the paperwork Emily asked for while Jared makes some phone calls. Around noon, we hit the road in Jared’s black SUV. He keeps his eyes on the rearview mirror more than necessary, making sure we aren’t being followed.
“Should we be worried?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
“Better safe than sorry,” he replies.
Can’t argue with that.
We don’t talk much during the long drive, and though I normally don’t mind silence, today it reminds me of the nightmare I had last night.
I erase the blurred images from my mind and pull up a novel on my iPad.
As much as I try, though, I can’t get into it.
“Tell me about your life, Jared,” I say, breaking the silence to get my mind off negativity. “You said you were a Navy SEAL, but you didn’t work directly with Leif.”
“No, we were in different units. I served for eight years, did a couple of tours in Afghanistan—which is where I met Phoenix—and a few other places I’m not at liberty to discuss.”
I study him, wondering what stories those broad shoulders carry, what horrors those dark eyes have seen. He keeps his gaze on the road, but his jaw is clenched. Clearly, he doesn’t share his past easily.
“That’s impressive,” I say.
“Maybe, but it takes its toll,” he admits. “Lost a lot of good men out there.”
The pain in his voice makes my heart ache. I reach out and lightly touch his arm. “I’m sorry, Jared. I didn’t mean to pry.”
He shakes his head, giving me a brief smile. “It’s all right. It’s been a while since I’ve spoken about it.”
We fall into silence again as the distance dwindles between Summer Creek and Austin. Despite the heaviness of our conversation, I feel a strange sense of camaraderie with Jared. His guarded demeanor and repressed sorrow echo my own pain, my own struggles, and the losses of friends I made during chemotherapy. It’s a bond born out of hardship that I never thought I’d experience with anyone else, let alone my bodyguard.
Upon reaching Austin, we arrive at Fox and Levinson. It’s on the eighteenth floor of a giant skyscraper. We walk in together, I clutching my bag filled with important documents, Jared with his alert gaze sweeping over everything and everyone around us.
