4. Vinnie
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.
“Senor 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.
“Senor Gallo,” he says. “I am Jacinto Agudelo.”
Yes, Agudelo. From the documents.
“Senor,” 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, Senor 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.