Victorious Vice (Bellamy Brothers #6)

6. Vinnie

6

VINNIE

M y conversation with Austin Bellamy haunts me. He’s a smart man, and he kept his answers to my questions succinct and sometimes evasive. I can’t blame him for that. I’d do the same thing. Hell, I do the same thing.

My stomach is churning with nerves. I could be barking up the wrong tree, of course. “Operation Falcon” could mean anything.

But there’s a reason I’m here. A reason Mario wants me here. Giacomo Puzo wasn’t a family head. Mario could have sent one of his surrogates here to negotiate with Agudelo.

The clock strikes eleven. Two hours until the lunch with Agudelo. Two more hours to prepare, to analyze, to plan.

Agudelo is clearly a man who likes to keep his cards close to his chest.

As one o’clock draws nearer, I take a moment to freshen up, wash away the grime of sleepless research, exhaustion, and worry. Today will be a game of chess, and I need to be at my best. I dress in a crisp black suit and then make my way down the grand staircase into the hall where Morehouse is waiting for me. Exactly at one, he escorts me into a large dining room filled with light filtering in from the arched windows. The table is set with gleaming china and silverware.

Morehouse lifts his eyebrows as he shows me to my seat. Odd. What does he know? He’s no doubt very faithful to his employer. I’ll get nothing from him.

Agudelo enters the room, his presence immediately shifting the atmosphere. His smile doesn’t seem to reach his eyes as he greets me.

As waitstaff fill our glasses with champagne and serve a delicate paté, Agudelo begins to talk about the artwork in the room, but my thoughts wander back to the old woman. To Operation Falcon. If Agudelo is involved with the Bellamys, I need to tread lightly around him.

Agudelo is gesturing to a painting of two large-bodied people, a man and a woman, dressed in Edwardian fashion, with an equally heavyset cat in between them. “This of course is an authentic Botero, commissioned directly from the artist. I get calls at least once a week from museums all over the world begging me to donate it to them. But I wouldn’t very well be able to enjoy it during dinner if I did that, would I?” He clears his throat, shifting his gaze to me. “But enough about my collection. How about we get down to business? Your grandfather has been very eager for our meeting.”

I nod, careful to keep my expression neutral. “Yes, he has.”

For the next half hour we discuss matters of trade, investments, and politics. Despite our talk, I can’t shake the feeling that this isn’t just about business. I’ve done my homework. I can answer every single one of Agudelo’s questions with pretty extensive detail. But even as I spit out facts and figures, my mind keeps slipping away to that photo of the old woman. What does she have to do with all of this?

Agudelo’s words are calculated, each sentence carefully structured. I’m beginning to understand the magnitude of his power and control in this world.

As we delve deeper into the conversation, I subtly steer it to the face that has been nagging at my mind.

“Senor Agudelo. My grandfather gave me a file full of names and faces, most of whom I’m familiar with. But there’s one person I can’t place.”

Agudelo wrinkles his forehead. “And who is that?”

I grab my iPad, but he holds up a hand.

“Interesting that you would bring him up,” Agudelo says. He rings for Morehouse.

Him? The picture is clearly of an old woman.

“Yes, senor?” Morehouse says when he enters.

Agudelo gestures to Morehouse, who bends down. Morehouse whispers something in his ear.

Then, “Yes, senor. Right away.” Morehouse exits.

I lift my eyebrows in question.

“Another guest will join us momentarily,” Agudelo says.

I take a drink of my wine. “I look forward to meeting another of your colleagues.”

Agudelo chuckles. “Colleague?” He leans back in his seat. “Oh no, Senor Gallo. This is not just any colleague.”

The tension is almost palpable as I wait for the mystery guest to arrive. My mind races with possibilities.

Morehouse enters, gesturing inside.

And my blood runs cold.

Suddenly, I’m back in Mario’s office, in my teen years, being groomed to join the family business. Staring into the same ice-cold eyes I’m seeing now.

I jerk upward, squint to make sure I’m not seeing things.

It’s been seventeen years, but I’d recognize him anywhere.

Same dark eyes, same slicked-back hair, though it’s mostly gray now.

Same snakelike half smile.

“Senor Gallo,” Agudelo says, “It would appear you two are already acquainted.”

Again, I stay neutral, desperately trying to hide my shock.

“I… Yes,” I manage to sputter out.

Diego Vega, the man I thought was dead and buried underneath the Bellamys’ old barn, cracks a small grin.

“If it isn’t the little cobra.”