Victorious Vice (Bellamy Brothers #6)

8. Vinnie

8

VINNIE

I could take offense at the nickname. I could stand and meet his gaze, secure in my strength this time.

I could do any number of things.

But I don’t.

I only stare.

Because if this is Diego Vega, then who the hell is buried underneath the Bellamys’ old barn?

“Surprised to see me, Little Cobra?”

God, he still sounds like a snake. And he calls me a cobra?

I keep my expression impassive despite my racing heart. “Why would I be surprised?”

He smirks. “Let’s just say that rumors of my death have been…greatly exaggerated.”

“Your death?”

He smirks. “You know. A body was never recovered.”

“You’ll have to excuse me, Mr. Vega. But I’ve been out of the country—my own country—for over a decade. I only just returned. It was my impression that you no longer had any dealings with my grandfather.”

“I don’t.” His eyes shine with contempt. “But you’re here on your grandfather’s business. And I have close ties to Mr. Agudelo here in Colombia.”

“I see.”

“I understand you’re interested in the business of one of my colleagues, Giacomo Puzo.”

Puzo was involved with Vega. Perfect. “That is why I’m here.”

Agudelo nods. “Yes. We’ll be talking about that later, but for now, why don’t we just enjoy some dessert?”

Dessert turns out to be caramelized flan, but I can’t taste it. I force it down into my stomach, which feels like it’s cramping around every bite.

I stay expressionless.

But inside, my mind is racing. Not only about who the hell is buried under that barn. Who took Eagle Bellamy’s bullet. But also about Raven’s father, Austin Bellamy.

What is the connection?

I make it through the meal, hyperaware of Vega’s eyes on me at all times.

I remember his words, long ago, at that meeting a few months before my eighteenth birthday.

Remember. Pride comes before a fall.

I thought nothing of it at the time. I was seventeen, and I thought I had the world by the balls. I hadn’t yet seen what Mario was capable of doing to me. I was young and arrogant.

Full of pride.

Was Vega warning me about something? About what Mario would eventually do to me when I turned eighteen?

The conversation between Agudelo and Vega buzzes around me like flies I want to swat.

Until—

“How is Mario?” Vega asks me.

I swallow down a bite of flan. “His health is good. Thank you for asking.”

“He’s got to be in his eighties by now.”

“He is.” I nod.

“He must be part feline,” Vega says. “That one has nine lives.”

“The same could be said for you,” I reply.

My words earn me another sly reptilian smile.

Once the dessert plates are clear, Agudelo rises. “That ends our lunch, gentlemen. As I have meetings tonight, I won’t see any of you for dinner, but I’d like to continue this conversation tomorrow. Lunch again, I think.”

“Of course.”

I rise and leave the dining room, where Elmo waits outside.

“Will you be returning to your room, sir?” Morehouse asks.

I look at Elmo, who cocks his head at me. “No. My bodyguard and I would like to see some sites.”

“Of course,” Morehouse says. “I’ll instruct the driver to take you around.”

“That’s kind of you,” I say, “but we’ve already arranged for our own car and driver.”

Morehouse raises his eyebrows slightly. “Oh?”

“Yes, I had Elmo arrange it. But thank you very much for the offer. Your generosity is noted.”

I head back to my room and change out of my suit into jeans and a button-down. Then I knock on Elmo’s door, which is adjoining to mine.

“Yes, sir?” he says, opening it.

“Let’s go,” I say.

Once Elmo and I are outside Agudelo’s mansion, we wait.

“You sure you got a driver who isn’t compromised?” I ask Elmo.

“Yes, he comes highly recommended.”

I bite my lip. “Let’s hope. We need to drive into the heart of the Chapinero district.”

“The driver knows who we need to see.”

I have no reason not to trust Elmo. He’s had my back since I returned. I don’t for a moment trust Mario.

“You can trust your grandfather,” Elmo says as if reading my mind. “I’ve been with him for over ten years, and I’m the best on his staff of security. He wants you safe, Mr. Gallo. He told me as much.”

I take a slow breath in. “Yes, well, I am his heir.”

And his son, though Elmo doesn’t know that. I don’t think anyone knows that other than Mario and me. And my dead mother.

Our driver arrives in a long black Mercedes. He gets out of the car, and he and Elmo speak in Spanish.

If only I knew Spanish. I picked up a bit during my time in Europe, but not enough. I spent most of my time in Italy and in Eastern Europe.

Except for when I was in Tibet.

My Italian is pretty good, and that’s close enough to Spanish for me to roughly translate what I see and hear, but I won’t be able to speak clearly to anyone unless I have a translator present. Elmo’s Spanish sounds pretty good, but I of course have no way of knowing.

The chauffeur opens the car door, and I slide into the back seat. Elmo gets in next to me.

“He’s taking us where we need to go,” Elmo says.

The streets of Bogotá blur past. The low hum of the engine feels like it’s vibrating through my bones, a constant reminder that we’re out of place here.

Once we’re miles away from Agudelo’s mansion, the road becomes uneven, cracked, and riddled with potholes that force the driver to swerve more than I’d like. Every turn feels like a gamble. Kids in tattered clothes dart between alleyways.

The buildings loom closer now, like they’re closing in on me. Graffiti covers almost every surface—some of it crude, some of it warnings, and some just words I can’t understand. A skinny dog limps across the street, ribs poking through its mangy fur. It pauses in the middle of the road, eyes wild and distant, as if it doesn’t even care whether it lives or dies. My heart aches for it.

Elmo sits next to me, silent but alert. He doesn’t say anything, but his eyes never stop scanning. He’s got that look on his face—like we’re driving straight into the devil’s den. He’s probably right. This is Agudelo’s territory. Every crack in the pavement, every windowless building is a reminder of the people who disappear in places like this.

We hit another corner, and I see them—two men standing on a street corner, smoking. They look up as we pass, their eyes cold and calculating. One of them flicks his cigarette to the ground, and I catch the glint of metal tucked under his jacket. I don’t need to look twice to know what it is.

The tension in the air thickens. We’re getting closer to the meet, but it feels like the whole neighborhood is watching, waiting. I feel it in the pit of my stomach. The further in we go, the fewer options we have. There’s no way out if this goes sideways.

I take a deep breath. We just have to make it through. Just a little farther.

The deeper we go into Agudelo’s territory, the more the cityscape changes. The buildings grow taller and more foreboding, and the air grows dense with the stench of decayed trash and distant fires.

We drive past a group of children playing with a deflated soccer ball in a makeshift patch of dirt. Despite everything, despite their circumstances, they find joy. A sobering thought that hangs heavy in my mind.

A few minutes later, on the far south side of Chapinero, our driver comes to a sudden stop before a dilapidated warehouse that looks like it could crumble at any moment. The massive structure looms above us, casting shadows onto the cracked pavement.

Elmo exits the car and I follow suit, the door closing behind us with a hollow thud. The air is different here—thick and stale yet crackling with an unseen energy.

Our driver remains inside the vehicle, eyes straight ahead, his grip on the wheel unyielding. Around us, the distant laughter of children playing, dogs barking, and urban music fades into the background.

Elmo leads me towards the entrance of the warehouse. As we approach, two men step out, both tall and lean with hard eyes.

“Who are they?” I ask Elmo.

“I don’t know. Don’t ask. And don’t tell them who we are. The driver says they have information.”

“All right.” I swallow, steeling myself. “Information about what?”

“I don’t know. Your grandfather insisted on this meeting.”

“And he didn’t bother telling me about it?” I shake my head. “I’m supposed to be his right-hand man.”

But of course, he doesn’t fully trust me.

A smart man, my grandfather. Except he’s not my grandfather, as I now know. He’s my father. Biologically, at least. A degenerate who raped his own daughter.

I am the unfortunate result.

Elmo talks to the two men in Spanish for a moment. I recognize a few words.

“ Seguridad ,” “ peligro ,” and “Vega.”

Security, danger, Vega.

And then…Bellamy.

With a Colombian accent, but it couldn’t mean anything else.

Bellamy. As in Austin Bellamy. As in Bellamy Ranch.

With wide eyes, I turn my head to look at Elmo. He cuts his conversation short and turns to me. “They know of Bellamy.”

“How?” I ask, the question barely above a whisper.

Elmo shrugs slightly. “News travels.”

I shake my head. “Not like this. Not information like this.”

Someone has been talking, someone who knows more than they should. And in this game, having unnecessary knowledge is dangerous.

Elmo looks at me, his dark eyes solemn. “Let’s find out what they know.”

“No names,” I tell him as he walks back toward the men. “Not until we figure out how deep this goes.”

He nods and begins speaking with them again, this time asking what they know about Bellamy.

The two men exchange a look and then answer in Spanish.

The wait is agonizing, but finally Elmo turns to me.

“Vega is building a new network. That’s what Puzo was working on. Vega had a falling out with your grandfather years ago and was demoted within his organization. He disappeared, and now he’s quietly rebuilding his network, which includes…”

“What? For God’s sake, what, Elmo?”

“It includes a new smuggling route. Right through the Bellamy ranch.”