24. You Can’t Bomb New Orleans
Chapter twenty-four
You Can’t Bomb New Orleans
Kazimir
The suite door clicked shut behind me, sealing off the world with all its lurking shadows and whispered threats. I was sure Tisha still stood in the hallway, stunned and exhausted.
But he would get the job done or deal with my roar.
Everybody wants to stand by the Lion, but barely anyone is ready to do the work.
When Tisha had come to Moscow and met King David, he had mocked the title and questioned why I kept David so close to me.
In New Orleans, Tisha would understand more than most why David wore the crown.
I stood there for a moment, letting the gravity of Tisha’s news sink in. The Cartel, with its tendrils reaching far and wide, had shown a level of preparation and aggression that couldn’t be ignored.
Our delivery of the dead bodies to the Cartel’s headquarters was meant to be a message, a clear statement of power and retribution.
Yet, in the back of my mind, a nagging thought persisted.
Will it be enough to grant us the peace we so desperately need if we stay in New Orleans?
I noticed a small bar on the right.
The bar itself was a masterpiece of craftsmanship, the wood polished to a high shine. Bottles of various shapes and sizes, filled with liquids of every hue, were meticulously arranged against a mirrored backdrop.
Behind it, black and white photographs of jazz legends decorated the walls.
I approached the bar with one purpose. My fingers itched for the familiar cold touch of a vodka bottle.
Hmmm. Where is it?
I rifled through the selection, my frustration mounting with every passing second.
None? Did they not know that I would be here?
King David told me that New Orleans had a great history for bourbon and recommended that I should try it on my visit.
I smirked.
David probably also thought the liquor would keep me calm.
Let’s see, King. Will it?
I selected a bottle of bourbon that boasted an age statement impressive enough to pique my interest. The amber liquid glowed seductively in the dim light.
This better taste good.
I poured the bourbon into a heavy crystal glass, lifted it, and took my first sip.
Well. . .not bad at all.
The warmth of the bourbon caressed my insides. Notes of vanilla, oak, and a hint of caramel danced together on my tongue.
I carried my glass over to one of the couches and collapsed in exhaustion.
And what is my mouse doing?
I turned to the left.
Emily played with the paint, mixing colors and dabbing globs of dark hues onto a palette.
Are you going to paint like Baba suggested?
From this vantage point, I watched my mouse and contemplated the chessboard of the criminal underworld laid out before me.
Hmmm.
I took a gulp of bourbon and pondered my next moves.
The game was always the same—power, loyalty, and death.
Tonight, the question of how to best eliminate a new possible enemy hovered above my head.
If this Cartel continues to piss me off, then they will be destroyed.
It wasn’t a matter of if, but of how.
I watched Emily begin to paint.
Many options played out in my mind like a macabre ballet—bombs, flames, poison, sniper bullets. Each method had its own artistry, a lethal elegance that required as much finesse as Emily applied to her canvas.
It doesn’t matter what the Cartel tries, no one can defeat me or my mouse.
Now that she wasn’t pregnant, we would be an even deadlier team.
I studied Emily, curved my lips into a smile, and swore the air between us charged with an electric current.
Danger and desire.
That was us.
It was all as intoxicating as the bourbon I nursed.
Fuck the Cartel. Fuck any of our enemies. You will all become corpses. Stand. The fuck. Down.
The very air I breathed was thick with the tension of Emily’s unspoken words and the weight of my decisions yet to be made.
But, it was in these moments that I found myself most alive.
Emily painted, lost in her world of colors and forms, and I watched her with a mix of admiration and longing.
She was a light in my dark life of shadows, a reminder of the humanity I fought so hard to keep buried.
As the night deepened, the shadows in the room grew longer, and my resolve hardened like the ice clinking against the crystal tumbler in my hand.
The Cartel, no matter their resources or cunning, would find in me an adversary unlike any they’d faced. The delivery of their fallen was just the beginning, a chess move in a game where I intended to be the victor. My family’s safety was paramount, the cornerstone of every decision I’d make from here on out.
In the quiet of the suite, with Emily near, I knew the path ahead would be fraught with danger.
But I also knew something the Cartel didn’t.
I had something worth fighting for, something worth protecting at all costs. My love for Emily and our sons was a weapon no one could anticipate, a force that would drive me to outthink, outmaneuver, and outfight anyone who dared threaten our peace.
I finished the bourbon and set the glass on the table.
Emily slathered black paint onto the bottom of the canvas, in thick strokes that mimicked the texture of sand under a moonless night. Each sweep of her brush added depth and darkness to the foundation of her emerging world.
What is she painting?
Someone knocked.
Then, the door opened.
Maxwell stepped in with a lit joint. “Where are the boys?”
I pointed toward the area of our bedrooms. “Further back in the suite and sleeping.”
“Damn. They didn’t get to say goodnight to Uncle Max.” He shook his head. “Some would call that child abuse.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Oh well.” He signaled to his joint. “Can I still smoke in here?”
“Open the windows and make sure it all goes out there.” I gazed back at my mouse.
She had finished with the black sanded bottom. Now, she mixed grey with white and began to paint a storming sky.
Maxwell blew smoke out of the window and then turned my way. “Tisha said the Cartel are sniffing around us.”
Emily stopped painting and turned to me.
“I had to kill the Alligator Don due to him not only playing games, but his raping a woman in front of me. He was backed by the Cartel. They are probably pissed, but what would you have wanted me to do in that moment?”
Emily nodded and returned to painting.
Maxwell flicked joint ash outside of the window. “But, will the Cartel be a problem?”
“Tisha is on it.”
“Shit.” Maxwell frowned. “I would have felt better if you said King David is on it.”
“Tisha will show his worth.”
“He better.” Maxwell took a hit from his joint. “I don’t want a repeat of Italy.”
“Nothing will ever be as bad as Italy.”
“Let’s hope so.”
“More men are on their way along with more weapons.”
“Man, you can’t bomb New Orleans.” Maxwell tilted his head to the side. “You know that right?”
“There will be no need for bombs as long as the Cartel behaves.”
“Yo, New Orleans looks like it is still trying to get right after Hurricane Katrina, and that was years ago. Don’t bomb this motherfucker.”
“Tisha is handling it.”
“Eh, Mexicans don’t play. In the Americas, you’re in the wild, wild west. Fucking Europe is about traditions, culture, and shit. Meanwhile, the States, Mexico, and even South America. . .” He took a hit of the joint and then blew out smoke. “Shoot. We are about that life .”
“These continents are toddlers to us, and all your little dangerous criminal groups are babies, sucking on bottles that we, ourselves, put into their begging tiny mouths.” I put my view back on Emily.
She’d finished with the grey sky and black sandy ground.
Now she worked on what I assumed to be the centerpiece—a huge building that rose from the middle of the canvas. Its brown outlines were sharp against the odd background.
Maxwell eyed it. “Did you smoke in the car, Em?”
She shook her head and continued painting the building.
Maxwell walked over and handed the joint to her.
She paused from painting, took two quick puffs, and gave it back to him.
Maxwell returned to the window and exhaled a cloud of smoke.
The smoky tendrils swirled outside into the cool night air.
The door opened again, this time it was one of my men bringing in the tea. He placed the tray on a side table and then left.
I poured a cup for Emily before settling back onto the couch, cradling my own cup between my hands.
Maxwell turned to me. “Do you have Misha looking into the Cartel?”
“Do you think that I have suddenly learned how to be the Lion, upon meeting you?”
“Man, I’m just asking a question.”
“Stop worrying. The Cartel will not be a problem,” I said more to myself than to Maxwell or Emily. “We have dealt with worse.”
Maxwell chuckled. “Man, that big dick energy be fogging your head sometimes. Just remember. I heard Mexicans got big dicks too.”
“Get out of our suite.”
Grinning, Maxwell took a long hit of his joint, pulled out a lighter, and headed over to my mouse. “Keep these.”
With her free hand, she took the joint from him.
Maxwell set the lighter on the easel and walked off. “I’m going to bed. Whatever voodoo shit happened tonight and whatever Cartel shit is going to happen tomorrow, I want to be fresh to death and well-slept.”
I sipped my tea.
Maxwell left.
Emily continued painting, her brush strokes growing bolder as she worked on detailing the large building. The structure had an imposing aura that seemed reminiscent of something historical, perhaps even biblical.
Is it the Tower of Babel?
I almost asked as I placed the tea on the tray.
But then, she left the building alone, dipped her brush in brown paint, went to the corner of the painting, and began tracing the image of a little girl.
What are you painting?
I couldn’t wait for her to speak because I had so many questions.
What happened with Delphine’s healing? And how did you figure out that there are more personalities?
Still, a sense of tranquility washed over me as I watched her.
Emily’s focus was absolute, each stroke of her brush deliberate and filled with an emotion she couldn’t voice but could vividly express on canvas.
The room was silent, save for the soft swish of her brush and the occasional distant murmur from the bustling city of New Orleans below our window. This serene bubble we found ourselves in felt miles away from the chaos and danger that awaited outside.
There was something mesmerizing about watching her create, watching her bring to life something beautiful from a palette of colors.
This was another reason why I had fallen in love with her long ago in New York. She’d created these breathtaking lions that seemed to jump out from the canvas.
I smiled.
A killer and an artist wrapped into a sexy body.
My eyes followed her movements, admiring the graceful way her hands moved with precision and care. The tension that had been my constant companion began to ebb away, replaced by a warm sense of pride and affection for the woman before me.
Emily, my mouse, had faced so much, yet here she was, resilient and strong, pouring her spirit into a canvas that could hold it.
Tension left my shoulders.
The soft lighting of the room, the gentle hush of the night, and the rhythmic sound of Emily’s painting lulled me into a state of contented drowsiness.
My eyelids grew heavy, the weight of sleep pulling them down despite my desire to stay awake and watch her.
No. Stay up. I want to see what she finishes with.
I fought against the tide of sleep, wanting to be present for her, to share in this moment of peaceful creation, but the comfort of the room and the late hour conspired against me.
Before I knew it, my efforts to remain vigilant gave way to the comforting embrace of sleep.
I will just rest my eyes.
Slumped on the couch, I drifted off, the image of Emily painting the last thing I saw.