28. The Intricate Web of Enemies
Chapter twenty-eight
The Intricate Web of Enemies
Emily
We navigated the plush carpet of the hotel‘s hallway, the sounds of our small entourage filled the air, a blend of laughter, chatter, tons of armed men stomping around, and the soft rumble of the stroller.
Further up ahead, Kaz wore the biggest grin and guided the stroller into the elevator, flanked by a few of Emilio’s and his men.
The doors closed behind them.
A smile crept over my face.
It had been bitterly cold in Moscow, far too chilly to even think of taking Emilio out for a stroll.
But here, under the gentler sun, Kaz was finally getting his moment. It was almost comical, seeing a man—who had his hands in so many corners of the world—be so eager for something as simple as a walk with his son.
My babies.
It was funny, in a way, how life had a knack for revealing what truly mattered. In this world, Kaz’s every decision could move mountains, but now one of his greatest treasures was the quiet moments spent with Emilio.
Those moments, devoid of the weight of his power, wealth, and empire, where he could just be a dad.
Just then, Lemon appeared from around the corner, her timing impeccable as always. Her face held the usual stoic expression, but her eyes hinted at something more pressing waiting beneath the surface.
As my temporary number two, her presence was both a comfort and a signal that mafia shit was never too far away.
If she does a good job here, then she really will replace Giorgio.
At the same moment, Max’s phone rang, slicing through the ambient noise.
I watched him pull it out, glance at the screen, and promptly ignore it.
The same person is calling him again.
His face was a mask of indifference, but the slight tightening of his jaw didn’t escape me.
I eyed him. “Who’s that?”
“No one.”
“So then give me your phone so I can see.”
“Who are you? My chick now.” He quickly pocketed his phone. “Stop being nosy.”
“I’m trying to have your back.”
“What happened with Delphine last night?”
Tension gathered in my shoulders. “Let’s just have fun today, and I can talk more about it later.”
Max nodded. “And because I love you, I’m going to respect that. How I wish you would respect my little private shit over here.”
“Thought it was no one calling you.”
“It is no one. Anyway. . .let me help Paolo out up there. Harlem is dragging him around.” Max jogged five feet forward and strolled next to them.
You’re definitely hiding something.
Lemon got to my side.
I slowed my pace and looked at her. “Did you find out who was calling Max?”
Her voice remained neutral. “Ufuoma.”
I pressed on, needing to piece together the fragments of information that seemed to be slipping through my fingers. “And what did Louis say about Italy?”
“Louis said it is not his story to tell.”
“Fucking Louis.”
“Then Jean-Pierre called me this morning and said to keep my mouth closed and no longer pursue the matter further.”
The elevator returned to the floor and the doors opened.
Frustration bubbled inside me. “They’re all hiding shit from me because they don’t want Lunita to come out.”
It was a conclusion I was becoming increasingly certain of, the pieces of the puzzle aligning in a way that made sense, yet left me feeling uneasy.
I bet Ufuoma did something to Max, and they know I would kill her over it.
Lemon disturbed my thoughts. “What do you need me to do, Emily?”
“Nothing right now.” I pulled out my phone, dialed the Butcher, and placed the device at my ear. “I’ve got it.”
Up ahead, Max, Paolo, Harlem, and three guards crowded into the elevator.
The doors slid shut.
Meanwhile, the phone rang twice, before the line clicked, and Jean-Pierre’s voice filled the air. “You have impeccable timing.”
“Why?”
“We are boarding a plane to head your way.”
I stopped walking toward the elevator. “New Orleans?”
“Yes.”
Oh shit.
Jean-Pierre’s involvement meant the Cartel situation was super serious, yet I couldn’t help but feel a bit more grounded knowing he was coming. His expertise and calm demeanor had a way of making the insurmountable seem manageable. “Why are you coming?”
“Have you ever heard the term pissing contest ?”
“Of course.”
“It makes sense. The first use of the term was in the United States. 1940 or 1943. Sometime around then—”
“J.P., where is this going?”
“Some have said pissing duel or pissing match , but regardless it is a game in which participants compete to see who can urinate the highest, the farthest, for the longest, or the most accurately.”
I smirked. “So, you’re coming to New Orleans to piss on us?”
“A pissing contest is usually associated with adolescent boys.”
“And?”
“Even more, pissing contests are not unique to humans.”
“Man, would you get to the point.”
“Lobsters have been known to hold copious amounts of urine so that during a duel, they can squirt it out through a pair of muscular nozzles beneath their antennas.”
“Why is this important?”
“Lobsters can shoot it out over five feet in front of them in a plume of liquid—”
“Alright. Now I won’t be eating lobster anytime soon.”
My men got behind me as we waited for the elevator to come back up.
“Emily, you ask why I am coming to New Orleans, and my answer is to referee a possible pissing contest of mega proportions.”
“And who do you think will be pulling out their dicks to piss?”
“Well. . .we have the Lion in one corner.”
I pursed my lips. “And on the other side—the Cartel?”
“Correction. Cartel s .”
My heart hammered in my chest. “More than one cartel?”
“And it is not just two cartels on the other side. You also have a bankster.”
“A what?”
“A billionaire. Old money. Very old. From a dynasty whose wealth traces back to the brutality of slavery and the riches of Jews that died in the Holocaust. The sort of money and power that makes my empire or Kazimir’s looks like a tin can collection.”
“What is the bankster’s name?”
“Archibald Montague Harrington IV.”
“Yeah. He sounds like a racist, rich, piece of shit.”
“And he is dying.”
Before me, the elevator doors slid open, revealing an empty space inside.
“Okay.” I stepped on. “He’s dying from what?”
Lemon and my men followed.
“Harrington IV’s immense wealth and influence cannot block his failing heart, especially after decades of smoking.”
The elevator doors slid closed.
“How old is he?”
“85 and he needs a heart transplant.”
“He’s rich. That shouldn’t be a problem.”
“You will be surprised how hard it is to find a compatible heart. Add the fact that he is number 109 on the transplant list.”
“Damn.”
“And the things that he did to just get that number. . .well. . .it would give you nightmares.”
I widened my eyes.
“The stark reality of organ transplants is that the demand far exceeds the supply. In the US alone, tens of thousands of patients are waiting for organ transplants at any given time, but only a fraction of those in need will receive one.”
The elevator lowered, and the floor numbers on the panel decreased.
Jean-Pierre continued, “There’s a mortality rate for patients on the waiting list—”
“Alright. Alright. What does this have to do with my baby?”
“Kazimir?”
“Yes, J.P. What does this have to do with him? As far as I know Kaz killed the Alligator Don and his people.”
“Kazimir needed the Eye of the Gator, and Archibald needed the heart of a compatible human.”
“So, the Alligator Don dealt in organs?”
“He was the top US broker in the organ trafficking market.”
“Broker.” I frowned. “Fuck. This is about to get nasty.”
“Very nasty, Emily.”
“The two cartels deal with organ trafficking?”
“First, we have Cali Cartel out of Colombia. At the height of their reign in the 90s, they had control of over 80% of the world’s cocaine market.”
“Now?”
“Not so much. While Bolivia, Colombia, and Peru jointly produce about 95 percent of the world’s cocaine. Cali Cartel lost their hold on drugs and are now organ harvesters.”
The elevator doors opened, revealing a full lobby.
Kaz and everybody had already gone outside.
I stepped off the elevator with the phone pressed to my ear.
The opulent lobby enveloped me. The air was thick with the scent of fresh flowers and the soft hum of jazz mingling with the murmur of guests.
I continued forward. “Where are they getting the organs?”
“Under mounting pressure from the US to contain illegal immigration, the Mexican government expanded its visa requirements, making it more difficult for people to fly directly to the US-Mexico border. Instead, they often fly into Brazil or Ecuador, where visa policies are more lax, before heading for Necocli, Colombia.”
“And what happens there?”
“Cali Cartel is in that town and they take migrants up to Mexico to meet with Sinaloa Cartel—the people who help them illegally cross the border—”
“Wait a minute. Cali Cartel is getting organs from migrants?”
“Haitian migrants to be exact.”
I stopped in the center of the lobby. “How?”
“Cali Cartel has a network of doctors, slicers, wreckers, and grabbers.”
My head began to spin as I navigated through crowds of people in the lobby.
“Grabbers live in Necocli and at night steal away unsuspecting migrants waiting for tomorrow morning’s boat ride to the US. Then we have the slicers who cut the migrant open chin-to-chest, while they’re still alive—”
“Oh my God.” I held my stomach. “What the fuck?”
“I just need you to understand the people you are about to start dealing with.”
My pulse picked up. “Go ahead.”
“The Wrecker takes all the required organs out, puts them on ice, and gets them to Sinaloa Cartel.”
“So. . .” Bile rose in my throat. “These Colombians kidnap, kill, and take organs from Haitian migrants, then pass them off to the Mexicans, who then cross over the border to hand the organs to the Alligator Don?”
“Exactly.”
Rage and sadness filled me. “Archibald ordered a heart that was compatible for him.”
“Correct. The Alligator Don went to Cali and Sinaloa Cartels to broker the deal. This means that all parties had a huge stake in the matter.”
“What was everybody getting?”
“The heart cost 1.5 million dollars. The Don’s fee was also a million.”
“And how much were the Cartels getting?”
“They knew Archibald was weak and desperate to avoid death, so they thought bigger.”
“What did the Colombians want?”
“Cali Cartel forced Archibald to talk to the US’s DEA and other agencies to give them a legal air route into the US for five years.”
“So they could bring drugs, organs, and whatever they want into the US while the government turned a blind eye?”
“Correct again, Emily.”
“And the Mexicans?”
“Last year, the US captured their leader, El Cazador .”
“What does his name mean?”
“The Hunter. Known for his relentless pursuit of enemies and traitors. Either way, the US put him behind bars and gave him life in prison with an extra 50 years.”
“And Archibald could deliver?”
“He pulled strings, disappeared politicians, and agency officials, and he puppeteered everyone to do as he said. The Hunter was supposed to be free today.”
“Fuck.”
“Fuck is right. Understand this. Cali Cartel grabbed and killed several migrants until they had a compatible heart for Archibald. Many died, before they found the right one this week. Next, Sinaloa Cartel transported this heart to the Alligator’s Don compound.”
My stomach twisted.
“And then the Lion came around killing the Don and his people, but most important, his men trampled over the heart.”
Terror gripped me.
I approached the grand entrance, the doorman, clad in a crisp uniform, greeted me with a nod and swung the door open.
New Orleans in daylight was a spectacle of color and sound, with the streets alive with the spirit of music and laughter.
But my eyes were drawn immediately across the street, where Kaz stood out like a star amidst all the commotion.
There he was, Kaz, my fiancé, effortlessly pushing a stroller with our son, Emilio, snugly tucked inside. His tall, lean frame moved with a confidence that was both striking and innate.
And as I watched, I couldn’t help but notice the way women’s gazes lingered on him. Several even threw him flirty glances.
Must you be a sexy dad, Kaz.
Sighing, I returned to the phone call. “So. . .what do we do now, J.P.?”
“The Cartels want the Lion’s blood spilled out all over the streets. Archibald will surely do anything to make your stay in the US unbearable.” Jean-Pierre cleared his throat. “Now I am heading your way so I can address this situation before it spirals further out of control.”
“Earlier you said we are heading to New Orleans.”
“I did. My lovely fiancé is adamant that I will not leave her again for a long period of time, and I agree.”
“So, I’ll get to meet Eden?”
His voice held an edge. “As long as there are no safety issues around you.”
“And. . .my god daughter?”
He let out a long sigh. “Yes. My princess will be with us.”
“And what are you going to do to help us—”
“Not help, Emily. Fix . Tomorrow night, I am meeting the heads of all three pissed off parties, and I am going to fix this.”
Kaz stopped at the corner, glanced over his shoulder, and gazed in my direction. Even far away, I could hear the loud, “ Mysh! ”
I shook my head and continued down the block. “How are you going to fix this, J.P.?”
“I plan to tell them that I will now step in as the new broker.”
I frowned. “Broker for the heart?”
“Yes. What else would I do?”
“Fuck that, and fuck that fat, rich piece of shit for needing it—”
“Emily, I have just explained in great detail how Kazimir messed this up and—”
“First of all, it was an accident . Secondly, the heart came from a dead Haitian migrant who just had a dream for a better life.” I picked up my pace. “You think that now we’re going to help this rich guy get another heart? I would rather you just join us, and we unite in killing everyone—”
“Couple convergence—”
“What the hell is that?”
“It is a term that refers to the phenomenon where couples grow more alike over time in their behaviors, attitudes, and even physical appearance—”
“So, you’re saying I’m acting like Kaz?”
“Yes, so let me remind you of two things.”
“And what is that?”
“Paolo and Emilio.”
I pursed my lips.
“You are going to heal yourself in New Orleans and fight a war on three fronts? If you are that confident, then I can have my staff take our luggage off the plane.”
“There’s got to be another way besides killing people for their hearts.”
“Denying the bankster a heart will not stop the organ black market from continuing. It is a billion-dollar global industry.”
I gritted my teeth.
“And let me remind you of something else, Emily.”
“What?”
“I am not doing this free of charge.”
I got to Kaz and he studied me, probably wondering who I was on the phone with. “What do you want, J.P.?”
Kaz sneered.
“Thank you for asking, Emily.” Humor hit J.P.’s voice. “I want territory in Moscow along with the permission to do our own business in Russia. Giorgio will lead this new territory.”
Kaz would never go for it. He already thought too many French were in Russia now. Forget the fact that, if the Corsican got a foothold in Moscow, they would be weaseling into Brotherhood business.”
“Emily?”
“Yes.”
“Your response?”
“I can’t make any guarantees on Brotherhood territories.”
Kaz quirked his brows.
J.P. chuckled. “But, you will talk to him—”
“I will, but understand this. I want to be at the dinner tomorrow night—”
“There is no need for you to be at the dinner—”
“Make sure they have two chairs for Kaz and me, or any talk about Moscow is done.” I hung up.
Kaz studied me. “The Butcher?”
“Yes, and. . .we have a problem.”
He began pushing the stroller forward. “Tell me everything.”