Chapter Eleven #2
“Something wrong?” he asked casually. Just to see what she’d say.
“No.”
Lie .
Her body language screamed otherwise.
He waited a beat, then said, “Does Jennie know the truth?”
She paled. “The truth?” Her throat worked. “About what?”
Another dodge.
He took his eyes off the road long enough to pin her with a look. “About who’s after you. And why.”
Because she hadn’t told him everything. His intuition rarely let him down.
She turned to stare out the window. “I told her my ex sent those men to harass me.”
Caleb ground his molars together. Her vulnerability yanked hard on his protective instincts. He admired her compassion, her internal strength in the face of fear.
But if Manuel Ortega and the young punk with him had ties to Espina Negra, where exactly did Gia’s “ex” fit into the picture?
He pulled up in front of her house, where a Navajo Nation Police cruiser sat parked in the street, the silhouette of a female officer visible inside.
“That’s Naveah, my neighbor,” Gia said.
“Good.” Zach had come through.
“Caleb…” Gia licked her lips, and suddenly, that was all he could focus on.
Pink tongue, full lips.
He really did like that color she wore.
“…dinner. As a thank you. For all your help.”
“What?” He’d missed something.
Her cheeks flushed. “I said I’d like to make you dinner. I make a really good lasagna—family recipe. It’s better than hotel food and…” she shrugged awkwardly. “I feel like I owe you.”
“You don’t owe me anything. ”
But he wasn’t about to turn down a home cooked meal—especially Italian. Or more time around her.
There were still too many questions he needed answered.
Gia reached for the door handle.
He caught her wrist before she could bolt.
She froze, a sharp inhale raking his ears.
Shit. He let go immediately. “I’m sorry.” The last thing he needed was to scare her when he was trying to earn her trust. “What time?”
“Time?” she echoed.
“Dinner.”
“Oh. Six-thirty?”
“I’ll be here.”
Relief brightened her face. “Thank you for bringing me home,” she murmured.
He watched her until she disappeared inside, then waved at the officer and drove away.
Gia had been afraid he’d say no to a meal?
You need to work on your people skills.
On the drive back to the hotel, he called Nathan . “Tell me you have the information I asked for.”
“I do,” Nathan drawled. “Was gonna call you earlier but I got stuck working a security system retrofit for a client.”
His tone sharpened to a deadly edge. “Vincente Garcia’s shiny on the outside, but under the hood? Rotten. Reminds me of Jules Mirga.”
Caleb’s hands tightened on the wheel.
Mirga—the Parisian crime lord who nearly made Nathan’s fiancée, Emily, a victim of his sex trafficking ring.
Nathan continued, “Guy operates some legit businesses in Miami. Runs with the celebrity crowd. Works hard to keep certain family connections out of the press—uses his mother’s maiden name, Garcia. She’s a prominent figure in the Cuban community—best buds with the mayor.”
Dread curdled in Caleb’s gut. “What family connections?”
“Our boy’s Miami-Dade birth certificate lists his full name as Vincente Lopez Garcia. His daddy is Diego Lopez Becerra. Also known as El Víbora —head of the Espina Negra cartel.”
Air rushed from Caleb’s lungs like he’d taken a punch straight to the solar plexus.
Everything made sense now.
Nathan kept going. “ El Víbora runs the cartel from a heavily guarded compound in northwest Mexico, along with his brother Ramón. Rumor has it Vincente heads up the cartel’s US fentanyl trafficking operation, but the guy’s like Teflon—nothing sticks.
DEA got an agent inside his Miami nightclub, but the man went missing a couple months ago. Hasn’t been seen or heard from since.”
Gia’s ex-fiancé was Espina Negra royalty. Head of their US fentanyl trafficking operation.
The man ultimately responsible for his mother’s death.
Son of a bitch .
“What about Doctor Barone?” His voice came out a rasp.
He forced the emotions down. Focused.
“Even more interesting. You sure you got the name right?”
His chest tightened. “Gianna Barone. That’s what she told me.”
“There is no Gianna Barone, doctor or otherwise, in Miami. Closest matches were a few social media profiles. None seemed a good fit, but you didn’t give me much to go on, so I’m sending those leads to you.”
Caleb’s phone dinged. He pulled over to the side of the road and opened the file Nathan sent him. Photos of three different Gianna Barones. “None of these are my Gianna.”
Heavy silence filled the Jeep’s interior.
Shit .
After a moment, Nathan responded. “Didn’t think so.
You said you thought Doctor Barone was from New York.
So, here’s where it gets interesting. I found a Gianna Barone from Brooklyn.
Age lines up. Father was mobbed up. Doing life for multiple hits.
Mother divorced him, remarried inside the family if you know what I mean.
At age eighteen, Gianna Barone disappeared. ”
Caleb’s fingers flexed around his phone. “What do you mean, she disappeared?”
“Just that. She dropped off the grid. No addresses, no employment, credit records, death certificate. Nada. But funny thing—same year Abigail Winters pops up. Attended college and med school in New York. Did her residency in Miami.”
“Family?”
“Martin and Rachel Winters. Upper East Side. Died in a car accident when Abigail Winters would’ve been eighteen. No children mentioned in the obituary.”
A beat of silence crackled over the line.
“I did a little digging,” Nathan went on. “Turns out they had one child—a daughter. Died of SIDS at three months old. Any guesses what her name was?”
“Abigail.”
“Bingo. You sure are smart for an Army guy.”
Caleb couldn’t even muster up a half-hearted fuck you. “Do you have a photograph of this Abigail Winters? ”
“I can do you one better.” Nathan’s amusement faded. “The photo is from Miami’s society pages. Guess who Doctor Winters is pictured with?”
“Vincente Lopez Garcia.”
“Give the man a cookie.”
Caleb’s phone dinged again.
In the new photo, Gia—no, Abigail—wore a red gown that molded to every tempting curve. Diamonds glittered on her ears. Her hair had been straightened and hung over her shoulders like liquid night.
Next to her was a good-looking, dark-haired man in his thirties. El Víbora’s son, Vincente, stood in a custom black tuxedo, his hand possessively at her waist.
“Is that your Doctor Barone?” Nathan asked. “She’s a looker.”
“Yeah.”
She was a beauty.
She was also a liar.