4. Dominic
Dominic
Santos sinks into a leather armchair in front of my desk, nodding toward the floor-to-ceiling windows behind me. “Nice view.”
“Perks of being the hotel owner.” My focus remains trained on him.
He leans back and crosses an ankle over a knee.
My men spent the morning watching Santos. He’s down five thousand dollars in my casino. There doesn’t seem to be a set of blackjack tables or slot machines he can walk by without playing a hand or pulling a lever. I’m sure after our meeting, he’ll keep forking over his money.
In the chair next to him, Leo holds his notebook open on his lap, and on the couch to my left, my father and Nico wait for me to move past pleasantries.
Santos’s enforcer, the same one from the warehouse, lurks by the closed door. I allowed them to keep their weapons. I’m hoping that wasn’t a mistake.
“Jorge,” I say, leaning in, forearms resting on my desk. “I want to make sure you know I meant no disrespect when we didn’t reach out in Miami. There is a threat that we did not want to drag you into the middle of.”
Nico shifts minutely, but I can tell the enforcer catches the movement. My cousin only recently became the boss of Chicago. He still needs to work on his tells.
“Ah, but, Dominic, your enemies are my allies,” Santos counters, a gleam in his eye at the prospect of argument.
“Are we not allies?” I cock my head in challenge.
“We are.”
Point for me.
He takes a moment, fingers drumming the arm of the chair. “I do not want to interfere. So, I cannot give you information about the Kozlovas or the Medinas.”
Nico scoffs.
I send him a glare, then nod at Santos. “And I wouldn’t ask you to.”
“I would.” Nico jumps in, rising from his seat. “Kozlova and Perez use your ports to smuggle substances, yes?”
“I can’t confirm or deny.” Santos gives a smug grin.
Nico’s long strides carry him until he’s perched at the side of my desk, arms crossed, peering down at Santos. “I already know the answer.”
“It’s not only drugs they smuggle,” I add, attempting to hold the reins to keep Nico’s temper under control.
“You know we don’t allow trafficking.” Santos sneers, insulted at my insinuation.
Nico’s brow quirks. “Or do you just look the other way?”
“Okay,” Leo says, pen tapping his notepad. “I think we do have a common goal. Jorge, I’ve spoken to Dominic ad nauseam about this topic, and if he doesn’t mind my cutting in, I think you will find our list of questions agreeable.”
I wave Leo on. If he can get this meeting on track, he has my blessing.
“We understand you can’t tell us Kozlova and Perez’s whereabouts, and we wouldn’t ask that of you. But can you tell us where the majority of your shipments originate?”
Santos debates for a few moments, sliding a finger over the weathered skin of his cheek. “South America and the Caribbean are all I can tell you.”
I fight a sigh. Leo has to narrow it down.
Leo nods. “My understanding is the cartels are looking for places to launch from other than Venezuela due to recent events.”
“Fair to say,” Santos agrees.
“Mexico has too much competition.” Leo shakes his head, glancing at his notebook
Santos shrugs, but a flicker of a smile tugs at his lips. “I wouldn’t counter your assessment.”
“And Cuba.” Leo looks up. “The families you know are in direct competition with the Mexicans, plus they are also dealing with the issues stemming from Venezuela.”
“You’ve done your research.”
Santos reaches into his pocket and retrieves a pack of cigarettes. He holds them out, asking for my permission. I shrug. I can deal with some secondhand smoke if it gets us answers.
“I have a theory,” Leo says. “I think Kozlova and Perez are right under our noses. They’re not far south, but they’re not inside the States. A territory in the Caribbean, perhaps.”
Santos blows a line of smoke into the air above us. “I can’t tell you more, my friend.”
“One more question.” Leo scribbles on his notepad. “Are they shipping from where they’re hiding?”
Santos laughs. “That would be stupid of them, now wouldn’t it?”
Leo gives me a grin. We’ve got what we need.
“A final thought,” I say, turning to Santos. “I want to make sure we remain on the same page regarding human trafficking.”
“I said so earlier,” Santos snaps, cigarette ash falling to the floor.
I hold back my disgust. “It bears repeating. It’s an offense the Romano-Tariello organization won’t overlook.”
He inhales, then exhales slowly. “Dominic, don’t insult me. I have a code of morals.”
Nico grunts.
Satisfied for now, I drop the subject and offer a comped dinner at Mare Di Sicilia, my upscale Italian steakhouse, for Santos and his wife. He shakes my hand, wishes us well, and takes his cigarette and enforcer downstairs to waste more money in my casino.
As soon as the door closes behind them, Nico turns to me with a scowl. “Why are we ignoring his drug trade? Our family stopped dealing in substances.”
“Nico.” I sigh and lean back in my chair. “It’s not affecting my city, and I can’t cut ties with Santos right now. He has information that I need.”
“Well, it’s affecting Chicago,” Nico grumbles, running a hand through his hair.
Leo stands and rolls his neck side to side. “Nico, we have video of the murder in Miami. It’s all yours; just let us get to Kozlova and Perez, then you can go after Santos. We won’t stop you.”
“You won’t help me.”
I rest my head on the top of my chair as I stare at the ceiling. My cousin is acting like a spoiled brat. His inexperience is showing. “You’ve got to learn patience. I’ll help you when the time is right. We’re not there yet.”
“Nico,” my father chimes in. “Learn to lead with a steady mind. Frustration and impulsivity will be your downfall.”
Nico’s eyes slip closed as he takes a deep breath. “I know. But I can’t keep watching people die on the streets of my city because of assholes like Santos.”
“Yeah, but without Kozlova and Perez, assholes like Santos don’t have product to run,” I point out.
Nico’s brows furrow as he considers my words.
Leo drops his notepad on my desk. “I’m going to start looking into Caribbean locations. The Bahamas, Virgin Islands, Puerto Rico. I have a hunch that Kozlova and Perez have connections somewhere close.”
“Corrupt governments with US ties,” I say.
“Exactly.”
Brilliantly stupid. Exactly what I expect from Anatoliy Kozlova.