4. Pedro
Pedro
Mateo’s voice drifts into my living room, a steady stream of updates I stopped listening to ten minutes ago. His earphones are practically glued to his ears, connecting him to every cop contact feeding him intel.
“We need to figure out who we’re dealing with—and fast,” I say, trying to hurry him up.
“It feels like the Russians, but this isn’t their usual way of doing things.
Especially not with women involved.” He nods as he answers whoever’s on the other end.
Information has always been my domain. I know exactly which strings to pull and who to call to get results.
But something about this isn’t clicking.
It feels French, but on Russian territory.
The whole situation’s too familiar, and I really hope my instincts are wrong.
My phone buzzes, and I pick it up without even checking the screen.
“Pedro,” Alin’s voice says on the other end, instantly reigniting every bit of tension I’ve been trying to keep in check. I fight the urge to hang up on her, even though I don’t want to hear a word right now. She’s the reason my broth—no, the capo —is keeping tabs on my private life.
“What do you want?” I respond flatly.
“Grumpy much?” She snorts. “Bay found the bag I left for her at the beach and just called to let me know. She needs a ride back. Are you coming?”
Bay’s back. My pulse speeds up at the thought, but reality hits almost as quickly. Clenching my fists, I take a heavy breath before answering, “Yeah, I’m coming.”
The capo didn’t say I couldn’t see her or be there for her, just not… with her. It’s not much, but I’ll take whatever I can get right now.
“Mateo, I’m heading out. Keep me updated on anything new,” I say, grabbing my car keys off the glass oval table in the living room and walking out without waiting for his reply.
Alin is already waiting by my black SUV, her expression calm despite the storm she stirred up earlier. I don’t bother acknowledging her as I slide into the driver’s seat, double-checking my gun’s placement—just in case.
“What’s up with you today?” she asks as she hops into the passenger seat, snapping on her seatbelt.
At three or four months along, her belly is starting to show in the tight long-sleeve shirt she’s wearing.
Seeing that, I remind myself that it’s my nephew or niece in there, and it’s better not to make a scene.
“Nothing,” I reply, starting the engine and pulling us out of the parking lot. “Just hungry,” I add, hoping it’ll end the conversation. Her skeptical stare tells me she isn’t buying it.
“Hungry for what, exactly? Because that look says you’re out for blood, not food,” she presses, and I let out a long sigh.
“Just some issues with Luca,” I mutter, hoping to keep her questions at bay and focusing hard on the road ahead.
“You and me both,” she chuckles, and I hold back a sarcastic retort, knowing she’s practically handing me an opportunity to snap. But it’s not the time.
After a moment, she says, “I don’t know what Bay’s told you about what happened to her before, but the Hunters’ pod is no joke.
Just swimming near their cave is a nightmare by itself; I can’t even imagine what she’s been through.
Please don’t mention anything until she’s willing to share,” she pleads, her eyes locked on the side of my face.
My jaw clenches, and I grip the steering wheel harder, my knuckles turning white as I imagine the horrors Bay faced.
“I know,” I manage to say, keeping my voice steady, but just barely.