Page 54 of Devil's Claim

“From your father.”

“Yes.”

Sighing, I thought about what he’d told me. He was nothing more than a puppet for his father. Typical. “What does your father do?”

He obviously didn’t want to tell me.

I put a couple of bullets in his prized television. I thought he was going to cry.

“The Diamond Exchange.”

“The New York Diamond Exchange?”

“Yes,” Malcolm huffed like there could be no other. “He’s the president of the Diamond Dealer’s Club.”

The news was unexpected and a perfect Easter egg. With Tonya’s affair with Fassi, that meant he had a safe and legitimate place to launder his diamonds. Perhaps we hadn’t made a dent in his supply after all. If I had to guess, I’d say Fassi had lured Malcolm’s father into an unholy alliance with a series of promises. What his father was clueless about was that Fassi didn’t work with partners.

Tonya had been a loose end. So was Malcolm, although he was obviously too stupid to realize it.

“That’s very helpful, Malcolm. See how easy it was to cooperate with me?” He certainly was no career criminal. If he had been, he’d swear for a few minutes he knew nothing in a convincing manner, not caving like some frightened little boy. It certainly cut the time needed. Did the knowledge make what was about to happen to him unsavory?

Not in the least.

“About Maverick. Just for the record, he doesn’t belong to you.”

“He does now.” That was the tipping point, the moment when Malcolm had been too stupid to realize or care that a very bad man had a gun pointed at his head. Well, I’d yet to make that threat but he should get the point.

He didn’t.

So I did what needed to be done and likely what should have occurred months, if not years before.

I put two bullets in his head.

The smirk was still on his face as his head hit the cushions.

Another kill that had absolutely no satisfaction. When I returned to Barcelona, I would need to exorcise some demons. I grinned at the thought. Maybe I’d join the ranks of mixed martial arts fighters in Jago’s stable if only for a fight or two. What the hell?

There was no need to clean up the mess. If he had any staff, they’d do that for me. I unscrewed the silencer, returning it and the weapon to my jacket pocket.

Plus, I didn’t mind leaving my calling card so to speak. The word was out on the street members of the Torres Cartel were in town. Maybe that would put the fear of God into them. Even across the ocean, having my name in the forefront of other cartel minds wasn’t a bad thing. That kept any riffraff from daring to cross the big ocean.

As I left the room, I took a deep breath.

Another wave of exhaustion rolled into every muscle. The aches and pains were a reminder I wasn’t twenty-five and eager any longer. Maybe I just needed a vacation.

So did Christine. That was obvious.

Perhaps I’d taken her to the beaches of Southern France. She’d love it there. So would the kid.

I headed up the stairs, still cautious, but if anyone else was in the house, the person would most likely be a nanny or maybe an overnight housekeeper. My guess was they’d keep quiet.

With the right incentive of course.

The hallway was long with several rooms. I opened every door, finding nothing but expensive furniture and boring artwork. The man obviously had no taste. I continued to try to figure out what Christine had seen in him in the first place.

He was prematurely balding, his paunch from days spent in front of the behemoth of a television instead of cage fighting or boxing. Even jogging. Plus, he had horrible taste in clothes. Something else I prided myself in.

For a monster, I did enjoy a nice suit when the situation required it.