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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 thoseleads 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’sson, 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.”
Shewasa beauty.
She was also a liar.
Chapter Twelve
“Thisisthesecondmajor shipment lost to the Americans this month.” Diego Lopez Becerra—El Víbora—glared at his son through a sixty-five-inch monitor in the secure room of Vincente’s Miami Beach nightclub, Club Turquesa. The other monitors in the room displayed real-time feeds from the security cameras throughout the club.
“Papi, the DEA and Homeland Security are cracking down.” Vincente kept his voice level. In the background, the main dance floor’s thumping bass pulsed, although the pale gray acoustic panels lining the walls kept most of the club noise out.
He sat at the long oval table of smoked glass and brushed steel. “Border crossings are up. Precursor chemical shipments from China are under scrutiny. They’re sending a message.”
“Where are your informants? What are they doing besides collecting large sums of money from us?”