Page 61 of Bad Blood

The same way I’ve imagined the wife I claim to hate would look lying underneath me.

We watch in silence as the camera pans this way and that, covering every inch of her tan skin, before Bardi is roughly pushing her onto her front and continuing. When he turns her back and starts spreading her legs, I hit the pause button and toss the phone across the table.

“I’ve seen enough. What the fuck is he doing to her? Measuring her for a new dress?”

“It’s an audition.”

“Awhat?”

“For a sex trafficking auction, I believe.”

The air comes shooting out of my lungs. For all of my family’s sins, flesh trade is a barter we don’t tolerate. A few thousand kilos of cocaine couldn’t care less how it’s cut or defiled, but a human being—a woman whose only crime was to exist—never recovers. Sex slave trade scars are permanent.

Provided she survives the bite of its blade.

“¡Hijo de su puta madre!” I bite out between clenched teeth. “He never had any intention of handing this over to Thalia.”

RJ shakes his head. “Can we kill him now?” There’s murder in his voice. The kind that would give even the hardest of criminals pause.

“Not until he’s served his purpose.”

He grunts his displeasure. “What’s the plan, then?”

“To win.”

“Santi…”

“This isn’t up for debate, Harcourt.” In truth, I need time to formulate a new one after everything that’s come to light tonight. “Look into the group behind this auction. See what you can find out.”

“There’s one other thing,” RJ notes, draining his glass. “Bardi is still claiming to have no knowledge of what happened here the other night.”

“I think it’s pretty obvious he’s not working for Santiago if he’s using a skin flick of one daughter in an attempt to blackmail the other.” Raking a frustrated hand through my hair, I dislodge the last remaining remnants of its slicked back style. None of the pieces of this puzzle are fitting together. They’re all different sizes and shapes with entirely separate pictures on the front.

“Should we put the bar buyout on hold for a while?”

“No.” If anything, I want control of New York even more. “I have another meeting with Monroe scheduled for tomorrow morning.”

“In the interim, this should cheer you up.” RJ flicks through his phone again and holds out a photo of the burning wreckage that used to be Sam Sanders’s flagship bar—The Barfly.

“Tell Rocco he did well,” I say with a grim smile. “Send him an extra grand as a bonus.”

Is this what finally made Santiago snap and fire a “Daddy gunfire special” at his youngest daughter?

The thought makes my lips flatten in a tight line.

“Thalia has requested to meet with Bardi on Friday night. Speaking of which…” Reaching into the inside pocket of my suit jacket, I pull out the Italian’s phone. It’s time my new bride receives the answer she’s been waiting for.

Happy fucking wedding day, Thalia Carrera.

Draining the last of my tequila, I type out a short text, mentally punching that asshole’s face as I hit send.

It’s about time. Friday at nine. Don’t be late, bitch.

I’m about to pocket the phone when I change my mind and type one final line.

Nice pic of MY money... Next time, send me one with your legs open.

Disgusted, I hit send, and toss the phone back onto the glass table, quickly ordering another drink to dilute my guilt.