The afternoon sun was leaning heavy against the limestone walls of the De La Vega estate as the black SUV rolled up the gravel driveway. Inside, the vehicle smelled less like a high-security transport and more like a high-end pantry.
Eloise sat amidst bags of organic flour, gleaming copper whisks, crates of fresh raspberries, and jars of vanilla beans that had cost more than her previous month's rent.
Leo and Marcos, two of the most feared tactical operatives in the tri-state area, were currently surrounded by fifty-pound sacks of high-gluten flour, crates of organic Madagascan vanilla beans, and enough fresh berries to supply a small grocery store.
"I have blood on my hands from the Medellín cartel," Leo muttered, shifting a heavy crate of lemons off his lap as the car came to a halt. "And now I smell like a lemon tart. Luciano is going to smell me from the foyer and think I've defected to a French patisserie."
