CHAPTER 25
It was eight, and we were having breakfast. I had already fed Andrea, and I was now eating mine—bacon and toasted bread.
I cut into the hard bread, the knife scraping against it, and spread a bit of butter on top. Kai walked in. He looked tired, drained in a way sleep couldn't fix.
Andrea made gibberish sounds when she saw her father. She raised her tiny hands, demanding to be picked up. Kai smiled and lifted her into his arms.
"How's my angel doing today?" He kissed her cheek.
Andrea smiled.
After the father-daughter greeting, he finally turned to me.
"You slept well?" he asked.
I nodded.
He dished out his breakfast and settled down to eat. As soon as he sat, I cleared my own plate, the clink of cutlery louder than necessary.
"I'll take Andrea out for some fresh air," I suggested—doing almost anything to get away from him.
I reached out for my daughter, but Kai grabbed my wrist instead. For a minute, he just stared into my eyes, his grip firm but not painful—controlled.
"Sit down. I want to talk to you," he commanded, then let go.
"I don't think there's anything we have to talk about. We haven't been talking much, so I think it's best we keep it that way," I replied.
"Are you still angry about last night? Simone, it's just alcohol," he said. I couldn't believe he was actually making it sound that simple.
"It's not just about last night!" My throat tore the words out of me. "It's about everything you've been doing to me! The late nights, the cheating… EVERYTHING!" I shouted.
For a moment, Kai let us sit in the heavy hush that swallowed the room.
"Simone, I think you're being childish. We both know our marriage wasn't one of love," he chuckled. "We were both forced into this."
"And I have been according you the respect a husband deserves! I have been nothing but a submissive wife to you. Heck, you don't do anything a husband should. You don't even respect me the tiniest bit! If I decide to go out, get wasted, and fuck whoever I want, how would that make you feel?" Bitterness and pain bled through every word. Here I was, trying to do nothing but love a man who clearly didn't want anything to do with me—even after ten years.
"You wouldn't dare! You're my wife!" His voice was now laced with anger.
"Oh, you remember I'm your wife now?" I chuckled bitterly. "You're such an ungrateful man, Kai. If not for my father—"
Andrea's cries stopped me cold.
My eyes widened. We had been arguing in front of my baby. I had no idea what was going on in her tiny mind, but I knew it would leave an impression. This definitely wasn't the household I wanted my child to grow up in.
CHRISTIAN'S POV
We had reached an agreement with Santiago. He didn't tell us where Trejo was, but he gave us a contact—how to reach him. It had been two weeks since we let him go.
"Call him," I told Massimo, who sat across from me.
He did as instructed. "It's ringing," he smiled.
"Speaker mode."
It rang for some time, then went to voicemail. We tried again. Same thing. Voicemail.
Frustration coiled tight in my chest. I could feel my patience wearing thin. I clenched my fists, forcing myself to stay still, to contain the outburst threatening to erupt. I had been doing serious work on myself—working on my temper for my son.
And Brenda… that was before.
Now, it was entirely for Elijah.
Massimo was about to hang up when the call was finally answered.
"Olá?" the voice on the other end said.
I knew instantly it was Trejo. That ugly, gravelly voice. Plus the Spanish.
"We talk again, Trejo." I took the phone off speaker and pressed it to my ear. I didn't trust anyone apart from Reginald, and he was unavailable at the moment. I looked up at Massimo and gestured toward the door. He nodded and stepped outside.
"Who am I talking to?" Trejo asked hesitantly.
"Who can have the balls to call you if not…" I let the sentence hang.
I could hear him hold his breath. Then, barely audible: "Diablo."
"The one and only," I smirked.
I had earned the name Diablo during an encounter with the Sicilians. It was a bloodbath. People died—mostly Sicilians. I ordered their bodies cut into small pieces, cooked in vinegar, preserved in cans, and shipped to Sicily. When their boss saw them, he agreed to an alliance. I was twenty-two then. I didn't need anything from the Sicilians, so I never bothered talking to them again. Last I heard, the boss I knew had died. A new one rose—his son. The first one. The son of his youth.
"What do you want?" He was scared. That much I was certain of.
"I just want to know why you raided my warehouse, Trejo. I thought we were good."
"I swear upon the Virgin, I know nothing of what you speak of!"
"Careful, Trejo. Anything you say from here on determines whether you live or die. I'm already doing enough by letting you sell your coke in my country. Your ungratefulness is something I wasn't prepared to face." I lied. I was prepared for anything. In this life, anybody could turn on you. Even your shadow leaves you when it gets dark.
"I'm not even in the States, Christian! How would I order a hit on your warehouses?"
"I know you're not in the country. Tell me—how's India? Lucknow, right?"
"The fuck? How—how did you know where I was, Christian?" he stammered. The seriousness finally struck him. His breathing turned measured, careful—like too much air might end his life.
The kind of fear I invoked.
"You're in a hotel. Fifth floor. Sipping a 'chai,' as they call it, with curry samosas," I narrated calmly.
"Look out of the window."
I heard footsteps on the other end.
He gasped.
"How is he… how is he there?"
"Do you know who served you your tea? Or sorry—your chai?" I chuckled. I could practically smell his unease through the phone.
"Reginald! What do you want, Diablo? Please, just don't let him shoot me," he begged.
I knew that after serving the food, Reginald was now dressed in all black. Pure assassination mode. Probably sitting in a window opposite Trejo's, waiting for the word.
"Let's talk then. Why the fuck did you raid my warehouse?"
"I did not do it, Christian. Please believe me. You know I would never invite death to my doorstep."
"Where is your ring, Trejo?" I pressed, ready to catch him.
"It's here. It's on my finger!"
"Liar! I have your damn ring with me. The fucking place stank of your mothballs!" I fumed.
"No, no, no—listen. I can send you a picture, or you can… tell Reginald to come and check for himself," he offered. The fact that he suggested that told me everything.
He really didn't know.
"Tell me where you got your ring done."
This is the start of a long war, I thought.
"Oh—and Trejo?" I added calmly. "That chai has laxatives in it."
Then I hung up.