Chapter Nineteen

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Emily walked into the dining room to find Elonzo sitting at the head of a long table with an extra setting to his right. Expensive white china, rows of gleaming utensils, and several different wineglasses all sat atop a white tablecloth. There was a bottle of wine chilling on a stand to his left.

She stopped and took it in, trying not to get in her head. There was no one else here. "Is it…just the two of us tonight?"

Elonzo's gaze darted to her face and then slowly worked its way down. "You look very nice."

She'd decided to wear a long-sleeve, blue satin blouse that gathered loosely around the wrists with tiny white buttons. The flowing neckline plunged low but could be closed with a simple pearl button at the collarbone, which she'd done. She'd cinched the blouse at the waist with a thin black belt that matched her snug black pants with tapered legs. Strappy black heels completed the ensemble, which said she was trying to look nice but not offering herself up to anyone.

"Thank you," she said. "Whoever picked out these clothes guessed my size pretty well."

He stood as she approached the table, and helped her into her seat before retaking his place. "There was no guessing involved whatsoever."

"No?" She tilted her head just an inch.

"I had you measured."

What? "When?"

"While you were passed out in my basement. Couldn't have you walking around in those orange pajamas all day, now could we?"

It gave her the creeps to think someone had been measuring her bust while she'd been drugged.

"Thank you, Elonzo," she squeezed out.

He snapped his fingers, and a man in a crisp white shirt, bowtie, and black slacks appeared.

"Bring a black napkin for the lady," Elonzo said.

"Oh. No," Emily said. "The white one is—"

"I insist," Elonzo said. "Would not want white lint on your lovely outfit."

"I highly doubt there's one speck of lint to be found anywhere in this house."

He smiled. "I do enjoy a tidy home."

"Me too, but only if I'm not the one doing the tidying." Housework sucked.

"Agreed."

The servant returned with her napkin and offered her wine. It was white with a French label. Looked expensive, though she didn't know her grapes beyond the basics like cab or chardonnay.

"So, who was it you wanted me to meet tonight?" she asked, taking a sip of the ice-cold sweet wine. It wasn't bad.

"I did not say you would be meeting anyone. I simply said we would have dinner."

"Ah." This was actually a welcome surprise. No crowds. No hordes of bodyguards.

"I thought it would be nice to get to know one another."

Nice for who? "What would you like to know?" she asked.

"Actually, I thought you might like to ask me some questions. The truth is," he sipped his wine, "I know a lot about you—how you were raised by your aunt, you lost your father to a fishing accident, and your mother abandoned you when you were just a baby."

Ouch. This man did not hold back.

He added, "Surprisingly, we had almost the exact same experience as children. My mother ran off, my father was killed in a car accident, and I was raised by his sister. Though, there were five of us. All boys. It is probably why my aunt died young, too."

Was he trying to convince her they were the same? "And how did you end up in your current line of work?"

"We were poor, and a cousin began selling mota —or weed as you call it. He got some of my brothers to join him."

"So you sold weed and rose through the ranks?" Hard to believe.

"No." He laughed. "I was—how can I say—too much of a pussy to break the law. But I was good with math and numbers. I loved to read and learn. So my cousin and brothers pulled their money together and got me into a private school. From there, I earned a scholarship to Yale and got my degree in business."

"That is quite the story." It explained how he was so connected.

"It is, but after I graduated—early, I might add—I saw how my brothers and cousin were still risking their lives every day to sell drugs while the bosses kept all the profits. I vowed to find a way to get them out of that business and make our own money. Clean money."

"Did you?"

"I did. We started a logistics company, and it was very successful. For a while. Then the cartels began pressuring us to transport their drugs. Cocaine from Colombia. We refused, and they put a bullet in my oldest brother's head. He had a son, who I adopted."

So the Meat Grinder had been Elonzo's nephew? It was a shockingly kind thing to do, adopting him.

He went on, "That was when I decided to get involved in politics. The rest, you know."

She knew that the cartel in power at the time also shot his pregnant wife, which could only mean one thing. "Did the Colombian kill your brother and your wife?" she asked. "Is that why you wanted to take over his business?"

He nodded. "You are very smart, Emily."

"So it was personal for you."

"As I said before, if someone takes from you, you take back. I have already taken everything I can from Bernardo Castillo, but," his jaw pulsed, "not all the people responsible for killing my family members have paid. They have eluded me all these years and, more recently, took my son."

Her stomach rolled with dread. Suite forty-five had killed his adopted son, and if the same people killed his wife and older brother, then… "So Sampson was responsible." Ordered by Bernardo the Colombian.

"His men pulled the trigger, yes. We caught the ones who murdered my brother long ago. More recently, we executed the people who killed my son—the couple you were with that night—but the assassin who took my wife's life is still free. He calls himself Charge—the same man who now hunts me. Your ex-boss."

Oh shit. Olivia and Flint were dead? But Olivia had been pregnant. And why would Charge shoot a pregnant woman? It didn't sound like him at all. She must've gotten in the way. An accident.

Emily's heart sank, and she held back her tears.

"You look surprised," he said.

"I-I…I just don't know what to say." Elonzo was lying, or there was more to the story.

"It is like I told you before. A life only matters to the ones who loved them."

"I'm sorry that happened to her. I meant it, Elonzo." She took her wineglass and sipped, hiding her quivering lower lip. The thing was, she knew for a fact that innocent people were caught in the crossfire of these cartel wars all the time. Kids, pregnant women, babies. It disturbed her to no end. What was the matter with these people?

She set her glass down. "I am guessing the reason I'm here is because you want Charge."

Elonzo was silent for a moment. "I do not."

She blinked at him, waiting for an explanation. Just then, the servant came in carrying two plates.

"I hope you like Caesar salad. It is the chef's family recipe," Elonzo said.

Emily couldn't take this anymore. The games. The sad violence circling her like hungry sharks. "I'm not feeling well. I think I'll go lie down." She stood up.

"You will sit!" Elonzo roared.

And there he is, the violent thug . She slowly lowered herself back into her chair, avoiding eye contact.

"I asked you to trust me," he seethed. "And if I say I will not use you to go after Charge, then I mean what I say."

"Then stop the games," she snarled in a low voice, "and tell me what you want. Because when the most ruthless criminal in the Western Hemisphere tells me he's not after revenge for his dead wife, I find it a little hard to believe."

His hazel eyes narrowed.

"You said," she added, "that I could leave after one week if you haven't gained my trust. And since you're doing absolutely nothing to move the needle, I can only assume what you said is bullshit. So, then, why don't you tell me what you want. Or kill me. Or torture me. Or whatever the hell you're planning. But I can't help you get to Sampson or Charge or—"

"I know Charge is Sampson," he said.

She pulled on a blank expression, saying nothing.

"The operator you call Flint told us before we killed him. He confessed that Charge was really Sampson and that you were being groomed to take over suite forty-five. So why don't you stop the bullshit ?"

Dammit. Why had she told Flint all that? It had happened when Dearheart was holding Charge prisoner. At the time, she'd been desperate to get Flint and Olivia's help, and disclosing the truth had felt like the only way out. She'd been trying to make them see that more had been at stake than just one operator's life. Sampson, aka Charge, was the brains of the operation.

What's done is done. Now she had to figure out her next move. It would likely dictate if she left this place alive or got fed to the sharks.

She was about to speak, but Elonzo cut her off.

"I caution you, Emily, not to break my trust with lies. I know more than you think."

"I don't know what you're asking, so I haven't been given the opportunity to lie."

"I am asking you to trust me. Think I made that clear."

"Why?" she snapped.

He pounded a fist on the table. "Our deal still stands. I will tell you at the end of the week."

Screw him. "Pound that table all you want, but stop wasting my time. Tell me why I'm here."

"Not until I have earned your trust."

"It's not going to happen." She glared back with equal measures of displeasure.

He removed his napkin, folded it neatly, and placed it by his plate. "By the end of the week, your precious Charge will try to kill you. And me. He will not succeed, but he will try. After that, I will tell you what I want."

"He would never hurt me."

Elonzo flashed a sly smile. "I wish I were wrong, but I am not. And I am betting my entire kingdom on it."

Betting his kingdom? How? Fuck this guy! He was crazy. Charge wouldn't kill her.

"Now, I hope you enjoy Wagyu beef. I had it flown in from Japan just for you."

"Feeding me expensive steak is a waste, Elonzo. Just like these clothes. Just like bringing me here to your lovely estate. Because they won't make me trust you."

He inhaled sharply, a wash of rage on his red face. "You will change your mind after you see I'm telling the truth, and you're still standing."