Dirty Dealings: The Zeta Cartel Novels, #3

By AJ Adams

Warm-hearted Natalia Truelove will do anything for family, so when her ex-father-in-law is sent to prison, she shelves her restaurant plans and manages the family pub. But when she runs foul of a local gangster, and her niece is targeted, the gloves are off. As the police won't help, Nats embarks on a lethal game: blackmailing the Zeta Cartel's top hit man to do her bidding.

 

Enrique 'Quique' Ramas is having a bad time. Back in Mexico his marriage has fallen apart and his wife has made him a laughing stock by cheating on him. Now he's in London and out of his depth with a complex commercial deal. To make things worse, Natalia Truelove, a chef and pub manager, is blackmailing him. Quique is ready to commit murder and he's pretty sure who his first victim will be.
 

Dirty Dealings is an enthralling tale of deceit, murder, cartel violence and finding love in the darkest of times. It is the third Zeta Cartel novel, and can be read as a standalone.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ellen Whyte
• Release date: Jan 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393898979

AJ Adams

AJ Adams writes twisted love stories set in the violent world of the Cartel, Camorra, Belial's MC and Prydain. All AJ Adams novels are self-standing and although some feature the same families, you need not read them all - but it would be awesome if you did. If you enjoy these novels and want to stalk, please know that AJ is the pen name for Ellen Whyte. Ellen married her best friend and moved to the tropics where they are living their own Happily Ever After. When she's not writing, she's cooking and pandering to her rescue cats Target, Swooner and Tic Tac.

Book preview

Demystifying The Spanish

If you’re curious what the Zetas are saying, here’s a list.

A toda madre - totally awesome

Amorcita - little loved one

Bruja mala leche - literally witch bad milk but used in the sense of you bloody witch

Cabron - this is a male goat, but it’s also used in the sense of arsehole

Capullo - this is the head of the penis, but used in the sense of arsehole

Chiflado - someone who boasts or who is a know-it-all

Chiquitína - little girl

Chocho - pussy, loser

Cholo - used in the sense of dude by South American cartel people but in the USA it can refer to a particular gangster look that involves army trousers, sleeveless tops and lots of prison black ink tats

Cojeme - this is catch me, but it’s used in the sense of bloody hell or other expression of surprise.

Coño - a general curse word, used in the sense of fuck

Corazon - literally heart but used in the sense of darling

Estoy enchufando - I’m hooking up

Guapa - pretty

Hijo (de) puta - literally son of a whore but used in the sense of son of a bitch

Huevos - literally eggs but used in the sense of balls

Joto - Mexican derogatory slang for homosexual

Loba - literally a female wolf but used in the sense of whore

Maricon - Spanish derogatory slang for homosexual

No me jodas - literally don’t fuck with me but used in the sense of you’ve got to be kidding

Pendejo - arsehole, idiot

Pinche... - this adds intensity to an insult. Like pinche cabron means serious arsehole

Pobrecita - poor little thing

Pollas en vinagre - literally vaginas in vinegar but not as polite, used in the sense of extreme surprise.

Pulpo - literally an octopus but used to describe a man who can’t keep his hands to himself

Querida - darling

Suegro - father-in-law

Una buena inversion - a good investment

Valedor - friend

Verga - Mexican for cock

Zorra - literally a female fox but used in the sense of bitch or whore

Zorruta - a mix of zorra and puta used in the sense of nasty little bitch

Chapter Zero: Natalia, three years ago

He was stinking drunk . Beer cans littered the table and the floor. There was a stack of cash on the table next to an ashtray overflowing with butts and the remains of a massive, smouldering joint.

I faced him, showing him the gun. If you come near me again, I’ll kill you.

You don’t have the stones.

He lurched to his feet, stumbling towards me, reeking of beer, hash and sex. Bile choked my throat, and I felt him on top of me again, that foul breath in my face, the pain as he ripped deep inside me.

He was leering. Want some more?

I pulled the trigger. There was a muted blam, and he reeled back, falling over the back of the chair just like in the films. I stared at the body. It didn’t seem real. Also, I wasn’t sorry.

For a moment I thought someone would come, alerted by the noise. I held my breath and counted to ten. Nobody came running. Nobody screamed. Sirens failed to ring through the night. That’s London for you. Nobody gives a damn.

I looked around. I hadn’t touched anything. Even if I had, the place was such a pigsty that they’d find thousands of DNA samples. If they bothered to look. Probably they wouldn’t. Francis Duke was scum.

I used my coat sleeve to smudge the door handle and left. I dropped the gun in the river on the way home.

Chapter One: Quique

Iknew something was wrong the moment I spotted the halcones —the spotters who form our street security—duck and hide as I drove up. When Antonio stepped out of the guardhouse by the gate and also looked shifty, I knew what to expect.

Antonio was a cocky son of a bitch. Being connected, he had a job for life. But instead of working hard and earning a rep, the lazy bastard always did the least amount of work with the maximum amount of mouth.

I’d tried to be patient but the week before I’d chewed him out for sneaking off to see a girl, leaving the halcones in his area unsupervised. I should have given him a good beating and kicked him out, but like I said, he’s connected.

After I ripped him a new one, Antonio sulked like a pussy instead of taking it like a man. He’d also moaned to everyone he could find.

He’s saying you’ve got it in for him, Gordo told me. "He took it all the way to the jefe, but it got him nowhere."

Gordo and I went way back, so we’re tight, tighter than brothers in some ways. I appreciated him having my back. Antonio is a loser. We don’t need people like that, especially in security. If he were anyone else, he’d be out—or six feet under.

"I agree, it sucks. Just don’t let the pendejo get to you, Gordo warned me. He’s poison."

That wasn’t exactly news. Antonio had a rep for troublemaking. He had a nasty way of digging up dirt on people and then spreading it about.

He can dig all he likes; he won’t find a fucking thing on me. And if he tries to be cute, I’ll put the fucker down.

Of course, Antonio knew I wasn’t taking any shit, and as he’d been told to toe the line, he really got his panties in a bunch. He should’ve realised he'd been in the wrong, but the moron thought he’d been disrespected. I would have avoided him, given him time to cool off, and then set him straight because keeping the men in order is part of my job. However, it was his turn to run the security team that guards my home, so there he was.

From his supressed joy, there was trouble waiting for me. I waved a polite hello. In order not to put him on the spot, I was careful not to stop. If he’d said something, I’d have had to kill him, and there was no need for that. I knew what to expect; this was a domestic problem.

I took the gun out of the glove box, left the car in the drive and went inside.

Quique, you’re home!

Tina, my wife, came running down the stairs. I took in the narrow, well made-up face, the chestnut hair that cascaded over her shoulders, and the huge amber eyes, small nose and wide mouth. I’d fallen head over heels for that beautiful face eight years ago. Now she left me cold.

Tina tried to delay me, but I pushed past her and went to our bedroom. He was climbing out the window wearing just cowboy boots and shorts. He turned, saw me and yelled, Wait! I can explain!

Tina clutched at me, yelling, No, Quique, no!

Too fucking late, because I’d already shot him. I’d aimed at the heart, but Tina's pulling spoilt my aim. I got him high up in the shoulder, and the impact was enough to propel him out the window. I looked out and heaved a sigh of relief because the hijo de puta hit the deck instead of my new Beemer. It’s a 4-series coupe, and replacing parts costs a fucking fortune.

You killed him!

Tina’s wail provoked my irritation. What the fuck did you think I’d do? Thank him for fucking my wife?

She took a breath, getting ready to screech at me when the cowboy groaned. Tina leaned out of the window, Run! she shouted. For God’s sake, he’ll kill you!

She knew me, you see. She stood in my way, struggling for the gun, and by the time I got round her, the fucker was racing down the path. I was thinking he could enter the Olympics when my first bullet missed him by an inch. He accelerated and vaulted over the gate. Forget Usain Bolt, he could give Aries Merritt a run for his money, too.

He thought he’d gotten away, but I’m a pro. I shook Tina off again, sighted and finally took the bastard out. He’d gotten half way down the street, about half a kilometre from the window, so it was a damn good shot. That’s why I love my Magnum .44: it always delivers much more than you might imagine. Much unlike my wife.

Murderer! Tina screamed. She was yelling in front of the open window, making a spectacle of herself in full view of the guards and the neighbours. I’d built us a house on the Rio Grande because I like the country, but we’d never lived there because Tina wanted to be in the thick of things. So I’d bought another house in town, a pretty good investment actually, but thanks to that I reckoned we had a dozen witnesses.

It was humiliating having others in on our personal business. Until now Tina had kept her affairs discreet, fucking around when she was on shopping trips in the States or attending fashion shows in Europe. I’d also done my damnedest to keep our troubles quiet, but now the whole world would know.

I wasn’t worried about the cops because everyone in Mexico knows that informing on the Zetas is a death sentence.

I’ll report you. You’ll rot in jail forever.

Right, Tina would think she was immune, and maybe she was. All of Tina’s family were connected. In fact, we’d met at a lunch at the jefe’s house—that’s Arturo Vasquez, head of our cartel. Tina arrived with a date, but I got her number before we sat down, and that night I took her to dinner. I was smitten, bowled over, and I proposed a week later.

Now that love was gone. There had been too many fights, too many men, too many betrayals. It didn’t even hurt anymore that she was doing someone else, but it was the first time she’d done it in our home.

Jesus, Tina, what were you thinking? A fucking cowboy in our bed?

Why not? You’re not here.

I was away three days. You could’ve come.

Bolivia? No thanks. I’ve better things to do.

I looked at our home, six bedrooms, a pool and a tennis court, kept immaculate by a full-time staff of five. My wife didn’t cook, clean or even make coffee. The heaviest thing she picked up was a credit card. That was something she did frequently. Jewellery shopping was her hobby. Even now, straight out of our bed, she was loaded with ruby earrings, a diamond necklace and several rings and bracelets.

Tina was addicted to bling, and there wasn’t a month when she wasn’t at me to get her something new. In fact, I had an emerald ring in my bag—an apology for going on a three-day business trip. But now it hit me that nothing I did or gave her helped.

My wife had begun her adventures two years before. I’d found out about the male model, a New York gigolo for chrissake, in a second. I’d forgiven her, gone to the city to blow the fucker away, and then I’d tried to save our marriage. It hadn’t worked.

I had forgiven her again and again, worked on keeping up the romance, even watched DVDs on better marital sex, and it was never enough. I was doing all the heavy lifting in our marriage, and it made me mad at her. You’ve got no focus outside of shopping, Tina. We need to start a family.

It was an old argument, made by me, her mother, sisters, aunts and every other relative we had. What the family didn’t know was that we’d been trying since the first time I’d caught Tina cheating. She hadn’t wanted kids yet, but from desperation to keep our marriage going, she’d agreed. Even so, after two years, nothing had come of it.

Tina stayed thin with constant diets that included a bunch of weird supplements, and I suspected that was a problem. Even so, I tried to be nice and used the word ‘we’ carefully. Maybe we should go and get checked out by Bautista.

"I have. There’s nothing wrong with me," Tina snapped.

It was a punch in the gut. Are you saying it’s me?

Tina shrugged, pouted and then nodded.

All the air in my lungs ripped out in a single gasp. Is that what this is all about? Is that why you’re fucking everything in sight?

It’s because I hate you! Tina yelled. I’m going to divorce you!

I wanted to protest, to tell her we could work it out, that I’d get checked out or that we could adopt.

It’s all your fault! Tina shouted. I thought I’d married a man!

The words stuck in my throat. We’d had too many fights, and they’d all been the same. Tina would scream, burst into tears, exhaust herself, apologise, promise a new start and then we’d have with a few weeks of honeymoon, followed by squabbles, and then there’d be another man. It had been this way for too long. I was tired thinking of what was to come.

The words were on the tip of my tongue, and then I thought again. Are you sure it’s me?

Tina looked away, actually turning her back on me in disgust. Yes.

I was sterile, not a man. It killed me, but I didn’t show it. Because whatever else I am, I’m not a whining pussy.

All right, I said to her. Send me the paperwork. Then I walked out.

Antonio was standing by the car, talking on his mobile with his back to me. "Yeah, he caught her in the act. She’s one hot mamacita. Seeing she’s putting it about, think she’d have me?"

I grabbed him by the shoulder, spun him around and socked him in the gut. I put so much force behind it that I heard his ribs on both sides give. He was out on his feet, so I held him up by the scruff of the neck and punched him again. Blood welled out of his mouth. When I dropped him, he didn’t even moan.

Tina stood in the doorway, eyes wide open with fear and her fist shoved into her mouth. She’d never seen me punch someone before, and I guess it freaked her out. I was too angry to care.

Get this fuck out of my house, I told Tina. Tell him that if I lay eyes on him again, he’s a dead man.

I stepped over him, got into the car and left. The guards at the gate were standing in the road, making bets on whether the cowboy would live. The Magnum had delivered, but the distance meant the bullet had lacked punch. He was lying in the middle of the street and from the look of him, it would be touch and go. I was tempted to run him over, but it would’ve made a mess of the bodywork. The car is a beauty, but it has practically zero clearance. So I drove around him and headed over to my boss’s place.

My boss is Kyle Suarez, the jefe’s brother. He lives twenty miles south of Nuevo Laredo, right in the country. It always cheers me up to go to his house because it lies all by itself on the banks of Rio Bravo. It’s peaceful.

Quique. Chloe, my boss’s girlfriend, came dancing out, her big blue eyes sparkling with fun. Just in time. I’m making pancakes, your favourite.

She’s a terrific cook, Chloe. She’s also incredibly sharp. Oh no, she sighed. Trouble at home?

I didn’t want to think about it. Don’t worry about it.

Her mouth drooped and she touched me on the arm. Come in, love, she murmured. Come and talk to Kyle.

My boss was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee while watching the news on a small television and reading the local papers. He’s a news hound, and I am, too, because it’s part of the job. You see, he’s head of security for the Zetas, and as we’re the most powerful cartel in Mexico, we’ve got plenty to keep track of. I’m his right-hand man. I’m also his cousin by marriage.

Quique, I’m sorry. The boss has grey eyes. Mostly they’re cold as ice, but now, when he was talking personal, not business, they were warm. He’s still alive. Need him finished and a clean-up?

Typical. He knows everything, sometimes before it’s happened, and he’s always practical. A clean-up, by the way, is when we dispose of a body, via wood chipper, usually. The small bits biodegrade easier than large chunks, and it means the cops have trouble keeping track of what we’re up to. It's not that they could touch us, but we like our privacy, so chipping is a good method.

No need. He’s in the road, not in the house.

The authorities avoid us when they can, but when we have corpses on the lawn, they find it hard to write up reports saying person or persons unknown, so we make it a point to either clean up or leave them in a public place. It’s easier all round really.

Kyle was texting, probably telling the halcones to leave the cowboy to his fate. Well, either way, I think he’ll get the message. I’ll send Antonio away for a few days, too.

That fucker doesn’t ever come near me again.

No problem. He’s gone.

It was unlikely because of Antonio's connections, but the boss knew we both needed to cool off. He would ream Antonio a new one and tell him to stay out of my way, but eventually I’d have to forgive him. The thought made me smoke with fury.

Bad morning, huh? As the boss pushed the coffee pot my way, Chloe stepped in, bearing plates loaded with pancakes, bacon and maple syrup, Texas style. She’s English, but the boss is American, and she’s always working out ways to make him happy, lucky bastard.

I’m going for a swim, she announced, so you can gossip in private.

The boss rolled his eyes. We’re men. We don’t gossip.

Right. You knew Maria had become engaged before her mum did, and it was you who told me that Constanzia would have a baby boy.

That’s not gossip; it’s news.

Chloe giggled, kissed him and vanished.

I was jealous as hell, but I didn’t show it. Boss, I want your permission to divorce.

Tina and the boss are cousins, but as her father died five years ago and she has four sisters but no brothers, he’s the head of that part of the family.

Quique, you don’t need my permission.

The boss is a Yankee and I’m Guatemalan, so we see things differently. Actually, I do. Tina is your cousin, and she has no other male relative who can make sure she has her rights.

She has three uncles and a dozen other cousins.

The men were nowhere near high up enough in the cartel to count because I outranked them. As the boss always does the right thing, I waited him out. We tucked into our pancakes, had a second coffee and by the time we’d finished, he’d come to terms with his position.

Right, he sighed. The uncles and cousins don’t count for shit. What are your plans?

She can have the house and I’ll continue her monthly allowance. She won’t suffer for it.

Tina needs her ass whooped.

I’d thought about it, but I have a failing: I can’t raise my hand to a woman, not even when she takes another man to my bed. Maybe I should’ve steeled myself and done it. Not beaten her the way I’d beat a man, but turned her over and slapped her ass so that she’d have to eat standing up for a week.

I couldn't see how that would do anything but make her hate me, but there are plenty of men who boast they fixed their marriages that way. I always wondered if they’d really scared their wives into toeing the line. That’s something I can’t imagine doing. Call me a pussy if you like, but slapping women around isn’t my thing.

The boss sighed. Forget I said that. I’m an asshole sometimes. I’m just pissed at Tina.

Ah, fuck it. No point in talking about what can’t be fixed. We’re both young, right? Better luck next time. I didn’t mean it, but I wasn’t going to tell him how I felt. Divorce is a personal failure no man can tolerate easily, and I didn’t even want to think about the fact that it was my fault. I still couldn’t take in that I was shooting blanks. The thought created a block of ice in my gut.

Don’t make decisions in a temper, the boss advised. As it happens, I want you to go to London.

Oh? My instinct was to stay. Everyone would know I was wearing horns, so leaving would make me look like a pussy. Boss, I have issues to fix here.

"Quique, this comes from the jefe. Jorge’s got a security situation. He says he thinks he can deal, but he’d rather have one of us audit and advise. The grey eyes were warm. We can call him if you like, but I think you should go. The England operation is important."

You might think it’s weird to hear of the cartel operating in England, but actually it’s the latest of our ventures. We Zetas are based in Nuevo Laredo, just across the border from Laredo, Texas, and we control most of western Mexico, but we also do business in a dozen other countries.

We’re into everything from trading coke, heroin and weapons, as well as pharmaceuticals, currency and other commodities. It’s a US$40 billion business, and so we’ve got a network of about 5000 direct employees. As you might guess, the cartel doesn’t attract angels, so security is a big part of our operation. Being second in command, I’m always on my toes.

Arturo’s pleased with your work, Quique, the boss said. He thinks you need to spread your wings.

I started off working in Mexico, but in the last two years I’d been sent off on several foreign operations. In fact, I’d just come back from a job in La Paz, Bolivia, taking out a man who’d taken part in a coke heist in Chicago. The stupid fuck thought going to the back of beyond equalled a safe place to retire on the proceeds of fifty ki’s of product. Well, a bullet in the brain proved him wrong.

My jobs had always been in-and-out, clean kills mostly, and now I was off again but for longer. Maybe it was a put-up job, maybe not. For one thing, when the jefe says to go, you go. For another, hearing he thought I should spread my wings was irresistible.

Also, I was suddenly very tired. Having my marriage fall apart was getting to me. Normally I’m the kind who confronts trouble head-on, but as confrontation wouldn’t fix this, I wasn’t sure what to do.

So I ignored my instincts that told me to stay and fight. I didn’t want to think. I wanted to be busy. And if the jefe thought I should spread my wings with a London job, I’d go.

The boss smiled, seeing the decision in my eyes. There’s a flight in two hours. He tapped on a screen, booking me a seat. Draw on the account in London for expenses. I’ll email you the brief in half an hour. Stay until you’re certain Jorge’s on the right track. Then take some leave. You’ve never been to Paris. Go for a week and see the sights.

He hoped a break would bring Tina and me back together. Maybe it would. Frankly, I was too tired to think straight. I’m all over it, boss.

Actually, I wasn’t. I got on the plane, stretched out, and was asleep before take-off. Planes affect me that way. I’m sick as a dog at sea—hell, I can get seasick fishing on a lake—but put me in a plane and I’m out like a light. I woke up ten minutes before touchdown in Heathrow. It was enough time to read over the file.

From the look of it Jorge, the head of our English organisation, had the wind up. There was nothing to put your finger on, but he’d noted a couple of small deals gone wrong and a few near misses.

I may be imagining it, he’d emailed the boss, but like the English say, I’ve got a feeling in my water. I think, cousin, that someone is watching us. I’ve got a fantastic team, but we’re all new, and our experience is nothing compared to yours. Please, come and advise me or send Quique to me.

That gave me a boost. Usually anyone not born into the cartel can only climb so high. After all, we’re in a hard business, so trust is essential, and there’s nothing like blood to make for strong bonds. The boss recruited me personally after I left the special forces in Guatemala, and as I had no previous connection with the cartel, I’d thought I’d be a plain soldier.

However, the Zetas are different. We’re loaded with foreign talent, and if you prove yourself, you can climb as high as your skill set will take you. I’d gone straight to the top in ten years, and Jorge’s note was just what I needed to remind me of what was important: good friends and the knowledge you’re the best.

By the time we taxied in to the terminal, I’d mastered the file and was ready to hit the ground running. There’d be action right away because it’s how we work. When you’re with the Zetas, you always go First Class and for security people like me, there’s always someone local to deal with immigration and red tape. Carrying a gun’s a bitch when you fly commercial, so we plan well ahead.

I expected to be met, but when the aircraft doors opened, I spotted James Cortez, an Anglo-Argentine, Jorge’s right hand man, and far too senior for this kind of job, standing at the end of the link tunnel.

Quique, thank God. Jorge’s been shot.

Fuck. Dead?

No, thank heaven.

Did you get the shooter?

We winged the fucker, but he fell six stories, splat on to some poor bastard’s Harley Rocker.

Who was he?

Renee Argent, a pro from France.

That was bad news because it meant we’d have to dig to find out who’d hired him. An hour later I was at the hospital. Jorge’s young, just twenty-seven, but he’s fifth-generation cartel and a tough bastard. He was waiting on the roof across the street from the office, he grumped. "Spotted the capullo and ducked just in time."

Yeah, I can see he totally missed.

Jorge had a shattered shoulder blade, a bullet in his arm and another in the leg. Amazingly, he laughed. Yeah, but you should see the other guy. He mimed falling out of a window and sang, "Volare, oh oh!"

I guess the Gypsy Kings were singing about flying with love not taking a dive, but we all cracked up. It was a bad thing to do because Jorge doubled up in pain.

As if by magic, a matron appeared. I don’t care if you’re his brothers. If you can’t keep him quiet, you’ll have to go.

James was on his feet, giving her the huge smile that got him laid every time he stuck his nose out of the house. "Guapa, it’s all my fault. Please, tell me about my brother. You explain it so much clearer than the doctor."

While James lured her away, I spoke to Jorge. Your spider senses have been tingling?

Yeah, I suspect the Rovers.

The Rathkale Rovers are players, especially in England. We’ve got a truce, but they’re a tricky bunch so I got where he was immediately.

Right. We’ll put triple security on you, and I’ll go see what I can find.

Talk to James.

You know how in The Godfather, it’s always the bodyguard who gives you up by stepping aside? Well, that’s totally spot on. James was Jorge’s second in command, not a bodyguard, but he’d have plenty to gain if his boss croaked. I lowered my voice. Do you trust him?

Like a fucking brother. He dragged me to cover, stemmed the bleeding and saved my life.

It didn’t mean much because James might be playing both sides, but I didn’t say so. No point really. It would cause suspicion that might be unfounded. Not that I worry about friendships exactly, but business can only work when there’s trust. That’s the bitch about working security: you’ve got to be a suspicious bastard but keep everyone sweet. So I smiled at Jorge and resolved to check everyone out, including James.

I was about to tell Jorge to rest and take off when James came in, phone in hand and looking excited. Guess who sublet the apartment? Sal Binks.

It meant nothing to me but Jorge exclaimed, "Cabron! Que hijo puta!"

He’s with the Peckham Knaves, James explained. They’re a small gang, an offshoot of the Peckham Boys crime family. Their territory runs next to ours in that area. We’ve had a bit of friction, nothing serious so far but annoying.

Go see him. Find out whose orders he was following and kill them all, Jorge snapped.

I’d always thought of Jorge as a good leader but new wave, more likely to call a lawyer than pull a gun, but clearly there was plenty of Zeta blood in his veins. He sounded like Arturo, who, incidentally, is also Jorge’s cousin.

I’m on it, James assured him grimly.

Jorge looked pale so we tucked him up, made sure a private nurse was briefed, put two guards on the door and went to have a chat with Sal.

I don’t know London well, but James zipped through back lanes and avoided traffic snarls like a pro. He had us in a place called Southwark in twenty minutes. It looked old, a bit rundown, but here and there I spotted new buildings. There were loads of renovations going on, too. The place was getting an upgrade.

The property we’re after is a block away from here, James informed me. It backs on to the Thames, so we plan for a small wharf with a mini-mall and offices above. We’ve put in an offer, but it’s complicated because there are several properties bundled together.

It sounded good. We could bring in merchandise via the river, set up shop in the office tower and make a fucking fortune from the mall. I’d have to buy shares; it was going to be mega.

Still, business before personal fortune. Tell me about it later. For now, what’s the ground like at Sal’s?

"He