The Devil's Bargain

By Jenna Lombardo

Detective James Cadente is mourning the death of his son while investigating the disappearance of a teenage girl named Karina Estrella. When all seems lost, James is approached by the Devil with a deal. If James surrenders his soul and delivers Karina to the Devil, his son will be returned to him. Vincent Ombra, a disgraced priest with a violent past, becomes Karina's unwitting protector and the main obstacle in James' path to being reunited with his child. Unbeknownst to both men, Karina comes from a special lineage, making her the linchpin in the Devil's plan to shatter the gates of Heaven and reignite the war against God, endangering all of creation. Will James save his son and doom humanity? Or will he sacrifice his boy and save the world?

 

Set against the backdrop of New York City, The Devil's Bargain is a visceral plunge into the underbelly of urban fantasy. This is a story that will grip you with its raw emotion, thrill you with its action, and leave you gasping for air long after the final page.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jenna Lombardo
• Release date: Apr 19, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224117888

Book preview

Copyright © 2024 Jenna Lombardo

All rights reserved

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Cover design by: Art Painter

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309

Printed in the United States of America

This book is dedicated to my spouse, my children, and my parents. You have all helped shape me into the person I am today and I love you all so very much. To my friends who have always supported me and given me the courage to pursue my dream of writing a book, I give you my sincerest and deepest thanks. I could not have done this without you.

Contents

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Afterword

Chapter 1

We the jury in this matter find the defendant, Hector Guevara, not guilty of all charges. 

Hector let out an obnoxiously loud cheer that filled the old courtroom, drowning out the pained cries from the victim’s parents, at having been acquitted of human trafficking of a minor.  The judge banged his gavel, tiredly calling for order like a teacher impotently trying to silence an unruly class, as the defendant hugged his attorney. 

The victim, a seventeen year old immigrant girl named Olena Kravchenko, buried her face in her mother’s chest, the older woman’s face streaked with tears as she struggled to remain calm for the sake of her daughter.  Olena’s father Oleksandr struggled to remain stoic for the sake of his wife and daughter.  He was a  former flight instructor at the Kharkiv Aviation Institute in Ukraine who now worked as a construction laborer after moving his family to America for a better life.  The man looked helplessly from the young prosecutor to the judge, neither of whom offered any comfort or explanation for the outcome as the jurors shuffled out of the courtroom. 

Olek had sat in the same seat for four days, listening to all of the horror his daughter had endured at the hands of the freshly exonerated defendant, and was horrified at the dereliction of justice that he witnessed.  America was supposed to be different from Ukraine, from the old Soviet Union.  He rose to his feet, grabbed the flat carpenter’s pencil he kept tucked behind his ear like a dagger, and advanced on Hector.

James had expected this outcome as soon as the defense attorney had finished cross examining him.  All of his years on the job had trained him to read people, and he could see the jury, composed primarily of white upper-middle class professionals, had little sympathy for a young immigrant girl who skipped class to smoke weed and found herself in a bad situation.  It was the very definition of victim blaming. James had barely been able to contain his disgust as he watched them take in his testimony the day before, knowing full well that if the girl was related to any of them, the case likely would have unfolded differently.

Moving with the speed and grace of a man half his age and size, James grasped the father’s wrist in one hand, clamped his other hand on the man’s shoulder, and shoved him down into the bench in front of his wife before the court officer ever realized what had been about to happen.

Olek, I know what you’re feeling, but this isn’t going to help.

What this man did to my daughter, Detective, and they let him go!  Olek’s voice carried in the empty space and drew an amused grin from the defendant.  The man’s dark eyes were red with fury, his knuckles white from gripping the pencil so hard.  James maintained his grip on the man’s wrist, not trusting him to remain seated.

If you kill him, then what?  You think another jury is going to take it easy on you for killing a man found not guilty?  Several court officers approached, their attention piqued by the commotion.

No, said Olek.  His shoulders slumped in defeat and James felt his grip on the pencil loosen.  Olek’s wife watched the encounter from the row behind them with a scowl, ashamed of her husband for failing to protect their only daughter and for not having the strength to avenge her as James tucked the pencil into his jacket pocket.  The court officers returned to their corners of the room, disinterested now that Olek had calmed down.

I’m so sorry the system failed you, said James. But your daughter needs you now more than ever.

The system didn’t fail us, detective, said the girl’s mother.  You failed Olena.  It was your bad investigation that set him free.  The woman’s words hit James like no perp or suspect ever had, and he froze, unsure of what to say.  He could feel Olena’s eyes watching him from behind the safety of her mother’s arms, the accusatory look more painful than the woman’s words.

I-I’m sorry, James stammered. 

Your sorry means nothing, chimed Olek, taking his wife’s cue.  You’re not a parent, you don’t know our pain.

A small boy at the edge of his vision caught James’ attention.  Olek’s words faded into a dull murmur as his eyes locked on the child’s face.  Brown hair gently tousled that fell to a place just above the boy’s eyebrows gave him the look of a younger child.  A gentle smile played at his lips that made James’ breath catch in his chest.  He closed his eyes, shook his head, and when he opened them again, the boy was gone.

Detective? demanded Olek, his tone was impatient, awaiting a response to a question that James had missed.  

I know more than you think, said James, setting his jaw and rising to his feet.  The family had hurt him, and he felt anger welling up from a place deep down in his soul that he worked every day to suppress.  Not wanting to inflict greater pain on the wounded family before him, but desperate to vent his anger on someone, James turned and pushed through the swinging door into the well of the courtroom and tapped the young prosecutor on the shoulder. 

The lawyer was more boy than man, still in his twenties and barely out of law school.  James couldn’t understand how he had been assigned to a case like this, and guessed he must have a hook, some influential family member in the District Attorney’s Office, perhaps the State Legislature, who had lobbied to have him sitting first chair in a trial before he had actually earned the position.

You really fucked this up, counselor, snarled James.  His words startled the lawyer who was looking around the courtroom like a confused child, unsure of what to do next. 

It’s ADA Raskin, Detective, chided the lawyer.  And I almost had this one.  But don’t worry, guys like that are bound to get caught again.  We’ll get him next time. 

Next time, repeated James.  And all it’ll take is for him to drug and sell another young girl.  No worries. 

Behind them, the few observers and family members were shuffling out of the courtroom, after the jury had been dismissed.  The defendant Hector gave James a condescending wink as he sauntered by, the fluorescent light gleaming off his bald head.

Maybe next time, Detective, said Hector.  But I’ve got an appointment I just can’t miss.

Don’t say a word, chided his lawyer, who followed close behind.  She was a professional litigator, the lines of her suit were sharp and crisp, her expression aggressive and challenging, even though the fight had ended with an acquittal.  She looked down at James and the young prosecutor from her high heels, wrinkling her nose with disapproval as she passed, and completely ignored the sobbing Kravchenko family as she brushed by them without a word.

It’s not my fault you conducted a shitty investigation, Detective, continued Raskin, folding his arms in front of himself.  His voice had risen several octaves and took on a nasal, whining and defensive quality that grated on James’ nerves. 

My investigation was perfect, you fucking idiot.  You didn't object when she moved to exclude the drugs and restraints!  exclaimed James, gesturing wildly towards the defense attorney as she pushed through the doors out of the courtroom into the hall.

You should have had a warrant, spat Raskin.  Ever heard of the fourth amendment?

I know the Constitution fucko, but I guess you missed the day they taught exigent circumstances in law school, retorted James.  Either way, you did a bang-up job.  Fuck you very much counselor, I’ll see you next time. 

James turned on his heel without waiting for a response and walked down the aisle to the exit, followed closely by the young attorney.  Both men were unaware of the well-dressed stranger lingering in one of the front row seats who had watched the entire encounter.  He sat  with an amused expression on his face, his feet up on the railing that separated the observers from the well of the courtroom.

Talk about drama, said the stranger to the empty courtroom.  He raised a cocktail to his lips and drank, considering what he had just observed, confident in the decision he had made.  

This detective was the one.

A moment later, a court officer stuck his head into the courtroom, surprised to have heard someone speaking now that the trial was over.  He scanned the space for the one who had spoken, shivering as a sudden chill crept into his body, but found the room empty save for a lone martini glass resting on the railing and the inexplicable sense of dread it evoked in his heart.

◆◆◆

Outside the courthouse, an unexpected squall had blown in, hammering the streets of Lower Manhattan with blankets of wind-driven rain.  James felt an initial sense of relief as he bowed his head against the storm and marched up Centre Street towards his car in Little Italy.  The sun had been shining high and bright when the trial started, and James was certain the young attorney would have followed him all the way to where he parked if not for the sudden inclement weather. 

Before James could reach his spot in the garage half a mile uptown, the storm’s intensity increased, and James’ relief changed to anger as wind-driven rain peppered his face.

James barreled through the door to a pub he had never been to before, trying to escape the storm.  Rain followed him across the threshold, splattering upon the scuffed hardwood floor as he shouldered the door closed against the biting wind.  He took in his surroundings, judging the condition of the pub to be well below his typical standards.  It was dingy, run down and long past its prime, but it was better than being in the deluge outside, so he resigned himself to sit and drink away his anger. 

It was warm in the pub, but he left his jacket on, keeping the pistol holstered at his waist hidden from view as he dropped a sizable number of bills on the bar.  He paused a beat and dropped his keys as well, knowing full well he wouldn’t be driving himself home tonight, the pain of his latest failure still fresh in his mind.

What’ll ya have? asked the bartender without looking up.  His tone suggested displeasure at being disturbed by someone who wasn’t one of his regulars.  James watched as the man wiped glasses with a rag that looked as if it hadn’t been washed in ages, but decided to order anyway.

Gin and tonic, please.  

A very refined choice, said the bartender, his voice oozing sarcasm.  For a moment James considered clapping his hands around the back of the buffoon's meaty neck and slamming his face into the bar just to watch his blood pool on the varnished surface.  A flash of lightning through the clouded windows shocked James back to reality and he shook his head to clear his mind of the unexpectedly violent image.  The trial had affected him more than he cared to admit. 

The bartender grabbed a highball from the dusty shelf, scooped ice cubes into the glass barehanded, then poured the spirit and mixer, though James noticed the ratio of gin to tonic was off.

A little light on the pour, weren’t you? asked James, trying not to sound accusatory.

What do you mean, friend?  The bartender slid the glass across the bar to James with a slow deliberation that said he knew exactly what James had meant.

That wasn’t a full shot.

You with the liquor authority?

No, just thirsty. 

Then what do you know about it?

I know when an asshole thinks he can get away with cheating me. 

The bartender’s eyes narrowed and the muscles in his jaw tightened as James made his accusation.  The pub grew quiet and all eyes were focused on them.

The bartender glared at James and dropped two meaty paws on the wood with a thud, and leaned forward to invade James’ space.  He was bigger than James, heavier, and a few years older as well, with a scar over his eye that told James this man was no stranger to violence.  There were no bouncers in sight, but James had a feeling that any rowdy drunks sobered up quickly when this man loomed over them. The man’s shirtsleeves strained against his forearms, chords of muscle standing out like steel cables beneath his flesh, thick from years of hauling kegs, added to his imposing demeanor.

James rose from his seat, placing himself nose to nose with the larger man.  He could feel the bartender’s breath on his skin, but held his ground.  His muscles tensed, waiting for one of those massive hands to lash out at him, almost wishing for it so he wouldn’t have to keep thinking about the sex trafficker that had been acquitted because of his investigation.  The crowd in the pub held its collective breath, eagerly awaiting the punishment their bartender would dole out on James for having besmirched his integrity.

​ My mistake,   said the bartender.  He gripped the gin bottle and added more liquor to the drink.  

James caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.  His discount suit was completely soaked through with rain and clung to his body like a second skin.  His graying, wind-whipped hair lay strewn about his head in a haphazard manner that, coupled with his rumpled and disheveled clothing, gave him a rather deranged appearance that undoubtedly factored into the bartender’s decision to back down. 

James downed his beverage in a single gulp, disappointed at the anticlimactic resolution. 

A chorus of disappointed groans echoed his sentiment and he immediately ordered another drink.  If he couldn’t block out thoughts of how he failed the Kravchenko family with physical pain, then alcohol would have to do.

​As the bartender mixed the second cocktail, James counted a full three second pour on the gin.  A pleasant and familiar burn filled his belly and he figured he was lucky the confrontation hadn’t escalated.  The NYPD frowned upon detectives getting into fights in bars, especially while on duty.

James took out his phone to check the time and tapped its surface to bring it out of sleep mode.  A picture of his wife and son smiling at him from a happier past made his vision blur and he had to blink the image back into focus. 

He cleared his throat and turned the phone over, hiding the screen from view, when a stranger in a black vicuna wool suit with a herringbone weave appeared from a dark corner from deeper inside the pub and sat beside James without a word, eyeing him through the cracked mirror behind the bar.  The bartender began to approach but stopped when the stranger's gaze shifted off of James and onto him. 

​The large man froze in place, his expression that of a frightened child.  The stranger’s amber colored eyes shone with a malevolent intensity that belied his otherwise ordinary appearance.  The bartender backed away, out from behind the bar and into the kitchen, out of sight.  The stranger shifted his stare back to James through the mirror.

Can I help you? asked James.  A shudder ran through his body as adrenaline coursed into his bloodstream, triggering his fight-or-flight reflex.  A cold sweat broke out over his skin as his breathing quickened and his heart began hammering in his chest. 

Something was wrong about the person sitting next to him and it frightened James at an instinctual level, causing the little hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end.  They sat shoulder to shoulder and James swore he could feel an energy radiating off of the stranger, like static electricity buzzing in the air before lightning strikes.

Is there a problem? repeated James, his previous question remaining unanswered.  His throat felt dry, his voice raspy.  His foot began tapping against the bottom support of the stool, and he had to consciously focus on making it stop. 

Not with me, Jimmy, replied the stranger at last, although drinking on the job is a red flag in certain circles.  The stranger smiled at James through the mirror, the cracks in the glass distorting his reflection.  The image was manic and predatory, revealing too many teeth in a grin that was almost canid.  James forced himself to hold the man’s gaze as his own eyes struggled to look away. 

            How do you know my name?  James took a breath and held it a moment before exhaling, commanding his heart rate to slow down.  He casually lifted the foot he had been tapping and rested it higher up on the stool.  He let his arm rest on his knee, his hand drifting towards the second gun he kept holstered on his ankle.  His suit jacket would make it too difficult to cleanly draw the one on his hip while sitting.

            I know everything about you, but most importantly, I know what you want.  And if you keep reaching for that gun on your ankle, I promise you’ll regret it.

I’m not going to regret anything.  You’re gonna regret threatening me.  

            I’m not threatening, Jimmy.  I just don’t want you to dismiss my offer before it's even made. The stranger sipped a drink with vapors strong enough to make James’ eyes water from a glass that hadn’t been there when he sat down.

Fair enough, said James, pushing the puzzling drink from his mind as he swiveled in his seat to look at the stranger directly.  He wasn’t about to be distracted by some cut-rate sleight of hand.  So what’s your pitch?

It’s about what I can do for you, Jim-

If you know so much about me, then you know I hate that nickname, said James, cutting off the stranger mid-sentence.

It’s rude to interrupt people, Jimmy, snarled the stranger, slamming his fist down on the bar, buckling the wood beneath his hand like cardboard.  Thunder clapped outside as new cracks spider webbed across the mirror behind the bar, the sound akin to nails dragging across a chalkboard.  The stranger’s eyes flashed dangerously and smoldered with an otherworldly rage as James felt an iron band of fear clamp around his chest.   For a moment he considered reaching for the gun but knew in his heart it wouldn’t do him any good.  He resigned himself to listen.

I’m sorry, he said in a small voice.

Forget it, said the stranger, his demeanor returning to its prior good cheer. But as I was starting to say, Jimmy, I would like to help you.  The stranger finished his drink, exhaling with exaggerated satisfaction to punctuate his statement.

With what? asked James, ignoring the barb about his name as he glanced at the place where the stranger’s hand had nearly punched through the bar.  He saw no sign of damage, no splinters, no buckling or bowing, only the scuffs and chips from years of neglect.  The stranger gazed at James for a moment, sizing up his unease at the physical anomaly his mind couldn’t comprehend.

I can give you what you want.  

And what do I want? asked James.  He turned back towards the bar and glanced down at his phone.

You want your son back.

Fuck you, we’re finished.  His unease replaced by anger, James stood to leave, gathering his belongings off the bar.  

Don’t you want him back?

Of course I do, snarled James, but he’s dead!  He stormed off towards the door, past the stranger, ready to brave the elements outside.

I can make it happen. The stranger swiveled in his seat to face James, his voice in a  lilting tone that caught in James’ ear like a schoolyard taunt.

Bullshit, said James without turning around.  His hands had balled into fists as he struggled to remain calm, the rational and analytical side of his brain telling him that the stranger was lying, but unable to take the final steps out the door.

Don’t judge me by my appearance.  I can give Billy back to you, but if you leave now, then he’s gone for good.

How do you know my son’s name? demanded James, whirling around to face the stranger, enraged by the invocation of his boy's memory.  He had recaptured the attention of the other patrons but paid them no mind.  He was past the point of caring what anyone thought of him, let alone these skells, as his mind vacillated between anger, confusion, and most dangerous of all, hope.  What you’re saying is impossible, it doesn’t even make sense.  The stranger regarded him with a look of mild amusement as James continued.  What are you saying exactly?

​I’m saying that your son is gone, but he doesn’t have to be.  The stranger spoke his words slowly, as though explaining a complex thought to a small child, bordering on condescension. 

​Billy was murdered.  James felt his voice catch in his throat.  Talking about his son always brought him to the edge of collapse, of breaking down and tumbling into a bottomless void of despair.  He hoped the stranger didn’t notice his distress, but surmised his hope was in vain.  Nothing you say or do can bring him back.

​ You don’t think so?  Alright, you need proof.  I understand.  The stranger paused, clearing his throat for effect.  You just came from court and the verdict didn’t go your way.  That’s why you’re sitting here, on duty, drowning your sorrows.

​Anyone in that courtroom could tell you the verdict didn’t go my way.  Is this supposed to impress me? 

James swallowed the lump that had materialized in his throat at the thought of the Kravchenko family and how they looked when Hector was acquitted.  He could still feel their eyes boring into the back of his skull as the jury foreman read the verdict.  He could hear Olena’s sobs from behind him and the newly freed predator’s howl of joy.  Even that arrogant prick Raskin, who was so nonchalant about losing the case, had been all too happy to lay the blame at James’ feet.

​Your perp got off because you botched the investigation, because you were too quick to make the arrest instead of following proper procedure and getting a warrant, he said to James.

​Not the way I see it, snapped James, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt.  He had been so sure of his work, but after losing a case that should have been a slam dunk, maybe it was his fault.  Maybe he had failed to protect Olena and her family. 

Just like he had failed to protect Billy.

You’ve proven nothing,  said James, his mind returning to the present.  Maybe he wasn’t as good as he once was.  He couldn’t remember his mind wandering so easily when he was younger. 

​Fair enough, said the stranger.  Well, in about 30 seconds your phone will ring and it will be that privileged little shit who lost your case on the other end.  There's going to be a new trial.

​Not a chance.  The verdict is in, double jeopardy and all that Fifth Amendment stuff.

​Correct me if I’m wrong, Jimmy, but if the feds file new charges and make it a RICO case, that wouldn’t violate double jeopardy, would it?

​No, said James.  It wouldn’t, but why would the feds care about this guy?

​Who cares? said the stranger with a dismissive wave of his hand.  Let's just see about that call.

​James tapped his phone to make sure it was on, bringing the image of his wife and Billy to life once again, aware of the stranger watching him intently.  He felt as though he were a gazelle on the Serengeti that was dying of thirst and the stranger was a lion, hungrily licking its chops in anticipation of the kill as he stalked the only watering hole.  James’ family had been his sustenance, but Billy was dead and his wife had left him shortly after he died.  James had resigned himself to being alone, like a creature dying of thirst with no water in sight, but now he was being told that there was a chance to change all of that, to bring his son back.  Like the gazelle in the wild, once there was water in sight, there was nothing else for him to do but try.

​The phone rang, startling James out of his reverie.  He raised the device to his ear, trying his best to keep his hand from trembling.

​Detective Cadente, answered James.

​Yes, detective, it's ADA Raskin.  James recognized the nasal whine from the courthouse as soon as the man spoke.  His eyes darted up to the stranger who had swiveled back to the bar, his elbows resting on the wood, fingers steepled in front of his face as he watched James through the mirror with mild amusement. 

What’s going on, counselor?

I need you to forward all materials regarding your investigation on the Kravchenko girl to the FBI field office ASAP.

Why?  Olena had been abducted after she ducked out of school in the middle of the day to meet some friends in the park a few blocks away.  She had been abducted, drugged, and set up for auction on the latest online trafficking site.  It was a miracle that James and his team had picked up on the posting, but instead of waiting for a warrant, they had launched a raid on Hector’s home in Flatbush, Brooklyn, relying on exigent circumstances.  The judge hadn’t believed their justification had merit, and so most of the key evidence had been suppressed without any objection from Raskin. 

​I’m not sure, responded the lawyer, but the agent in charge said something about this turning into a RICO case, drugs and kidnapping, that sort of stuff.  James slumped back onto the stool beside him as the attorney continued speaking.  Whatever it is, make sure you get the materials over there so they can forward it to the US Attorney.

​If the feds were so interested in this, why didn’t they get involved bef-

I have no fucking idea detective! screamed Raskin loud enough to make James pull the phone away from his ear.  I’m getting my ass chewed out over here for losing today and I just want this damn file off my desk, okay?

​Have a good night, counselor.  James ended the call without further comment or response.  He stared off for a moment, his thoughts a blur moving too fast to be coherent, when he caught a glimpse of the stranger in the mirror.  Something about the way the light hit his face gave the impression that his eyes had grown darker, almost black in the glare.  As James watched, the image in the mirror shifted.  Gone was the fancy suit and slicked back hair.  In its place was charred flesh stretched tight over malformed bones, the face a grotesque mask of agony and rage.

​Convinced? asked the stranger.  His words startled James, causing him to blink.  The monstrosity in the mirror was gone, only the well-dressed man before James remained, sipping from a glass James was certain had been empty a moment ago.

​Maybe, replied James.  He was trying desperately to keep his eagerness in check.  His enduring love for Billy was clouding his judgment, making him gullible and desperate.  How could the stranger bring him back?  James shuddered at the thought of the stranger, the vision in the mirror, and what it meant.  James pushed the thoughts aside, not willing to entertain them or their implications.

​You’re a tough sell, persisted the stranger, but I know you’ll love this.  Your perp, Hector, the one you let get away?  He’s been up to a lot more than just trafficking in Ukrainian children.

I never told you his name was Hector, said James. 

No, you didn’t.  The stranger’s eyes gleamed wickedly as he spoke.  Olena wasn’t Hector’s first, and she sure isn’t his last.  In fact, you got a new file that came across your desk a little over a week ago, one that fits a bigger pattern of abductions you’ve been investigating for some time.  A little cutie named Karina Estrella.

James sipped his own drink and forced his expression to remain neutral, determined to not let the stranger see his unease.  Karina Estrella was the latest girl to have been abducted who fit the profile.  In her teens, blue eyes, blonde hair, and like the others, she was taken from one of the five boroughs or neighboring Nassau County.

​You’re saying I’ve been investigating Hector this whole time, that he took Olena, Karina, and the others?  How would that even work? He was on bail pending the outcome of the trial when Karina was taken.

​Are you surprised? asked the stranger.  You know the kind of man Hector is.  He made bail and went right back to his old tricks.  In fact, he already has a sale lined up for poor little Karina tonight.  Want to know where?

​How do I know you’re not just jerking me around right now?  Maybe you’re working with Hector and this is all a trap.

Oh, Jimmy, said the stranger with genuine pity in his voice.  You don’t matter enough to Hector for him to lay a trap.  You’re not the same detective you once were, especially after losing Billy.  We both know that arresting Hector was more luck than skill.  But if you’re feeling amicable, I’ll make sure you catch him so red-handed that he’ll never see the light of day again.  You’ll find him making his sale tonight at the Trattoria Paradiso. 

How do you know all of this? asked James.

Don’t fret the little things, said the stranger in a dismissive tone, hand waving absently in the air as though he were shooing an annoying fly away from his face.

​Little things?  For all I know, you two were partners and now you’re selling him out to save yourself!

​Trust me, I want Hector to be punished as much as you do.

Trust you? I don’t even know you! 

Sure you do, said the stranger. 

Who the hell are you? pressed James as he gulped down the last of his drink.

You shouldn’t drink so much, Jimmy, said the stranger, ignoring the question.  It’s bad for the soul.

So I’ve heard, replied James.  Now let’s say that I do believe what you've said.  How does this bring back my son?  What do you get out of all of this?

​I’m not looking for money, if that’s your concern, said the stranger as a wry smile played across his lips.  James was on the hook and he knew it.

​I won’t do anything illegal.

​Breaking and entering into a man’s home without a warrant seems pretty illegal to me.

James felt his face flush red with shame and anger at the accusation.  He had tried to tell himself that there had been no other way, but he wasn’t so sure anymore.

​What will I owe you?

​Two things.  One, you have with you already.  The stranger picked up a fresh beverage that hadn’t been there a moment ago and drank it down with ease.  "And the best part is, once it’s gone, you’ll never even miss it.  At least not