The words he spoke were for himself as well as his wife. And he repeated them many times as the number of those gathered swelled and receded like a cold tide emphasizing the desolation he felt, the guilt at having accepted the post in San Francisco.
It was a minor position, not a stepping stone to a more important one. He was little more than a paper pusher for his government, and almost equally insignificant to the man who’d gotten him the position, one that came with diplomatic immunity and pouches that could not be searched by the American authorities.
He was nothing but a glorified mule, better paid than those who carried bundles of drugs on their backs, but a mule all the same. He accepted the label without shame, taking pride instead in the fact that what he did meant greater wealth for his family.
When the last of those who’d come to view, to grieve, to offer what comfort they could, trickled away, only a single visitor was left in the room.
“Go home,” Frederico said to his wife, pulling her into a hug along with their two daughters. “I will join you later.”
They left, giving the man no more than a fleeting acknowledgment as they passed him, even in their pain sensing the stranger was not someone to become known to.
“He will see you now,” the man said.
Frederico nodded, turning toward the casket to look down on the face of his son. A sob welled inside him, threatening to split open his chest and spill his heart onto the floor.
He leaned down and kissed Jordao’s forehead. “You will be avenged,” he whispered against cool skin before straightening and following the stranger to a dark sedan.
They drove in silence on streets high above the
A wall surrounded the sprawling home that was their destination. But it merely served as a warning against entry and the men patrolling it with machineguns.
The sedan parked amid a collection of exotic automobiles. He followed the stranger into a room of opulent luxury.
His guide stopped just inside the doorway while Frederico continued, approaching the man sitting across from another with a chessboard on the table between them.
Eduardo Faioli rose from the couch, offering a hand, clasping Frederico’s when he took that hand. “I am sorry for the loss of your son.”
Frederico calmed as he met the steady gaze of the man who had lifted him from the ranks of the common, though it had been done through others in Eduardo’s employ. He had not been sure he would gain the audience he’d requested. And he feared what had happened in San Francisco might lead to torture and death, and not his own first, but his daughters, his wife, his sisters, and aging parents.
“Thank you for seeing me.”
“Sit,” Eduardo said, indicating a nearby chair as he settled into the one he’d risen from.
Frederico sat, waiting as Eduardo turned his attention back to the chess board for a moment, moving the black knight before looking again at Eduardo without introducing his companion. “You had only the one son?”
Eduardo would already know the answer of course, but the question served as the opening to negotiations. “Yes, he was my only son and also the only grandson.”
“A tragedy. You believe perhaps it had something to do with the business conducted on my behalf?”
“No.”
“Ah, then you wish a favor of me?”
“I want my son avenged.”
Eduardo nodded. “Yes. Yes, I would see the same done were it my son. But how can I help you? My associates tell me there have been no arrests. No reason given in the news for this tragedy and no suspects named by the police.”
“It’s a personal matter. I know who ordered my son killed.”
He had not been ignorant of Jordao’s faults, faults worsened because his son did not fear the authorities in America. When the police had told him of the other boy’s confession, and he’d heard the full extent of Jordao’s behavior, he’d been sickened. But even knowing his son held some of the blame for his own fate, it did not diminish the suffering or lessen the desire for revenge.
“Who do you wish me to strike against?” Eduardo asked.
“The Dunnes.”
Frederico paused, torn between fear of being denied his request and fear of reprisal should he remain silent about the possibility of dangerous complications.
The greater fear prevailed. “One of the American agents told me the Dunnes are suspected of being mafia.”
Eduardo nodded. “Irish mafia.”
Relief at having released the secret trapped the breath in Frederico’s chest. “Are the Irish a concern?”
Eduardo laughed. “They are hardly worth bothering with. Their glory days are long past, set in a different era.”
He glanced at his silent companion, watched the movement of a white rook and countered it with the move of a black bishop. “A life for a life? Perhaps a son for a son? Is that the nature of the revenge you seek?”
He would have the entire family killed but…Let another father know the pain he knew. “Yes.”
“Very well. The day will come, in turn, when I will require a large favor of you.”
An icy chill swept through him. Silence filled the space between them for a heartbeat, and then a second before he responded, “I understand.”
“Excellent.” To the man he played chess with, Eduardo said, “Use the Mexicans for this.”
Etain couldn’t remember a day ever having felt so endless. Dream and nightmare and dream again. This morning she’d woken up in Cathal’s arms with nothing more to worry about than getting to the shelter fund-raiser and doing her part as both tattoo artist and organizer. And now…
She squeezed Cathal’s hand as they approached the hospital entrance. “I don’t think I could do this without you.” An admission, coming from her, that was tantamount to another woman screaming
He halted, turning her to face him, a hand going to her waist, his lips covering hers in an all-too-brief kiss. “Let’s get this done, then we can go back to my place.”
She’d draw there. This wouldn’t really be behind them until she’d handed off the results. Already she could feel the impending press of hospital walls.
They tightened when she stepped through the door into antiseptic-scented space. The captain stood next to a dark-suited Hispanic detective.
“Gustavo Ordones,” the man said, giving a slight nod rather than offering a hand. “If you’ll come with me, your friend can wait for you here.”
“No. He stays with me.” Maybe Eamon wouldn’t have to worry about the police asking for her help after this.
Detective Ordones accepted her terms with a graceful shrug, turning and leading them into the bowels of the hospital.
“The surviving victim’s wife is with him. We’ll clear her out, but you’ll be quick, right? I don’t want her detained for long. He’s gone code blue once and been revived. It was touch and go. I wouldn’t bet on the doctors being able to do it a second time.”
“His name?” Etain asked, stumbling when Ordones answered, “Kelvin Hughes.”
“What was he doing at the Curs hangout?”
This time it was Ordones whose footsteps faltered. He glanced over his shoulder. “You know him?”
“Yes.” Grief clamped its fist around her heart. “I know him.”
He’d turned his life around. He wore a tattoo meant to give him strength in the face of temptation. She’d inked it into his skin years ago, when he’d gotten out of prison and had nowhere to go but the homeless shelter.
