Charles' POV
Davida Gonzalez doesn't let me have Alma next to me as we talk. He barely acknowledges my request before shaking his head, waving her off like she's a piece of furniture that doesn't belong. I don't argue. I need this conversation to happen, and fighting over a seat at the table isn't going to get me anywhere.
I explain everything, every detail of what Ricardo did to me. I slide the file across the table. It's thick, and filled with every piece of evidence I've spent my time gathering. Bank statements, recorded calls, photographs. A paper trail that should have been enough to bury Ricardo Borrelli under a mountain of legal charges.
But as Davida flips through the pages, he scoffs. Unimpressed. He tosses the folder back to me like it's nothing more than a bad joke.
"This is a waste."
"You haven't even looked through all of it." I say.
He leans back in his chair, exhaling smoke from the cigar he's been nursing. His facial expression carried something between pity and disappointment.
"Eighty percent of everyone in the law, if not everyone, knows the Borrelli name," he says. "Even Inzaghi."
I don't flinch, but inside, I feel anger.
"They know what Ricardo and his family are into," Davida continues, "but their mouths are shut because both families can afford to have the whole fucking earth on their payroll. Presenting this," he gestures at the file, "to the law is stupid. Baseless. That's why you lost."
He's not wrong. But I refuse to let his words discourage me. I stare at the folder. If everything in here is useless… then it's time to play dirty.
"Fuck due process," I say abruptly.
Davida raises an eyebrow, he is intrigued. I meet his gaze. "I want to get my hands dirty, alright. Ricardo can't win. You won't let him. I won't let him."
Davida chuckles. "Golden Cop wants to fight fire with fire?" He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Ricardo killed my men. Ripped me off twenty-five million dollars. And now, five years later, he's still standing, bigger than any mafia leader I've ever met at such a… should I say… young age?"
His smirk widens as he watches me carefully. "Now tell me, Golden Cop… how do you intend to make a man like Ricardo lose?"
I don't have a plan. Not yet. But I know one thing for certain, if Ricardo has weaknesses, they're women, sex, and death.
I lean back in my chair. "If Ricardo is untouchable, then we find a way to make him touch something… someone… that he can't afford to lose."
Davida laughs, shaking his head. "Oh, I've tried, Golden Cop. I've tried to kill that bastard." He takes another slow drag of his cigar before exhaling through his nose. "But he's invisible." He taps his chest with two fingers. "Trust me when I tell you Ricardo Borrelli can never die."
I scoff. "No man is immortal, Señor Gonzalez. Even Ricardo can bleed."
Then, a loud bang suddenly echoes through the casino. What the hell was that? My hand instinctively moves towards my concealed gun. The sound startles me, but I don't jump. I don't react, not the way my instincts tell me to.
I glance around. Everyone heard it, but instead of panic, there's laughter. The people around us including Davida are grinning, chuckling, some even howling with laughter like it's the funniest thing they've ever heard.
What the fuck? I turn back to Davida with furrowed brows. "What was that?"
He wipes a tear from his eye, still laughing. "Hermano, you scared?"
"No," I say. "But it was a gunshot."
He grins, spreading his arms wide. "Welcome to the Marino Tigress Casino." He gestures towards the room. "We hear that almost every day. It's normal."
Normal. The laughter continues. Drinks are poured. Conversations pick up where they left off, like nothing ever happened.
I force a tense chuckle. But nothing about this feels normal to me.
Davida shakes his head, he is still amused. "Nice to meet you, Golden Cop." He leans forward again. "I have a party tomorrow. My daughter's twentieth." He gestures vaguely. "I'm inviting you, and your pretty lady."
I stare at him. "I'm not here for a kid's party. I'm here to talk annihilation."
Davida chuckles. "Tomorrow, we talk." He gestures at me again. "That's why I invited you. And your pretty lady."
I exhale slowly, scanning the room. Where the hell is Alma?
Davida watches me. "Where is she anyway?"
I glance around again. "She mustn't have gone far. I'll look for her."
He nods, then stands. "Nice meeting you, Golden Cop." He claps a hand on my shoulder. "Think about your plan carefully. And when you have… we'll talk."
Ricardo's POV
"Alright alright. You got me, Ricardo Borrelli."
The words roll off Andre's tongue so casually, so confidently, that my grip on the gun tightens. How the fuck does he know my name?
I never introduced myself. Never mentioned a damn thing about who I was. And yet, Andre stands there, grinning like he just cracked a joke only he understands.
"How do you know my name?" I ask. The gun stays aimed at Andre's head, with my fingers itching against the trigger.
Andre shrugs. "Oh, come on, Ricardo." He smirks. "Everyone knows who you are."
I don't like that answer. I'm aware of my reputation, of course. But to be recognized this easily, this quickly, it unsettles me.
Lana rushes towards me, and her hands grips onto my side like she belongs there. I don't look at her, but I let her stay, as my arm wraps around her waist, pulling her in. My gun, however, remains locked on Andre.
Andre watches us. "The moment you walked in, most of us knew who you were," he says. "And we know why you're here."
My jaw ticks. "Why am I here, then?"
Andre's smirk widens. "Enzo. Your loan shark. All the way from Vegas, he came to Mexico to spend your money and die."
My expression remains cold. "You played pool with him," I say. "Did he tell you anything?"
Andre chuckles. "Drunken Enzo? That bastard's really chatty."
I exhale slowly. My patience is wearing thin. "Enlighten me," I order.
Andre tilts his head, playing it like a man with nothing to lose. "Enzo was convinced he was being followed," he says. "Kept going on and on about how he was going to triple your money. He showed us the briefcase. It was loaded." Andre whistles. "Turns out, he didn't even spend much in Vegas. He came all the way to Mexico just because he thought someone was after him."
I absorb the information as my mind pieces things together. "What happened after he showed you the briefcase?"
Andre crosses his arms, leaning against the wall like this conversation is nothing more than idle chit-chat. "We asked him to play," he says. "You know how pool works. He lost. Then we advised him to try other games. He lost again. Got so drunk he started throwing money around like it was nothing. Took some girls to private rooms, fucked them, drank more." Andre shakes his head, grinning. "Even after all that, the idiot still had half the money you gave him."
I remain silent.
Andre exhales, continuing. "Me and my guys got bored of Enzo after a while. He was too drunk to hang around with, losing money too fast. So we left him." He pauses, then his smirk fades slightly. "When we were ready to go home, we found his body in a dumpster."
"And the briefcase?" I ask.
Andre shrugs. "Gone."
I study him, with my grip on the gun stagnant. "And I'm supposed to believe that's what really happened?"
Andre's expression is indifferent. "I don't know," he says. "All I know is that I'm telling the truth."
I watch him as my mind runs through possibilities. Was Andre lying? Was he covering for someone? Or did someone else get to Enzo first?
Before I can decide, Andre suddenly smirks again. "You wanted me to talk, and I did. Now, I want you to tell me," he says. "Why'd you ask her to seduce me and then snatch her away the minute it starts getting good?" His eyes shift towards Lana. "She's mine. I wanna fuck her."
I lower my gun slightly, and I smirk. "You know," I say calmly, "I was thinking about sparing your life before."
Andre's grin falters.
"But after that statement…" I exhale, shaking my head. "You belong in the dirt."
Before Andre can react, I move fast, slipping a knife from my pocket. And then, without hesitation, I drive it deep into Andre's stomach.
Andre gasps as his eyes widen. I pull the knife out and stab him again. And again. The first stab is a shock. The second is brutal. The third is personal.
Andre makes a choked noise, trying to push me away, but I don't stop. I don't let up. The blade sinks into his flesh, over and over, with blood spilling fast over my hands.
Lana steps back, gasping out of shock but I don't care. I want Andre dead. Andre's strength fades quickly. His body slumps against the wall, and his breaths turn into ragged gasps. His mouth moves like he wants to speak, but no words come out.
I tilt my head, watching. Then, finally, Andre stops breathing. I exhale slowly, wiping the blade against Andre's shirt. I step back, glancing at Lana, who is staring at me with wide eyes.
Without looking at Andre's body again, I turn and walk away from him. The briefcase is still missing. Enzo is dead. And now, so is Andre.