Seventy-One

Barcelona, Spain

The limo pulled up in front of an industrial rust-colored building, too modern to belong in a city that was well over a thousand years old. It also looked too small to perform the functions of a police station and municipal jail, but Michael knew that its looks were deceiving. The structure extended three stories underground and housed nearly two hundred and fifty inmates awaiting trial and transfer.

The rear door popped open, the driver standing aside so he could climb out. Taking a few moments to straighten his tie, Michael studied the building’s exterior, looking for points of entry and escape. While getting in would pose little challenge, he doubted they would allow him to waltz out the front door after killing their most high-profile inmate.

He smoothed the lapels of his suit jacket and took the briefcase the driver held out to him with a wink. “Don’t wait up,” he said before he turned and made his way up the concrete steps leading to the building.

Despite his outward behavior, Michael had serious reservations about what he was about to do. Even after everything he’d found out about Pia Cordova over that last few hours, the idea of killing a woman, any woman, was distasteful.

He pushed his way through the heavy glass doors into the lobby, informing the desk sergeant that he was Ms. Cordova’s attorney and that he was here for an appointment. Uniformed officers ushered him into an antechamber so that they could search him, and he submitted without protest while they rifled through his pockets and his briefcase.

Their search bore little fruit—nothing more than case files and a Montblanc pen. He extracted the pen from the officer’s grasp, tucking it into his breast pocket with a smile. “I’d like to see my client now, if you don’t mind.”

Despite the fact that it was nearly three a.m., he was led into a private visitation room as if he’d been expected and left to wait.

As soon as he’d placed his briefcase on the room’s only table, the door opened and Pia swept in like she was wearing Versace instead of jeans and a plain white T-shirt. Another sign that he’d been expected.

She’d only been arrested a few days ago, but she looked worn, older without her usual armor of makeup and hair extensions. Trailing a manicured finger across his shoulder and down the length of his arm, she rounded the table to take a seat across from him. “Hello, Cartero,” she all but purred, holding her manacled wrists at chest level so that the guard who escorted her could cuff her to the table. The length of chain was generous enough to allow movement, and she folded her hands on the flat surface between them. As soon as she was secure, the guard circled back around to stand behind him, next to the door. Michael tracked his progress from the corner of his eye.

Pia rattled her chains, drawing his attention. “I’m glad you decided to come. I was worried we wouldn’t have the chance to see each other again.”

He wasn’t surprised that she knew who he really was. If he’d learned anything over the last few hours, it was that Pia had spent her life being underestimated by everyone around her, which was exactly how she wanted it. While the world saw a rich, flighty party-girl, she’d been busy building an empire in her father’s shadow.

He smiled at her. “The man you sent to the hospital—the one Sabrina killed. He wasn’t there for the Kotko boy, was he? He was there for her.”

“Who is Sabrina?” she said, her eyes wide and innocent.

“You want her dead, and I want to know why,” he said, his tone more desperate than he’d intended.

“You seem quite fixated on this woman, Cartero.” Her mouth curved in a smile he’d seen before. One that was meant to seduce and tease. “Should I be jealous?”

The desperation flattened out, hardening into a resolve as thick as stone between them. “No. You should be afraid.”

She drew an invisible doodle on the flat of the table with the tip of her finger, laughing like he’d made a joke. “Do you love her?” She looked up at him. “I hope so.”

“No more games, Pia.” He opened his briefcase and pulled out the files inside. They weren’t the ones Lark had sent him; to tell the truth, he had no idea what was even on them. But she didn’t know that. “I see you. The real you.” He flipped open one of the files before drawing the Montblanc from his breast pocket and setting it on the table. “Graduated with honors from Harvard’s Law and Business Schools simultaneously and yet turned down multiple lucrative job offers to return to your life of opulent squandering here in Spain, happy to play the part of daddy’s little princess. But in the three years since you graduated, your father’s holdings have increased by nearly six hundred percent. Gun running doesn’t generate that kind of jump. When did he find out you’d started trafficking children behind his back?”

Pia spread her fingers out on the table, clicking her nails a few times before she sat back, glancing at the guard who’d accompanied her into the room. The smile fell from her lips like discarded trash. “My father … he had no vision. No drive.” She shrugged. “He was a traditionalist. No drugs. No children. Boring. When I returned from the United States I had the tools to build the kind of operation I wanted. And that’s what I did.

“By the way, I had those two guards thoroughly distracted before you caused such a racket.” Pia tsked. “So unprofessional, Cartero. Are you slipping?” Now the smile returned, but it no longer flirted. This one was hard, turning her entire face into a mask of hatred and ice. “Ask me again about your precious Sabrina.”

“Why did you try to kill her?”

Pia lifted her hand to examine her nails before looking at him. “It’s simple. I tried to kill her because you love her. And I won’t stop. Not until she’s dead.”