Cadillac Payback: Rising Tide by AJ Elmore (the false prince .TXT) 📕

that is dyed dark brown. He's gotten pudgy, soft around the edges. I guess living large will do that to you.

He stands, with a little effort, to kiss his daughter on the cheek. Then he says, “Sit down, son.”

Son. What a farce. He's never once called me that.

It takes some effort of my own not to see how many of his teeth I can break with one hit. Drag me out of my comfortable hole into the last situation I would ever want to be in, and call me son? I take a seat without a word and look him in the eye.

Mona takes the other seat, and immediately someone is setting mimosas in front of us. I'm not a fan of champagne, but maybe it will take the edge off of my nerves. I don't know if he means to toast, but if he does, I don't want to hear it. I take a drink, and wait.

“I hear you're a fisherman these days,” he says, and has a drink of his own. When I don't answer, he adds, “Sounds like a good, honest living. Suits you, I think.”

You don't fucking know me. But I won't be provoked by this mother fucker.

I'm surprised at the ease with which my words come when I say, “Cut the shit, Carlo. I'm not here to make small talk.”

Mona makes a tiny gasp, and I see her head turn toward me. As far as I'm concerned, she's not even here. Her presence is outshone by her father's. Something she'd hate, if I told her.

Carlo's lips thin, and a stretch of silence follows my words. Surely he's not naïve enough to think I'm the same wide-eyed, star-struck fool he knew. It feels like forever ago. I was such an idiot back then. Yeah, well, I've learned some things since then, and I plan on showing him right away.

He takes another drink, pointedly watching me over the rim of his glass. There's a gold chain around his wrist, and he's wearing a button-up not so different from mine, except his is gray. I guess rich old doctors who make a killing off the weakness of others can afford to be boring.

Of the million thoughts that must occur in the time it takes him to answer, he chooses, “I'm looking toward retirement. Pain management has its perks, but the clientele is a hassle. There's so much heat on them that the risks get higher every day.”

I reach toward my pants pocket. His eyes dart downward, as if he thinks I've somehow made it through security with a weapon and am reaching for it. Sure, I can relate. I was Charlie's right hand and old habits die hard, or some shit like that. How many times did I find myself scanning the rigging of the trawler, or watching a crewmate a little too closely, just out of habit. Everyone and everything is suspect.

I grab my smokes from my pocket and choose one. The relief is visible in Carlo, the way his shoulders deflate a little, and he lets loose his breath. I watch myself light my cigarette with an almost lazy indifference that I learned from Charlie.

I pocket the lighter, take a long drag, and look back up to him as I exhale. I guess he wants me to say something, but he still hasn't gotten to a point worth addressing.

He clears his throat and continues.

“Since we can't just close up shop, we've been exploring other avenues. We've made an impressive connection who will buy in bulk. We need a diplomat, and you have previous experience with their protocol.”

A diplomat? He's bullshitting me, right? This is all a little elaborate for just a fucking diplomat.

Technically, he's wrong. I don't have experience in that department. What he's saying is that the collective of doctors and lawmakers who comprise his inner group – the “we” he's referring to – wants to start supplying pills to a Mexican cartel. This shit is too much.

I tilt my head to the side in mock thoughtfulness, and ash onto his fifty-thousand-dollar yacht deck. I say, “There's one question that's yet to've been answered, and I think I actually deserve to hear it before you say another fucking word. Why me? I don't want to play your games. I don't want back in the game. And I don't give a fuck about your empire.”

He makes a face that looks like he ate a whole lemon, peeled. It'd be funny, in some other situation. His chin lifts, and he says, “It seems you held some rank with them, and we are unfamiliar with dealing with this . . . brand of people.”

What he means is they're not used to doing business street style. They're used to white collar, hide in the shadows shit with judges and lawyers, who also attend their weekend parties.

I laugh, but it's sarcastic, and say, “You have no idea how right you are. How did you find me?”

He smiles, like a wolf, and I wish I had my gun.

He says, “You think we didn't keep tabs on you?”

No. I don't think he did. If he had, Mona's threat that he would just kill me doesn't make any sense. If he knew where I was this whole time, I'd be dead. I think he's bluffing, but I have no leverage to call it with. Maybe it's better to play dumb. I take a slow hit on my cigarette, followed up by a drink that drains the tiny champagne flute.

Then I say, “I think your information is a little dated. My rank was never that high, and I sure as hell didn't deal with the hard stuff.”

I don't even need to mention the Fed bust, and the way I almost died with Charlie and Maria for it. If they have that much dirt on me, then they already know. The real question is just how much do they know? This whole situation stinks.

He watches me drop my spent cigarette into my empty glass with