Double Dealing: A Menage Romance(77)
I had just finished a workout and felt wonderful. All of my strength was back after my coronation, and in the past week I had come to terms not only with Jordan's concerns but also with what had to be done with Syeira. Even my planning for how to break into the museum in Marrakesh seemed to be falling into place.
Leaving the gymnasium, I decided to run back to the barge instead of taking the bus. Charani had been using the car almost exclusively, and I still didn't feel like getting my Porsche out of storage — it just wasn't time. Maybe after Syeira was taken care of, and Jordan was ready to let her hair down again, I thought as I jogged along the Seine. The weather was starting to show signs of the end of winter, which in Paris usually meant that things were more miserable than the winter itself. In winter, you tended to have either gray clouds that promised snow, or bright blue days that seemed to sear their way into your mind with unrelenting electric hues.
Rounding the final curve in the river bank, I looked across the river to where the barge was, surprised when I saw three vehicles parked along the street in front of our Renault. I didn't recognize them, and I doubted that Charani would have let strangers just park their vehicles near our barge without giving me a call first. I picked up my pace, crossing the bridge that let me get on the right side of the river and over to the barge. “Hello? Maman? Où es-tu?"
There was no answer from the barge, and I sprinted up the gangplank, worry flooding my body. Thundering my way down the steps and inside, I threw open the door, already preparing to find something that would shatter my life.
What I found instead made me come to a complete halt, as Syeira and Jordan sat casually around the dining table, Charani in between to them. With them were three men I didn't know, but who looked Romani to me. “What is this?”
“Come, have a seat my son,” Charani said, indicating the empty chair across from her. “We have visitors.”
“I can see that,” I said, trying to regain my calm. “I’m surprised, though, I would have thought that I'd be informed.”
“Unfortunately, this was very short notice meeting,” one of the men said in heavily accented English that smacked of his Spanish roots. “Forgive me. I am Francisco Cordoba de la Rosa.”
I repressed my inner shiver, knowing the name. The De la Rosas were the heads of the largest tribe of Romani in the entire Iberian and Italian peninsulas, and in fact laid claim to most of southern France, with the defined borderlands being the small area that surrounded my family's property on the Rhone and in Paris. That had belonged to Guillaume Hardy before he married my mother, and as such was considered neutral territory. When grandfather died, the De la Rosa chief visited with Felix, to confirm the arrangement. They'd integrated themselves more into Spanish culture than a lot of the Romani, having even given up their Romani names and many not even speaking Rom. “Of course, Se?or De la Rosa. It’s a pleasure to have you in my home. What brings you to Paris?”
“Well, it seems that a business associate of yours has recently been acting quite peculiar,” De la Rosa said, taking out a smartphone. “When some of my family's men questioned him, he had quite a bit to say. Would you like to take a look?”
De la Rosa set the phone on the table, turning it toward me. “Don’t worry, your mother and these ladies have already seen it,” he said with a grim smile. “There is nothing to hide here amongst us Romani.”
With trembling hands, I tapped the screen, starting the video. I saw our Spanish agent, the man I had sold out Felix to on the screen, his arms bound behind his back and his face beaten and swollen. In blubbering, sobbing tones, he described how he'd betrayed Felix, and how he'd transferred him to the Russian mobsters after the fake handoff in Calais. “Now, one last question, and the answer is of vital importance,” the cameraman said, waving a knife in front of the Spaniard. “Did Francois know about or participate in the betrayal of his brother?”
“Of course he knew, you stupid Gypsy!” the Spaniard spat back, his eyes wide and frightened. “Who the hell do you think contacted me about it? Hell, he talked with my men in Mexico about setting the whole thing up!”
“Thank you,” the cameraman said. “You have earned some mercy.”
The Spaniard's mouth widened in a grateful smile, only to be replaced by a shocked gape as the cameraman reached forward, and grabbed him by his hair.
“It was a hands-free setup,” De la Rosa explained as on the video, the cameraman shoved the knife into the Spaniard's mouth and jerked sideways savagely, slicing open his cheek before repeating it on the other side, giving the screaming man a Glasgow smile. “Mercy, no? We should have killed him.”
“You can’t believe what this man says,” I stammered, looking up from the video. “He was slime, and we only used him because he had connections for offloading our loot.”
Jordan, who until then had maintained her silence, slammed her fist down on the table. “Francois . . . how could you?” she cried, her eyes streaming tears. “How could you? He is your brother!”
“He spent his whole life holding me down!” I yelled back, slamming my own fist onto the table. “I was always second best! Always! Even with you — I was the second one in your heart. Admit it Jordan, whenever you needed tenderness, or comfort, or compassion, it was Felix you turned to, not me! I was good for having fun, and for a good f*ck, nothing more!”