Lace and Bullets(2)
Her father strode to the liquor cabinet and pulled out a bottle of Macallan. He poured a hefty amount into a lowball glass and gulped down half of it before walking back to his desk. George Davenport did like a good scotch.
Mia slid down to the floor. She had just enough room to curl up with her knees against her chest. From the looks of things, it would be a long night.
She didn’t know when she had drifted off, but something woke her. She blinked her eyes open and winced in pain. It all came back. Right. I’m stuck in the closet. She rubbed the back of her neck as her father’s voice stopped her still.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
Oh, no. Had he found her? She pulled back from the door, an apology on her lips, when another voice pricked the hairs on her arms.
“The cartel is not happy with the recent arrests.”
What? Mia squinted to see through the slats. A man stood in front of her father’s desk, hands clasped behind his back. Mia covered her mouth with her hand. One of his hands held a gun.
Oh my God. From her angle, she couldn’t make out more than his clothes. Black suit, broad shoulders. Greasy hair pulled back in a ponytail. Not someone she knew.
Her father leaned back in his chair and picked up his glass. “Marcelo knows I can’t control the arrests. The conviction rate is still excellent. Under forty percent.”
“Mr. Marcelo expects the arrests to decrease. His guys are being held for forty-eight hours. It’s crimping his business operations.”
“Then you tell him to stop sending stupid lugs who can’t help but get arrested. I’ve got no control over the cops. You know that.”
Mia’s gut twisted. She knew the name Marcelo. He was the head of the biggest drug cartel in the state. A modern-day mafia don. He’d created an entire family out of drug dealers and pushers, weapons runners and human traffickers. A whole network of thugs and low-lifes who would do anything for him.
She swallowed. If her father was tied up with someone like Marcelo, then he was way worse than she had thought. He was a criminal.
The man holding the gun stepped closer. “You don’t seem to be taking this seriously.”
“Why should I? There’s nothing Marcelo can do to me. I’m the fucking District Attorney.” Her father leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head.
Mia’s blood ran cold. Was he that much of an egotistical ass? Did he not see the danger?
She rose up onto the balls of her toes and clutched at the wall. The man with the gun aimed it straight at her father’s chest. Her heart thudded louder and louder. She was sure they must be able to hear it beyond the door.
If she stayed quiet, the man would kill her father, she was sure of it. If she made a move, he would kill her too.
Mia didn’t know what to do.
With her blood whooshing through her veins, Mia scrambled along the floor of the closet, searching for something, anything, that could help. She came up empty. Oh, God. This can’t be happening.
Her father paled. He pushed back in his chair and the wheels rolled across the gleaming wood. It was the only sound in the room.
He held up one hand. “Easy, Angelo. You know I didn’t mean anything by it. Marcelo’s still my man.”
“It sounds like you’ve become too big for your britches.”
Her father tried to smile. “Not at all. I was just pulling your leg. Put the gun away and we’ll talk.”
Angelo stepped closer. “Marcelo is done talking. You aren’t delivering to his satisfaction. There are plenty of others in line who will.”
Her father reached under his seat and sweat broke out across Mia’s forehead. What is he…oh, no. She dug her nails into the trim around the door.
The second her father pulled the concealed pistol from its hiding place Mia knew it was over. Her father was going to die.
He pointed the gun at Angelo. “I’m not the fall guy for anyone. I run this town, not Marcelo. It’s time he remembered that.” Her father squeezed the trigger, but he wasn’t fast enough.
Mia watched in horror as the other man fired again and again. Her father jerked in the chair as bullet after bullet hit its target. His mouth fell open in shock and the gun clattered to the floor.
As she stared, the bullet holes turned crimson. Blood oozed in ever-expanding circles on her father’s starched white dress shirt. Mia crumpled against the wall of the closet. Her father was dead.
Sadness or guilt should be overwhelming her.
Instead, relief filled her. Her father couldn’t hurt anyone anymore. Not the innocent people he put behind bars or the families he destroyed in the process. He couldn’t cover up for the drug dealers and weapons runners that made up the Marcelo crime family.