Bloody Heart (Brutal Birthright #4) - Sophie Lark Page 0,3

his weight is solely concentrated around the middle, between spindly arms and legs. His closely-trimmed beard is speckled with gray, and his thick eyebrows form a heavy shelf over his eyes.

“Dante,” he says, by way of greeting.

“Edwin.” I nod.

“Cigar?” He holds out a premium Cuban cigar, heavy and fragrant.

“Thanks,” I say, standing up to take it from him.

“Come by the window,” he says. “We had a complaint from the front desk. Apparently, there’s no smoking in any of the rooms anymore. What is this country coming to?”

He nods to Ponytail, who hastily unlatches the window and forces up the sash. No easy task, since the old windowpane is practically welded in place by time and stiffness. There’s no screen—just a straight four-story drop to the awning below.

I can see limos and town cars pulling up to the curb, with partygoers streaming out of their doors, the women in bright jewel tones, the men in shades of black, gray, and navy.

Beyond that, I see cyclists riding along the lakeshore, and sparkling blue water punctuated by white sails.

“Nice view,” I say to Dukuly as he lights my cigar.

“The lake?” he scoffs. “I’ve stayed in the Royal Suite of the Burj Al Arab. This is nothing.”

I puff my cigar to hide my smile. I knew he’d be salty about the room.

Edwin Dukuly is the Minister of Lands, Mines, and Energy for Liberia. But it’s blood diamonds that pay for his Vacheron watch and hefty cigars. Like a modern Marco Polo, he brings little baggies of diamonds with him everywhere he goes to trade for whatever local luxuries he’s craving.

I’ve got those luxuries with me right now. Under six inches of ice in my seafood chest.

“Shall we?”

He motions to the seating area once more. I stub out my cigar on the windowsill and follow him over.

We make an amusing tableau—four large men, stuffed into pink-and-white striped chairs.

I haul the chest up onto the coffee table, cracking the lid. I lift out the liner that contains the ice and a camouflaging layer of shrimp, revealing the guns beneath.

I’ve brought him everything he asked for: three Kalashnikovs, four Glocks, a Ruger, and one hand-held RPG-7 grenade launcher, typically used for taking down tanks. I have no fucking clue what he plans to do with that—I suspect he saw it in a movie once and thought it looked cool.

There’s also a tightly-wrapped kilo of cocaine. Nice, powdery Colombian stuff. Dukuly’s eyes light up when he sees that. He takes a little silver knife out of the breast pocket of his tuxedo and cuts through the wrapping. He scoops up a mound of the powder on the tip of his knife, pressing it to his nostril and snorting hard. Then he rubs the residue on his tongue and gums.

“Ah!” he sighs, setting the knife back down on the table. “I can always count on you, Dante.”

To his men he says, “Put all that away, someplace the maids won’t find it.”

I clear my throat, reminding him of the small matter of payment.

“Yes, of course,” he says. He takes a little velvet bag out that same breast pocket, passing it over to me. I pour the diamonds out on my palm.

I have a jeweler’s loupe in my pocket, but I don’t need to use it to see that Dukuly thinks I’m an idiot.

The diamonds are cloudy and small. The size and quantity are less than half the value we agreed upon.

“What’s this?” I say.

“What?” Dukuly grunts, pretending ignorance. He’s not a very good actor.

“These are shit,” I say.

Dukuly’s face flushes. His heavy brows fall so low that I can barely see the glitter of his eyes underneath.

“You’d better watch your words, Dante.”

“Of course,” I say, leaning forward from my seat and looking right at him. “Let me phrase this in the most polite way possible. Pay me what you owe me, you fucking reprobate.”

The burly bodyguard snatches up one of the Glocks and points it directly at my face. I ignore him.

To Dukuly I say, “Are you serious? You’re gonna shoot me in the middle of the Drake Hotel?”

Dukuly chuckles. “I have diplomatic immunity, my friend. I could shoot you on the front steps of the police station.”

“You don’t have immunity from the Outfit. My father is the Don of Chicago. Or did you forget?”

“Oh yes, Enzo Gallo.” Dukuly nods his head, a slow smile spreading across his face. “A very powerful man. Or at least he was . . . I heard he lost his balls when he lost