Chapter 17 - The Invitation to the Slaughterhouse
At noon the next day, Ricardo sat in his sweltering, rain-streaked car, his eyes bloodshot, his hands trembling over the steering wheel. The burner phone sitting on the passenger seat suddenly lit up with an incoming text from an unlisted number.
He snatched it, his thumb shaking.
*The audio files on your drive are useless. Your offshore accounts are frozen. If you want to settle this like an aristocrat instead of dying like a stray dog in an alley, be at the Las Lomas iron gates at 8:00 PM tonight. The gates will be open. Victoria will be inside alone. Come finish what you started.*
Attached was a high-resolution photograph of the Las Lomas grand courtyard, completely empty, the double wrought-iron gates standing slightly ajar under the gloomy afternoon light.
Ricardo let out a ragged, strangled gasp. His heart hammered against his ribs like a caged beast.
He didn't think about whether it was a trap. Reason had abandoned him months ago. In his fractured, narcotics-dulled mind, this was destiny. The universe was offering him the grand stage: the home where he had ruled, the woman who had dethroned him, and the final, bloody settling of scores.
He reached into the glove compartment, pulled out the heavy, cold steel of the nine-millimeter, checked the chamber, and racked the slide back with a loud, mechanical snap.
May you like
"Eight o'clock, Victoria," he whispered to the cracked windshield, his mouth twisting into a grotesque grin. "Eight o'clock."
***
