“It’s a messed-up family,” I said. “His grandfather runs it, and neither Alessandro’s grandmother nor his mother can stand up to him. He wants him to marry an heiress.”
“He has a grandmother? And what, we’re not rich enough?”
“It’s not just a matter of money. It’s about generational guilt and lost noble titles which shouldn’t matter but still do. He wants Alessandro to get a rich wife, come back to Italy, and then sit on his hands for the rest of his life. Because that’s what he and Alessandro’s father did. It’s kind of a family tradition for the men in his family. If Alessandro goes out and decides to make his own money, it will invalidate his grandfather’s entire life. He doesn’t want him to be successful, Leon.”
“So it’s his version of ‘I suffered and lived in misery, so everyone else has to’？”
“Pretty much.”
“Never understood that,” Leon said. “If you suffered, wouldn’t you want your grandson to have an easier time?”
“You and I would because we are not assholes.” I made another turn. “The timing on this is fishy. We grab Arkan’s snitch, and suddenly Alessandro’s fiancée shows up.”
“I don’t like it,” Leon said.
“Neither do I.”
In the past six months, Alessandro and I had made arrangements to limit the potential damage his grandfather could do, but no preparations could account for all of the possibilities.
He didn’t talk to me about it.
“They can’t honestly think he will put his tail between his legs and crawl back to them,” Leon said.
“That’s exactly what they think.”
The field on the right side had ended. A new subdivision was going up, bordered by a stone wall, half-finished roofs peaking above it. Signs dotted the side of the road.
The Estates at Brushy Creek.
From the low $400s
NEW HOMES
First phase available
WELCOME HOME
Turn left
The entrance to the subdivision waited ahead, bordered by curved stone flowerbeds. I steered the transport into it. We rolled past the model houses doubling as sales offices.
Ahead the four-lane street split, flowing around an island of green lawn that offered a playground and a large covered pavilion with picnic tables and barbecue grills. The houses closest to the entrance had been mostly complete, but here the construction was still in full swing. Skeletons of future homes rose on both sides, as building crews carried lumber and sank nails into the wooden frames. A big blue taco truck had stopped on one side of the park, serving tacos and sandwiches to the construction workers.
I eyed the truck.
“PTSD?” Leon asked.
“Yep. Wondering if it might explode.”
I looped around the island, parked on the other side of it, facing the way back to the entrance, and shut off the engine. Despite the controlled construction chaos on both sides of the street, the park itself was deserted.
“You know that I wasn’t a fan of the guy when the two of you started,” Leon said. “He did stupid shit, and he hurt your feelings. However, I changed my mind. The man works hard, covers his bases, and he loves you with fairy-tale love.”
I raised my eyebrows at him.
“The kind of love that you’re supposed to find but most of us don’t. He isn’t going anywhere, Catalina.”
“I’m not worried that he’ll leave me, Leon. I’m worried they will hurt him.”
I opened my door and stepped out. Leon got out of the transport and the two of us took a spot on a bench by the table.
Bern had run a quick background check on Christina Almeida while I was trying to get all my ducks in a row for this meeting. House Almeida was the seventh richest House in Portugal, and Christina was the youngest of the current generation. By all indications, she was adored by her family.
House Almeida mostly stayed out of the limelight. The Magus Praelia area of magic covered a lot of ground. In general terms, it meant a mage who used melee weapons, summoned or real, and altered their bodies to make themselves better killers. Some praelia made themselves faster or stronger, others boosted their reflexes. Some were capable of unleashing bursts of magic with their weapons.
The taco truck opened its window. About a dozen construction workers lined up to order.
“Incoming,” I told Leon.
He smiled a slow dreamy smile.
A silver Audi slid to the curb across the street with a soft whisper. A tall, lean white-haired man got out of the driver’s side and went around the car to the rear passenger door. His skin had an almost ochre tint, and his features were sharp, as if struck from stone by an impatient sculptor. I couldn’t tell his age from his face or the way he moved. Somewhere between thirty and fifty.