“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 fuck, nothing more!”
“I turned to you too, you selfish bastard!” Jordan screamed, throwing the napkin that she'd been holding in her hand at me. “I can't even . . .”
She got up and ran from the barge, out into the Paris afternoon. I turned in my chair to go after her, when the other two men with De la Rosa, as well as Charani and Syeira, stood up. “Don't move.”
I stopped and turned back, stunned at the tone in my mother's voice. I hadn't heard that tone in her voice to me ever. In fact, I had rarely heard her use it, and only then against those who had hurt the family. “Mother?”
“A title that I regret to have at this moment,” she seethed, her gray eyes flaring with anger. “A title that means nothing, since by what you have done, you have shown yourself to be nothing!”
“What I did, I did for you too!” I yelled back. “The phoenix must rise!”
“This phoenix rose on her own, thank you very much!” She spat back, her tone low and growling. “I was not named to be the mother of a traitor. Your brother has always been your biggest supporter, and you repay him by selling him to the fucking Russians?”
I wanted to argue, but the look in her eyes was implacable. Finally, I lowered my head and shook regretfully, knowing what I had to say next, even if it hurt her feelings. “It doesn't matter, mother. I’m the King now, and that is all there is to it. The other family leaders — they swore the oath.”
“You are not the King,” Syeira said, her voice the calmest I had heard since coming into the room. “Felix did not abdicate the title, nor is he dead. He is still King.”
I laughed harshly and looked at my aunt. “A fact that is not proven. Regardless of how I did it, fratricide is not against Romani law. My title is still mine, as is the power of the oath.”
Syeira shook her head, indicating the two men who had arrived with De la Rosa. “These men are from our allies in the Black Sea tribes. They have confirmed for me that Felix is being held in an estate belonging to Vladimir Ilyushin, a member of the Russian Mafia. That information has been passed along to the rest of the senior tribe members.”
“I know the name,” I said. “We have dealt with the Russians before, but never with him directly.”
“We are waiting, but the Black Sea Romani have promised to e-mail me pictures within twelve hours of Felix, alive and at the estate,” Syeira said. “It took some influence, but they are willing to support us.”
“On what?” I asked, dumbfounded. “Are you planning to rescue him or something?”