Michael
“In the living room, normally.”
Vanessa’s hand brushes my arm as I lead us into the messy apartment. About a dozen guys watch us, and no one here is in the mood to joke around. But everyone knows Barbara Cruz is my cousin, so they step aside. We reach the living room, Vanessa’s eyes lingering on those pulling weapons from large wooden crates, cigarettes dangling from their mouths. The décor is old, almost vintage. Faded flowered wallpaper covers the walls, and an old television sits on a wooden dresser.
Because of the different activities going on in the room—some counting bills, others packing weapons—I don’t spot my cousin right away, hidden in a corner. She’s giving orders to three men in suits, her expression leaving no room for negotiation.
“Follow me,” I tell Vanessa, pul
