He knew he would be crippled by the waves of grief and horror washing over him if he did not stay busy. The simple mission he had hoped to accomplish was now grimly complicated, and time was running against him. He harbored no doubt that Bonafaccio knew what had become of Victor’s treasure and was possessed by a savage hunger to reclaim it. Paulo’s body needed to be removed and the room cleaned before the staff arrived. With his Bonneville off on the road trip to Cape Cod, he had only one choice for the grisly job ahead—Paulo’s wreck of a pickup. He gently wrapped his friend’s mutilated body, and its various parts, in the old canvas tent Paulo had used for his trips into the interior swamps. Then he hefted the ghastly bundle and carried it upstairs to the truck. All the while, images of the past flashed in his mind, scenes spinning in a dizzying collage. His father—the Bonafaccios—his exile from Cuba—his father’s murder—Rosa’s crusade—the embargo—the Kennedy cigars—the diamonds in the Don Salazarios—and, finally, this: Paulo.
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