Sebastian couldn’t keep his eyes off of Sixto.

“That is goddamn remarkable.”

“That’s one word for it.” Maya didn’t hide her disgust. Sebastian had filled her in on Paul’s business plan of abducting female carriers and raping them until they were pregnant. He had also given her the pills Paul was crudely manufacturing.

“Paul was right,” Sebastian said, and turned to her. His throat felt unusually dry, and his heart was tripping inside his chest the way it had at night years ago, after he’d had too much Scotch, like it was pumping sludge instead of blood. “Pregnancy blood is much more potent.” Then, as an afterthought: “It will put us out of business.”

She looked at him sharply. “I will have no part in allowing current or future female carriers to be—”

“I wasn’t suggesting that. Jesus, Maya.”

“If he goes through with this, gets this stuff to market . . .” She didn’t finish the thought. She shook her head and rested a hand on her throat as she swallowed, and when she turned away, facing the window, she suddenly looked old to him, as if she’d aged ten years in the last ten or so minutes.

CHAPTER 22

BACK WHEN SHE worked for Anton, Ellie had always made sure she was on time. Her health depended on it. The first week she went to work for him, learning the ropes, one of his stickmen ended up being five minutes late for a meeting. The guy had a valid excuse: a flat tire. He had even taken a picture of it on his phone and had texted it to Anton. Anton nodded in understanding and then broke the guy’s nose.

Ellie was waiting for him outside of her building at ten to one when, across the busy street, she saw Anton’s black BMW, with its tinted windows, slide to a stop and double-park. The guy driving behind him had to pump the brakes a bit and voiced his displeasure by planting his hand on the horn. Ellie darted through the traffic, the guy in the Audi not letting up on the horn, and when she got into the passenger seat, Anton threw his door open, about to storm out and put the fear of God into the driver. She grabbed his arm, his bicep as hard as granite.

“It’s not worth it,” she yelled over the horn. “Come on—let’s go.”

Anton shut the door but kept his hand on the handle, his attention pinned on the rearview mirror as he debated whether or not to go out and unleash holy hell. He wasn’t dressed for it: Prada loafers without socks, and tight, dark designer jeans with an even tighter black V-neck shirt. Anton put a high regard on his clothes, doted on them like children. He wouldn’t want to get them wrinkled, let alone bloodied, which she took as a good sign.

The Audi peeled out from behind Anton and darted back into traffic. Anton stared after it, quiet, grinding his teeth. He wore a pair of mirrored Oakley sunglasses, and the skin of his face was red with anger.