“Heh, nice evasion.” Kuga sipped the bourbon. It was not a particularly expensive brand, but when Kuga saw it in a store, he immediately bought two cases. Larceny Barrel Proof. Kuga thought it was the best thing he’d seen in months and smiled like a naughty kid whenever he opened a new bottle. “Of course you like the American Operation,” he continued. “Hugo Vox cooked it up, and you mapped it out. And in case you think I’m ungrateful, I appreciate you sharing the details on all those Seven Kings ops that were in the pipeline. This one is a fucking doozy, and talk about timely. Vox was a visionary, that’s for damn sure. He had his finger on the pulse of my ex–mother country. It’s so right on that nobody will think we had any hand in it because—hey, even the fake news has been calling this for years. It’ll make that freak Church shit a twenty-four-karat gold brick.”

Santoro stared into the depths of his coffee. “And yet here we sit, like a couple of foolish middle-aged tourists on a Princess cruise.”

“You see,” said Kuga, pointing a finger at Santoro with the hand holding the whiskey glass, “that’s the part about being executives that you don’t get.”

“Pray enlighten me about that, too.”

“You think we need to get our hands dirty. How do you still have that thought? You think we should be down in Texas micromanaging the whole G-55 thing? Hugo Vox never got blood on his hands—or dirt under his fingernails, for that matter. Neither did his mother—your goddess.”

“Cuidado,” murmured Santoro, the warning clear in his tone. But Kuga ignored it.

“We have people working for us,” continued Kuga. “Very smart people. The best money can buy. Loyal, too, because they know that you’re around to give lessons in efficiency and to spank them if they step out of line. They are doing the heavy lifting while we are enjoying a gorgeous morning, drinking good bourbon—well, in your case, some fruity-ass coffee drink—and watching three insanely gorgeous women. The sun is shining, and all’s right with the motherfucking world.”

“You’re drunk.”

“Mmmm-hm. That was my actual intention. Happy to report that I’ve met my life goal for the day.”

Santoro lapsed into a bitter silence. When Kuga was like this, there was no shot at a real conversation. It was a petty response to being scolded, and Kuga had no peer when it came to childish obstinacy or obfuscation.

The women swam and talked and laughed. Their voices were musical, but the day had soured, and so they seemed to be nothing more than noise.

After a long time, Kuga said, “Besides, Rafael ol’ buddy, I called in some help.”

“Help? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Someone with a little more oomph than that Barbie doll you’re mentoring.”