I rolled my eyes. Thank God, I didn’t miss the fucking bouquet toss.
Adriana glanced over her shoulder with a wide smirk. “Ready?” Lifting her arm, she dangled her bridal bouquet like a piece of raw meat in front of a pack of hungry wolves.
It worked. The pack let out a collective howl and bared their fangs, ready to rip each other to shreds over some fucking roses.
Red roses.
I clenched my hand around my wineglass, my gaze trained on that damn bouquet. Thirty-two years of instinct sharpened my eyes as I watched Adriana count down from three and then toss the bouquet over her head. I stared as the pack of wolves leaped forward, claws ripping everything in their path.
And in the end, I saw destruction.
I sensed anger and hatred. I heard war. I smelled death.
Adriana’s bridal bouquet laid in tatters, petals scattered across the grass.
Like spilled drops of blood.
Red never lied.
Chapter One
Valentin
Miami, Florida
Two days ago
A man like me had better things to do than waste the day in a place like this. I owned businesses like Seventh Heaven. I extorted money out of them then siphoned it right back through like a spin-cycle.
I did not spend thirty minutes in an uncomfortable metal chair waiting.
Valentin Carrera did not wait for anybody.
Not to mention, it was the middle of March, and it was hot as Satan’s ball sack in here. Granted, Mexico wasn’t exactly a fresh spring breeze, but what the fuck? Was Florida the training camp for hell? Because if this was where eternal damnation started, I was fairly sure it ended directly on the surface of the sun.
Maybe I was just being a dick. It wasn’t like Seven was some back-alley shithole. It was a famous Bratva owned Miami strip club boasting some of the most expensive pussy you’d ever want to fuck.
Not that I was interested.
Why the hell would any man dip his dick in gas station beer when he had a bottle of Gout de Diamants champagne waiting to suck it dry at home? Then again, the clientele here didn’t appear to have enough balls between them to handle a woman like my wife, so maybe gas station pussy was the best they’d ever know.
Shame.
I’d rather put a bullet in my own head.
However, these pendejos and their limp dicks weren’t why I interrupted my day to fly three hours across the border. It was because of a phone call I got yesterday. One that very few people had the cojones to make.
And even fewer lived to tell about.
To be honest, I almost hung up. I was a man of action and zero bullshit. If someone had something to say, they’d better fucking say it instead of hiding behind a shield to deflect a bullet.
Two important things about me: I never fired just once, and I never missed. First bullet took out the shield. Second bullet took out the target.
However, this time, the shield had a shield of his own.
A verbal one.
“I have intel on the Italians.”
Six fucking words spoken over the phone, and here I was, drinking shitty tequila while watching some bitch swing around a pole who looked like she should be at home playing with dolls, or whatever the fuck girls were into these days.
As the girl took one hell of an awkward spin that almost sent her careening off the stage, I sipped what could only be described as an assault by agave and scanned the perimeter again.
Second nature when most of the world wanted you dead.
“Her name is Giselle, and she’s nineteen. Born and raised in St. Petersburg. Mother’s dead, dad’s in jail, and she has a fifteen-year-old brother the state is trying to put in foster care.” Glancing out of the corner of my eye, I saw an explosion of red hair falling down a skin-tight black dress. “And before you ask, yes, I asked for proof, and then got it myself just in case she’s a little Photoshop queen.”
“Ava,” I muttered, lifting the glass back to my lips. Her name was all I could say without disrespecting the woman in her own club.
No one was supposed to read me like that.
I was fucking El Muerte. The Reaper. Your closest ally or worst enemy, but you’d never know because my mask was always in place. Unreadable. Emotionless. Cold as fuck. However, my face betrayed my thoughts this time, and especially in front of Ava Chernova, that shit was deadlier than any bullet.
“Valentin Carrera.” The South Florida queen and pakhan of the Miami Bratva slid into the chair across from me, a smirk twisting her red lips. “Don’t pout. I get enough of that from Niko.”
Niko Gaheris, Russian mercenary-turned assassin, otherwise known as her fucking shield, was the reason I was here with her instead of balls deep in my wife.
We went way back.
Back to the moment he had my wife in his crosshairs and his finger on the trigger. He was lucky he hesitated, and he was even luckier I saw it before I blew his brains out.
I wasn’t a merciful man, but the way he stared at Eden… I knew. I fucking knew that look. I saw it in the mirror every damn day.
I asked him what her name was.
His answer was a single word.
“Ava.”
It wasn’t until weeks later I found out why Ava had rendered one of the most skilled sharpshooters in the world fucking useless.
Setting my glass down, I leaned back in my chair and smirked as she gathered her long, bright red hair in her hand and draped it over one shoulder. From a distance, I noticed the resemblance, but up close, there was no comparison.
Fuego. Ava’s hair was fire red. The color of an angry sunset. Similar, but nothing like my Cereza. Not cherry-red like the sweet bite of a candy apple.
“Why are you staring at me?”
Dragging myself out of the past, I cleared my throat. “Speaking of your husband, will he be joining us tonight? After all, he is the one who made the call.”
“And I’m the one who ended it.” Puckering her red lips, she drummed her matching nails on the table. “Are we going to keep playing this game, or can we talk business now?”
“Here?” I wasn’t a hypocrite. I laundered money out of a cantina in Houston, but I never talked business at its bar. A man sitting at the far end could be the town drunk, or he could be a DEA agent in a dirty baseball hat and a T-shirt.
I suspected everyone.
It was why I was still breathing.
“Idi k chertu!” She slammed her fist down, telling me to go straight to hell while making the table rattle. Amused, I leaned forward and propped my elbows on top of it, an act that only fueled her temper. “Do you think I’m a fucking moron? I vet my employees, Carrera. Employees who know all too well tongues that speak outside these walls get removed.”
I pressed my fingers together and smirked. “Should I clap now?”
Ava stood, raising me a condescending laugh. “My husband respects you, Valentin; therefore, I respect you. He considers you an ally; therefore, I consider you an ally. He pushed for the Miami/Corpus Christi port trade alliance you wanted; therefore, I agreed to it.”
I didn’t know where this was going, but I never turned my back on anyone—man or woman. Fuck it, especially a woman. When one advanced toward you in the middle of an argument, you could bet your ass it wasn’t to high-five you.
Swaying her hips, she circled the table, my eyes tracking her every move. With inches separating us, she leaned down with her lips a breath away from my ear and whispered, “But know this, Carrera, my husband isn’t here. This is my club, my town, and my port. I may wear his ring, but I’m still a Chernov. So, don’t think for a minute, I wouldn’t reach under this dress, pull out my blade, and carve my name in your chest, El Muerte.” Without another word, she walked away and toward the back of the club.