“Talked?” She let out a throaty laugh. “He sang, tap danced, and somersaulted his way into a witness protection deal for him, his mistress, and their perfect bastard of a son.”
“Does the rest of the syndicate know?”
She shook her head. “No, he’s still pretending to run shit, and the Feds are letting him conduct business with a wiretap.”
I was out of my chair before I knew it. My mind was reeling, and since I thought better on my feet, I didn’t bother to care what my manic movements looked like.
I paced and planned, the new development rolling around in my head. “That will leave New York disorganized and without a leader. Weak. Ripe for the taking.”
“Exactly.”
I paused mid-step. “When are the Feds moving on Ricci?”
“In four days.”
“¡Hijo de su puta madre!” Son of a bitch! I was in information overload, trying to connect the dots and mold fucking art out of a pile of shit. “My sister is getting married in two days. I can’t organize a takeover in that short amount of time.”
“There’s one other thing you should know.”
“Let me guess, your ‘FBI connection’ told Santiago this as well.”
This time her face didn’t change. She wasn’t shocked, and why should she have been? We were up to our necks in acid-laced quicksand. It didn’t take a genius to know it burned.
“Val, if you worked together on the trafficking ring and the New York port, the world would quake. The two most feared men in the world aligning? There’d be no hope for mankind.”
I resumed my pacing. “Why the hell would the Carreras hand over half of something we’ve been working on for over a year?”
“Because Santiago used to run New York’s cocaine distribution before the Italians took over, in case you’ve forgotten.” Sighing, Ava stood and moved to the middle of her office, blocking me. “He’s going for it whether you like it or not, Val. However, as a favor to my connection, he’s willing to have you fly to his island to consider a merger.”
It was a good thing I’d never raised my hand to a woman.
“I’m not fucking flying anywhere,” I roared. “Did you hear me? Not only is my sister getting married, but my wife is nine months pregnant. Dante Santiago can shove his merger up his ass.” Storming toward the door, I flung it open and made my way back down the stairs toward the main area, cursing everyone’s name the entire way.
I barely cleared the last step when Ava caught up, moving in front of me and blocking my path…again. “Damn it, Val, can’t you meet him halfway?”
Absolutely fucking not.
I physically moved her out of my way and then clenched my fists by my side. “If he wants to talk to me, he can put on a goddamn suit and come to Adriana’s wedding.”
Ava sighed. There was an eye roll in there somewhere as well. “There’s no way in hell he’d do that, Val. You’d need to give him something in return first. He needs to know you’re serious about this.”
I paused in the doorway. “Like what?”
“Eyes on the ground in Mexico to smash this trafficking ring. His jurisdiction stops at your borders. He needs a dirty politician or five. He needs access.”
“Why the fuck does a man like him give a shit about trafficked whores?”
“It’s personal.” She shrugged. “Think about it, Val.”
“This is bullshit.” The ball of adrenaline that had been slamming against my chest dropped like a rock in my stomach. I steeled my reaction, diverting my attention to the young blonde, still attempting to climb the pole like it was a rope in gym class. “One politician, take it or leave it. When you finish playing puppet master, keep me updated,” I conceded darkly.
Ava’s gaze followed mine, and I felt the heat of her brown eyes burning into the side of my face. When I refused to react, she gave another long sigh. “You’ll be the first person I call.”
Can’t wait.
“Oh, and Val?” Pausing at the door, I squeezed the shit out of the handle and glanced over my shoulder to where Ava held a six-inch blade in her hand. “Never fucking touch me again.”
As I walked out into the thick Miami air, I let out a slow breath and tried to wrap my head around what the hell had just happened.
I swore to fuck, women would be the death of me.
Chapter Two
Dante
Present day
My wife’s voice was the perfect playlist. It was like a compilation of all my favorite sounds—a life source for my fucking soul, or whatever the hell was left of it. It was easy and sweet when I thrummed with violence. It was rough and dirty when I was making good on a threat and driving my cock so deep inside of her I was forced to cradle the crown of her head to stop it from slamming into the wall.
Her desperate pleas were a melody to my ears as I pounded a rhythm into her tight, wet heat—chasing down sin like the sinner that I was—punishing her for an earlier defiance that was said in part-play, part-frustration.
She’ll never learn.
I could feel her inner muscles rippling as she came so beautifully around my cock. At the same time, I wanted to steal the ecstasy from her mouth and return it to her, two-fold.
I needed this.
I needed her.
I needed every beat in her repertoire. I needed her grace, her strength, her everything. Right now, the edges of our lives weren’t as safe and defined as I’d like them to be. I made a decision last week that still tasted bitter and unclean to me. As a result, I was dragging my wife and fifteen of my best men halfway across the world to choke on it.
Fucking Carrera bastards.
The Santiago Cartel didn’t have allies. We had enemies. We had associates who cowered and pleased. We had a pocketful of dirty law enforcement officers in every country from here to Africa. Except in Mexico where we needed it most.
These days I had three obsessions in life: my wife and a couple of skipped heartbeats called Ella and Thalia; my newly resurrected Santiago Cartel; and the total destruction of the international sex trafficking trade.
Anything connected to Sevastian Petrov’s former empire was like a jagged blade in my side. It was the black seed that sowed the worst of my depravity. Sevastian raped and murdered my eldest daughter, Isabella. He abused my wife when she was barely a child herself. Whatever was left of his sex trafficking organization—whoever the fuck picked up the reins in Mexico—that same jagged blade would carve my name into his gravestone, and if it took a deal with that asshole Valentin Carrera to make it happen, so be it.
This merger came with a sweet-as-fuck bonus. We needed New York to strengthen our product’s entry routes along the East Coast. If I played nice, the city could be back under our control within the week. Once upon a time, that territory was mine, but I’d passed the powder-white baton to an old friend, Rick Sanders, when I’d temporarily washed my hands of the business to kill for hire instead.
Rick did good. The former Brooklyn boy turned the other side of the Bridge into his own kingdom of immorality. Then he married Bratva and took a sweet turn into a different form of corruption. These days he was not only a New York Senator, he managed to get himself elected Senate Minority Leader, which meant he was sitting pretty in government for us—spending half his time in Washington and the other half bullshitting his own constituents.