Motherfucker.
“If bipolar means splitting a man’s body in half, here…let me demonstrate.”
“Why don’t you have a drink first?” Joseph rose to his feet and thrust a bottle of bourbon at me to slow my murderous intent. He gave me a look as I stopped and swigged from it like a man possessed. He could tell that my current state of mind was Carrera-made, and not courtesy of Rick’s big mouth.
“These are piss-poor bartering lines,” I mused darkly, taking another swig. “I never should have agreed to leave the island.” I never should have brought Eve with me.
“Then redefine them,” he responded without blinking. “Shove your terms down Carrera’s throat so far, he’ll be spitting them up for weeks. At least it’ll blindside him from what’s really going on.”
This produced my second broken smile of the journey. Joseph had already guessed I’d no intentions of honoring this deal. I knew he would. He moved in my shadow. He stung like a bee. And he’d anticipated my moves more times than a fucking chess champion.
“Roman, talk me through what Chernova said to you about New York last week.” I turned to the blond-haired FBI agent sitting next to Rick.
“Don Ricci cut a deal with the justice department on the sly—the Italians are on the ropes and Carrera wants the city as much as we do.” Roman yawned and pulled out his cell to check his messages. Sometimes I had to remind myself he was a useful asshole to keep around instead of just an asshole. The latter would have seen him six feet under a long time ago. “Carrera is against this deal as much as you are, Dante,” he warned. “But, it’s mutually beneficial, so please shelve any ideas you have about sabotage until after we smash this organization wide open.”
Roman could also be a pious prick when he wanted to be.
“Why the hell does a Miami pakhan care so much about this anyway?” I demanded.
“Let’s just say we all have a vested interest in this trafficking ring operating in Mexico. She hates this shit as much as we do.” Roman’s expression tightened as he slid his cell back into his inside pocket. His twin sister was also trafficked and murdered by Sevastian Petrov. In retaliation, Roman was the one responsible for his uncle’s death inside a dirty jail cell. The official line was that the Russian had been shanked in his gut by his cellmate, but everyone on this plane knew otherwise. Roman’s slick, well-groomed, corporate facade hid his own mayhem and murder.
“Does Carrera know about your Russian connection to her?”
“As far as he’s concerned, I’m just another dirty cop on the make.” He smiled at me with all the warmth of a great white shark. “The fact that I’m Andrei Petrov’s son would tip the merger too much in our favor. My father’s name still carries weight in certain circles. Remember, Chernova wants this to happen as much as we do. She lost one of her girls, and she wants her back.”
It was all playing into my hands too perfectly. The truth felt like water. I could feel the trickles seeping through the cracks, but I couldn’t stem the flow with an answer. Something didn’t feel right about any of this.
The names of the Mexicans… New York falling back into our laps… It was all too easy.
“Is Viviana joining us there?” I said, referring to my niece who was busy making quite the name for herself fronting my cartel in Colombia these days.
“She’s meeting us at Miami-Opa Locka.” Joseph collapsed back into his seat with a groan. “She’s swinging by Florida on her way through. Something about a shipment delay.”
“Call ahead and make sure she’s ready and waiting. I want a united family front for Carrera.”
“All two of you,” Rick muttered, picking the ice out of his whiskey.
It’s a good thing I didn’t bring him along for entertainment purposes. Rick was still a Brooklyn crook at heart, with a loyalty like Joseph’s and an aim as lethal as mine.
“Three,” I corrected him with a grimace, thinking of my angel lying naked ten feet away from me.
Though I wish to fuck it wasn’t.
Chapter Three
Valentin
Mexico City, Mexico
“Again?”
I slowed my stride, my teeth grinding together. Any other day, a question like that would’ve earned a .45 caliber response. Fortunately for my soon-to-be brother-in-law’s first lieutenant to our stateside operation, the price I’d pay for the bullet wasn’t worth the effort.
“Shut the fuck up and do your job. I’m not in the mood to clean your blood off my lawn, Suárez.” Leaving my newly appointed head of security behind, I walked the perimeter of the grounds once more, checking every lock and interrogating every guard.
Third time’s the charm.
It was a ridiculous phrase. People said it all the time as if men like me got more than one chance to get it right. We didn’t. If we fucked up on the first try, that was it.
Game over.
Maybe they got another shot.
I just got shot.
But my safety wasn’t what prompted all this. Taking a bullet was as routine as breathing in this business. Life was a constant roll of the dice, and I lived it knowing I’d eventually throw a bad hand.
But this wasn’t about me.
It was about them.
“Everything satisfactory now, jefe?”
Coming to a dead stop, I turned and shot him a lethal look over my shoulder. “If you have to ask me that question, then I made a mistake in bringing you here.”
Whereas most young men Rafael Suárez’s age would’ve pissed themselves trying to correct their mistake, he simply tightened his jaw. Barely a noticeable reaction to anyone else, but I wasn’t just anyone. I was the son of one of the most infamous men in modern history—an indiscriminate monster who killed for money and tortured for fun.
My father raised me to identify the slightest twitch and manipulate it to my advantage.
Cartel regime may have controlled Rafael’s reaction, but it ran through my veins.
“I’ll have ten sicarios run hourly perimeter checks,” he announced in a strong, monotone voice.
I stifled a smirk. He was learning, and the words weren’t offered as a question, which earned him another hour with air in his lungs. Some might consider it insubordination, but I appreciated a man who didn’t have to be told something twice. Every day I made split-second decisions, and I didn’t have time for hand-holding. Read between the lines or bleed out. I didn’t give a damn.
Those allowed inside my inner circle swore to four oaths.
Honor the cartel above anything else.
Shut your fucking mouth.
Protect your leader.
Give your life for his family.
Although last, the fourth and final oath held precedence over all the rest. It was why we stood here having this conversation. It was why I was here doing the work of men ranked so far below me I didn’t even know their names. It was why my breath kept getting caught in my chest, and every step sounded like thunder in my head.
To the majority of people here, these walls contained a private wedding. But to that inner circle, they caged a brewing storm—a storm, very few people knew was currently thirty-six thousand feet in the air, somewhere between Colombia and the estate.