Standing in one spot was against my nature, so I continued my security check, not surprised when Rafael’s footsteps fell in sync behind me. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched the line of heavily-armed guards pretend not to notice us. “What have you told them?”
“Just that some very important and influential people will be in attendance, and you’re putting extra measures in place to ensure their safety.”
“That’s all it took?”
“I may have dropped a few names.” He nodded toward a line of stone-faced guards. “They’re killers, not idiotas. No one wants to fuck up and land on a Chernov or Sinner radar.”
“And the Colombians?”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “Only that Santiago and his men are invited guests and aren’t to be shot out of the sky.”
Well, at least not today anyway. “Muy bien. Anything else?”
“If hostile shots are fired, the four oaths stand,” he added, his fists clenching by his side. “It doesn’t matter who’s at the end of their gun; they fire back.”
That was exactly why men twice Rafael Suárez’s age stood on the front lines while he gave the orders. I didn’t appoint him head of security for my sister’s wedding as a favor to my soon-to-be brother-in-law. It was because he was a ruthless sicario who knew the grounds better than anyone.
When I sent the twenty-two-year-old to work under Brody, it wasn't an insult.
It was a sacrifice.
Rafael was one of my best men. Born to my father’s housekeeper, he knew the grounds like the back of his hand. That was why I brought him here, leaving Houston in the hands of second-rate lieutenants. His clean-shaven face and dimples made him appear otherwise, but Rafael Suárez was a stone-cold killer. If there was a hole in our defense, Rafael would find it.
However, along with strong defense came a carefully crafted offense.
“What’s the status of what we discussed this morning?”
Instead of responding, he motioned me down the line to where a scarred-face man stood at attention, his black uniform crisp and neat. When he noticed us approaching, he stood straighter. “Jefe.”
“I gave Francisco the order,” Rafael explained, ignoring the greeting and speaking directly to me—yet another point in his favor. Once I nodded, he faced the guard. “Have you received confirmation that Dr. Vidal is on site?”
Hierarchy wasn’t just a chain of respect for men like us; it was our own stone-etched commandment. He outranked this guard, but I outranked everyone. Every word was spoken directly to me, or it wasn’t spoken at all.
Just as I anticipated, Francisco glanced toward me, waiting for a nod before answering him. “Sí, jefe, about an hour ago.”
“And the backup?”
“Two additional helicopters have been brought in from Médica Sur, as requested.”
“Staffed?”
The guard gave a stiff nod. “Two surgeons and a nurse on each one.”
Not nearly enough in my opinion, but more choppers would raise questions I wasn’t prepared to answer. As it stood, once Eden saw them, I’d have to think fast on my feet or there would be hell to pay.
Fucking women.
Rafael nodded his approval. “Muy bien. Keep me updated.” Motioning me off to the side and out of Francisco’s earshot, he lowered his voice. “I didn’t want to say anything in front of the others, but Mateo’s wife saw the Médica Sur helicopters and started asking questions.”
“Leighton?” My underboss’s wife usually stayed out of my way. Not that I’d ever given her reason to fear me. In fact, I’d gone out of my way to welcome her into my home, which after the bullshit she put the Carreras through a couple years ago, was more than she deserved. However, since we all seemed incapable of marrying outside our inner circle, my soon-to-be brother-in-law’s sister was also Adriana’s soon-to-be sister-in-law, which made her family.
Did I say that right?
Fuck, it was a wonder our children didn’t have three heads and webbed feet.
“Has the situation been handled?” I asked.
“For now. I told her it was all for Adriana.” Rafael glanced down at the grass, clearly uncomfortable. “You know, just in case anything happens.”
Nobody liked talking about my sister’s medical condition. Mainly, because it sent my mood straight to hell. As if being diabetic wasn’t bad enough, I almost lost her a year and a half ago.
Adriana called my excessive caution overbearing. I called it protecting a lucrative investment.
“You’d better hope nothing happens,” I warned. “I only have one kidney left. If ‘anything happens,’ I have medical files on all of you motherfuckers and a scalpel.”
Rafael laughed. I didn’t.
Was I being irrational? Of course. There wasn’t a more secure place in Mexico today. The men walking these grounds were the best of the best. Trained killers stripped of empathy and conscience. They existed to do two things: obey orders and shoot to kill.
My head knew that.
But the gut that still twisted into knots at what also happened a year and a half ago didn’t give a shit. It tortured me with constant replays of my wife’s screams as she stood by our son’s empty crib.
I’d failed her. I promised I’d never allow the violence outside our marriage to find its way inside the walls of this estate.
But it did.
Tilting my chin up, I stared up at the darkening sky. A sky waiting to betray me by welcoming a man I hated with every cursed bone in my body.
I wouldn’t fail her again.
There were two places that defined a man.
His bedroom and his office.
Inside his bedroom, he let his guard down. It was usually minimalistic in décor because it was where he was at his most vulnerable. Stripped of his outer armor and inner control, he needed dark bare walls to cage the animal he restrained outside them. There were typically very few windows and only one door, always locked with a key only he held.
Because once he brought his prey inside, there was no escape.
Inside the walls of his bedroom, he was king. A predator whose dick throbbed at the thrill of the chase and leaked for the taste of raw flesh. The stress of life outside those walls unleashed within them, and God help the woman who couldn’t handle the beast.
A man’s office, however, served as his inner sanctum. It was both his seat of power and his corner of peace. It was where deals were made, and lives ended with one solitary word. His desk was his throne, and an unspoken barrier not to be crossed. It was where he went to reflect, plan, and judge. And the chosen few allowed inside should consider it a gift.
For atop that man’s throne sat everything he held sacred.
His drink. His legacy. His heart.
Closing the door to my office, I walked across the marble floor toward the fully stocked bar nestled in the far corner. I didn’t think; I poured a stem glass full of añejo tequila and downed a good third before taking my seat behind the large mahogany desk.
Drink.
As always, the glint of a shiny silver picture frame caught my eye. Setting the glass down, I picked up the frame, scowling at the man staring back at me. A man I saw more in my own reflection the older I got. We had the same vicious black eyes now. “La marca del diablo,” my mother used to call them.