His dismissive tone twisted something inside me. Nothing was ever guaranteed in cartel life. Too much could change in the pull of a trigger or a knife in the back. But even then, as the saying went… all’s fair in love and war.
Santiago may have won the battle, but the war had just begun.
“Make a call to Giovanni Marchesi.”
The shock on Mateo’s face invigorated me with the first spark of life I’d felt since my world imploded. “The New Jersey Syndicate?”
I turned back toward the window, smirking as the nurse’s hand shook causing her to drop half the blankets she’d just folded. “What’s with all the questions, Cortes?”
“Val, it’s over. Can’t we just focus on Chicago and forget New York? Haven’t we lost enough?”
“We haven’t lost anything,” I said in a low, controlled tone. “That’s my wife lying in a hospital bed upstairs, not yours. If Santiago’s bitch boy, Peters, hadn’t involved him in my port deal none of this would have happened.
“You can’t be serious.”
I turned toward him with a slow and steady smile. The chilling kind that brought grown men to their knees. “Oh, I’m serious. Let him gloat. Let him think he’s won. We’ll use his arrogance against him.”
“Meaning?”
Meaning I’d put into play the contingency plan I’d pieced together between cups of bitter hospital coffee and careful calculation. Dante Santiago was a volatile man. Quick with both comeback and action, his impulses drove him to level and raze. We weren’t much different in that regard. However, having everything taken away left a man with something more dangerous than violence.
It offered him time.
Time to think. Time to plan. Time to separate personal vendetta from business gain until the time they could converge and slaughter. Time had become Dante Santiago’s worst enemy.
“Fuck New York,” I clipped. “We’re investing in the Garden State. Muscle and gunfire make a lot of noise, Mateo, but the easiest way into man’s home is right through his backyard.”
I glanced over to find Mateo rubbing his forehead, and my blood pressure skyrocketed. I didn’t expect a fucking ticker-tape parade, but his hesitation infuriated me.
Dropping his hand, he tipped his head back. “Val, you have to listen to me as your second and your friend. You can’t blame Dante Santiago for this. For God’s sake, his wife was hurt too. She could’ve easily died.”
“But she didn’t, did she?”
“Neither has Eden, goddamn it! Dios mío, Val! It’s like you’ve already buried her!”
I shrugged. “It’s only a matter of time.”
For the first time since the Bell Ranger touched down at Hospital Médica Sur, Mateo’s reserved demeanor broke. Shoving a rough hand through his long hair, he slammed the other against the glass, causing the nurse to scream. “Do you hear yourself? Val, she had a brain hemorrhage in the fucking chopper! You’re damn lucky Vidal was there and started CPR. He kept her heart pumping, and your wife alive until we landed for the surgeons to take over. For all that got him,” he muttered.
I didn’t appreciate his tone. He knew the Carreras gave no reprieves. Vidal sealed his fate by hiding like a little bitch in the middle of an attack. Regardless of the end result, I never made threats I didn’t keep.
“Fucking hell, Val,” he yelled, snapping his chin toward me. “Eden’s not dead; she’s in a coma.” An uncharacteristic challenge burned from his eyes into the side of my face, and for the sake of what was left of my cartel and our so-called brotherhood, I tried to curb the instinct to put his head through the glass.
Luckily for him, Mateo sensed the impending explosion and let out a rough sigh, turning his eyes back to the window. Good. Of all the blood I craved spilling, his was last on my list. I preferred to keep it that way.
We stood in silence, but inside my head, his words had already taken root and sprouted into something poisonous and coated in thorns.
Coma.
I barely listened when the surgeon found us six hours after they took Eden away from me, fragments of medical jargon filtering through the protective wall I’d already constructed.
Intracerebral brain hemorrhage.
Blood clot.
Stroke.
Improbable chance of regaining consciousness.
Those pinche cabrónes shoved a DNR in my face. A goddamn do not resuscitate form that gave them the right to let my wife die if one of their precious machines malfunctioned—the ones keeping her heart beating and her lungs full of air.
I shoved it back. Then I shot it. That was what I fucking thought of their DNR.
For a man who didn’t make promises, I’d now made three: to be a fireman and risk everything for my family; to stand by my wife in joys and sorrows, in health and sickness; and now... to wait.
For as long as it took.
Even if I refused to say the words out loud, I had to believe somewhere in a dark, locked place in the back of my mind, Eden was still in there. That she would keep her promise. That she, too, would wait for as long as it took.
To heal.
To strengthen.
And then to come back to me.
Because I’d never let her go. Not in this lifetime or the next.
Breaking the silence, Mateo dipped his chin at the tiny yawning infant still reaching toward me. “What’s her name?”
“Lola.”
“It’s cute.”
“It’s prophetic.” For the first time in nearly eight hours, a sadistic hint of a smile pulled at the corner of my mouth. “Eden picked it. It means sorrows.” I didn’t wait for a response. Turning my back to him, I walked out of the hospital and into a nightmare.
Chapter Eighteen
Eden
Six months later
Just when I was positive my lungs were about to pop, my head sliced above the surface, my arms flapping like an injured bird. Beneath the surface, my legs whirled in opposite, disorganized circles like the broken blades of two rusty helicopters. The harder I fought to scream, the more I choked.
Crap, I’m gonna die. I’m gonna die right here in front of God and all of Magnolia Garden Park.
Just as another mouthful of dirty water filled my cheeks, a strong hand grabbed my arm, lifting me up while an amused chuckle rumbled above my head. “If you were that thirsty, I could’ve brought you a bottle of water. You didn’t have to drink the whole lake.”
Once the fear of imminent death had passed, I blinked the water out of my eyes and glared up at the mop of platinum blond hair and mouthful of white teeth.
Ugh. He was disgustingly perfect.
Holding his stare, I lifted my chin, calculated my aim, and shot a steady stream of water from my mouth right into his eye.
“Brat!” he yelled, dropping his hold to swipe at his face.
Too late, I realized my mistake, and back under I went, panicking while pinging above and below the surface like a fishing bobber. “Help!” I sputtered. “Nash!”
Two muscular arms grabbed me this time, jerking me halfway out of the water. “For God’s sake, Edie, stand up. It’s barely five feet deep.”
“I’m only five-three.”