The alcohol bottomed out in my system, and my mouth claimed the throne, taking ownership of my better judgment. “Then why don’t you get out of here and go fuck yourself? At least you’d satisfy one of us.”
The smug look drained from his face, only to be replaced by darkened fury. Before I could blink, his palm engulfed my cheek, bending me backward until our mouths and lips bruised in a punishing kiss. His free hand buried in my hair, twisting with a need barreling from somewhere deep within.
Once my alcohol-infused brain caught up with what was happening, my libido went into overdrive, kicking what reservation wasn’t slovenly drunk behind locked doors. Wrapping my unrestrained arm around his neck, I pulled him closer, lost in the feel of his hardness pressing heavy against my curves.
Rage and passion ran parallel with Val and me, and as we frantically groped each other, I wondered where the line lay between manslaughter and sex. As his hands ran down the length of my body and his lips whispered dirty Spanish in my ear, I questioned both our sanity.
Trailing his mouth down the hollow of my neck, he dove his fingers under the waistband of my shorts. “Esta panocha es mía.” This pussy is mine.
“Who’s El Muerte?” The words came out of nowhere. From behind the locked door where I shoved her, my subconscious stood on the headboard, hands on her hips, eyebrow cocked, and armed with three words I had no clue I’d even verbalized until Val froze.
Swallowing harshly, he dragged his hand from my shorts and sat up, his face twisted with a mix of shock and loss. Pressing the heel of his palm in between his eyes, he inhaled slowly, counting to ten before answering.
“Why do you ask?”
“When we were running…I heard the men who shot at us scream for you to face them. They called me a puta and you El Muerte. I don’t know much Spanish, but I know what a puta is.” Something in his eyes drew me away from him and into the corner of the bed. “What I don’t know is what El Muerte means. Val, I heard the men say it when they killed Nash too.”
Grabbing the empty bottle, Val moved off the bed and stood in the middle of the room, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. A confusing rush of guilt swept through me at the emotion wrestling inside of him. Finally, he dropped his hand and tilted his chin over his shoulder, his face a mask of blank resolve.
“El Muerte means The Reaper. The Reaper is me, Cereza. It’s the name the Muñoz Cartel gave me. Unspeakable crimes have been committed in the name of El Muerte. Some I have been a part of; some I haven’t. Men, who were determined to see me ruined, murdered the wife and child of Manuel Muñoz and carved the name in their foreheads.”
The room felt half its size and lacked air. “Jesus.”
Val’s smile pulled downward. “No, Cereza…Jesus was nowhere near Guadalajara when Manuel Muñoz’s family died. Just as I suspect that he turned a blind eye when your brother took a bullet to the head and had the same words carved in his skin.”
Tears rolled before I knew they’d formed and a wounded cry tore from my throat. My hand clutched the St. Michael medallion hanging around my neck. “No…”
A hint of sadness hung heavy in Val’s eyes as he nodded toward my hand. “I’d hold tighter if I were you, Eden. It’s not over.” Shuffling to the door, he flung it open and paused in the entryway. “It’s only just begun.”
Chapter Seventeen
Valentin
Sometimes a man just needs to handle business.
At least that’s what I kept telling myself as I left Eden sleeping in the safe house the next morning and drove to RVC Enterprises. Keeping up appearances seemed a necessary evil and getting out of a house where she proved to be a constant temptation was essential to my sanity.
She knew about El Muerte.
That meant all bets were off.
Indulging in Eden Lachey had been the biggest lapse in judgment I’d ever willingly been a part of. Giving in to her weakened my authority within the entire cartel. Not only had I allowed her to see me lose control, my men could tuck away the dangerous knowledge that I’d protected her with my own life in the safe house.
She had no idea in that unguarded moment in the basement, she’d stolen everything from me. My sanity. My rationality. My indifference. I’d held her in my arms, knowing my world had just ended. I was completely fucked.
Sitting at my desk, I raked both palms down my face. God, I needed sleep. The last time I’d closed my eyes for a substantial amount of time…shit, I couldn’t remember when I’d closed my eyes. Every time I tried, images of her head thrown back as she violently came around me found me in a cold shower at three a.m.
I’d fucked hundreds of women. Not one of them mattered enough to think about after the door hit them in the ass on the way out of my bedroom.
Heartless?
Maybe.
But something in Eden Lachey’s pale blue eyes haunted me. There was a hidden vulnerability that desperately wanted to be needed and needed to be wanted. She floated without belonging—one impulsive act away from self-destruction—and not giving a damn one way or another. She silently screamed for salvation and craved isolation.
She frustrated the shit out of me. Because she was me.
I had to live this way. My life had no choices, but I’d fuck some sense into Eden if it was the last thing I did. Either that, or I’d be the cleanest motherfucker in Houston from living in my goddamn shower.
Scrubbing my face again, I let out a frustrated growl, shaking my head to focus on the problem currently screwing up the pipeline of my organization. Checking my phone, I verified no missed calls from Mateo. It was only a matter of time before the Colombians sent a collector for the eleven million I owed them. With the lost shipment, I had no product to move to compensate for the trade.
Fucked didn’t begin to describe my situation.
The whole operation reeked of Muñoz involvement, but I couldn’t figure out how they’d pulled it off with so many government officials on my payroll. They had a presence in Houston, but nowhere near the reach and infiltration the Carreras had for years. Something else had to factor in. I just needed to find it.
And where the fuck did Nash and Eden Lachey fit into all of this? They should’ve been insignificant to someone like Manuel Muñoz.
Unless Mateo’s theory proved to be right, and a mole had infiltrated my cartel.
The thought sent a sharp haze of red across my vision. I picked up the nearest object on my desk, which just happened to be a coffee mug, and hurled it against the closed office door.
“Fuck!” I’d just reached for my laptop when my phone vibrated. Anxious for an update from Mateo, I accepted the call without hesitation. “You’d better have good news.”
“It depends, son. Is the puta still in your possession?”
I grew up hearing the man’s rapid-fire Spanish barked in harsh commands to everyone from my mother to high ranking soldiers. However, the moment his broken English slithered through the phone, attempting to sound worldly and refined, I found the revolt in my throat almost palpable.
“I know you didn’t cut your happy ending short to ask me that, did you, Alejandro?”
His low chuckle unsettled me. “You get one, Valentin. Another disrespectful comment will cost you a lieutenant. You’re fond of this Mateo Cortes, yes?”