Chapter One
Pablo
“I swear by all that’s holy,TíoHumberto, if you don’t get your shit together and get me what I came for, this will bela gota que rebosará una copa ya casi llena.” The drop which will cause an already nearly full cup to overflow.
It’s the Spanish version of the straw that broke the camel’s back. Mytío abuelo—great-uncle—is pissing me off to a level he never has before. It’s taking everything I can muster not to wrap my hands around his bloated neck and squeeze.
Squeeze until his jowls turn purple.
Squeeze until his eyes bulge.
Squeeze until he’s no longer a pain in all our asses.
“You’ve always been so melodramatic, Pablo.”
I could slap that smirk right off his face. No one—not a single person ever—would describe me as melodramatic. Just the opposite. Most people wonder if I possess any emotions.
“You’ve always been a disappointment.”
The woman sitting at the table with her laptop glances toward me, and I struggle not to shift in my chair. She does something to me. To my dick. But her expression is a mixture ofdisdain, shock, and warning. Her eyes betray her thoughts even if the rest of her face remains neutral. She believes I tread a fine line.
I draw that line.
And it’s Humberto—I only use the honorificTíowhen I’m speaking aloud—who’s teetering on it.
She’s supposedly mytío abuelo’snewest assistant, but I get the distinct impression it’s something more. She doesn’t strike me as the type to let him paw her in exchange for access to his wealth. Or more often than not, access toTíoEnrique—thejefe de jefesof all the Colombian cartels. In reality, he’s thejefe de jefesof all the Latin American cartels. Nothing happens in this hemisphere—Southern or Western—without his approval. Fuck the bratva, Mafia, and mob at home in NYC.
I can’t see her computer screen, but I don’t think she’s managing his social calendar. Something about her gives me the feeling she’s far overqualified for this position. I want to know who she is and why she’d subject herself to his company if she’s not after money or social status. But what do I know at this point? Maybe she is his mistress, and this is all for appearances to justify the lavish lifestyle she’s enjoying at my family’s largesse. If she can tolerate fucking him just for nice clothes and jewelry, all the power to her.
“Did my nephew send you here as his little bitch messenger?”
I sit back in my chair and inhale. It broadens my chest and shoulders, showcasing—if you will—the full breadth of my frame. I’m nearly fifty years younger than him and in far better shape than he ever was in his prime.
“If I were, how do you think mytíowould respond if I told him you said that?”
Doubt settles in his gaze, and he knows he’s seconds away from pushing me too far. The last thing he needs is for me toactually tellTíoEnrique what a douche he’s being. But I know he’s stalling, hoping to distract me.
“Tío, you have a choice. It’s a simple one. Get me the product before tomorrow night or prove you’re entirely useless and serve no purpose. What happened to Ignacio Kimura will look like a mercy kill.”
TíoEnrique’s always said the moment histíono longer serves a purpose, he’d be dead. I’ll happily be the one who swipes the knife across thisviejo’s—old man’s—throat.TíoEnrique’s been looking for a reason to be done with him. Nearly forty years of house arrest hasn’t dulled Humberto’s arrogance. Now he’s not doing his job.
Ignacio Kimura was a Brazilian regional boss who fucked around and found out. Mytía—TíoEnrique’s wife—has a history that’s one of the world’s best-kept secrets. Let’s just say she made sure dead men can’t tell tales. There were eight men at the table that night, and only one walked away. My cousin Alejandro.
Sweat beads across Humberto’s face as the color drains from it. I notice his left hand trembles before he shifts in his chair. He doesn’t know who carried out the hit, but he knows it was violent. Worse than that, it was so fast no one could react. It was over before Ignacio, his son, or their men knew what was happening. Alejandro said it was unlike anything he’d ever seen, and he’s been in our Cartel since before his birth, and he’s now in his thirties like me.
We’re legacies—kinda like rich kids who get into an elite college without trying, just because they’re born into a family that’s always gone there. Same thing for our Cartel.
“I told you,sobrino, someone stole the shipment.” Nephew.
“And I told you that’s bullshit, and I know it. Where the fuck is the product?”
He fights the instinct to look toward the woman, and she’s suddenly far more interested in her computer than she was a moment ago when she looked at me.
“It wasn’t the finished product that got stolen.”
Why’s he hedging?
“So, you never got as far as making the shipment you owe us?”
