The Carrera Cartel : A Dark Mafia Romance Collection

by Cora Kenborn

  Sometimes assets were a liability.

  No one would ever mistake the woman looking back at me for the one who stepped off that bus. Disguise had always been my specialty. Growing up in a family as notorious as mine, blending in wasn’t just a learned skill, it was basic survival. There was always an enemy lurking around the corner, just waiting for me to let my guard down.

  The air was thick with justice, and it was time a certain counselor choked on it.

  My heels clicked against the polished tile as I made my way toward the lobby elevator.

  People crammed into the tiny box like migrants sneaking across the border. My chest tightened, but I forced myself to join them, tapping the toe of my high heel as the elevator stopped on each floor, depositing and acquiring passengers.

  Fourth floor.

  Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.

  Fifth floor.

  Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.

  We made it to the seventh floor when a woman behind me let out an exaggerated sigh. “Do you mind?”

  She looked like the woman I used to be—a revelation that made me want to sink a blade deep in her chest while watching that pretty white shirt turn dark red.

  I could’ve stopped. I should’ve stopped. Adriana Carrera would’ve stopped. Unfortunately, there was still a tiny piece of Marisol Muñoz left inside me, and she stopped for no one.

  More toe-tapping.

  “I said, excuse me.”

  I rolled my chin over my shoulder, pinning her with a hardened stare. Her wrinkled face blanched, and she swallowed so hard her throat muscles shook. “I heard you the first time.”

  Nobody said shit for the next three floors.

  Finally arriving at the tenth floor, I stepped into the expansive lobby. It was just as I remembered—beige, bland, and boring. My heels clicked against the tile, announcing my presence as I approached the front desk. A familiar perky blonde sat behind it, trailing her freakishly large blue eyes from the top of my head down to my newly acquired heels. I stood half-amused and half-irritated while I waited to see if she deemed me friend or foe.

  Women were funny creatures. We were much more powerful united, yet there was an innate instinct inside all of us to tear each other down. It was the reason men thought we were the weaker gender. If only we’d get over petty competitive bullshit, women could rule the world.

  How unfortunate.

  Her gaze traveled back to my face, and she broke out into a huge grin. I knew she didn’t recognize me—I wasn’t that sloppy. I simply didn’t know whether to feel honored or insulted she’d decided so quickly I wasn’t a threat.

  Case in point. Women were strange.

  I wanted to tell her to fuck off, but she possessed way more power here than me. Murder and annihilation were a far cry from mergers and acquisitions. Unfortunately, I had to play nice. I knew just enough about the fair city’s former assistant DA to be dangerous but not enough to be deadly. From what I remembered about our mutual friend here, she’d be more than willing to fill me in on all I needed to know to tip the scales in my favor.

  After all, I took the role of femme fatale quite literally.

  The perky blonde leaped out of her chair. “How can I help you?”

  “I’m here to see the assistant district attorney.”

  Her smile faded as she fiddled with her laptop. “Do you have an appointment? She’s extremely busy today.”

  I didn’t have time for this, and I sure as hell didn’t need her scanning some calendar for a nonexistent appointment. “No, I don’t, but I’m an old friend of his, and I’m sure if you ask…” I paused, feigning shock. “Wait, did you say, she?”

  “Yes, Charlotte Kimbrell. I’m her secretary, Nancy Malone.” She tapped her nameplate as if I cared.

  “What happened to Brody Harcourt?”

  Her eyebrows pulled together, little lines darting across her forehead. “Didn’t you say you’re a friend of Mr. Harcourt’s? Surely, you know about the…” She leaned over the desk and lowered her voice, “…scandal.”

  “I’ve been out of the country.” Technically, it wasn’t a lie.

  “Well, I really shouldn’t gossip. Mr. Harcourt was my boss for years, you know.”

  Of course, I knew, and I didn’t give a shit. However, I dutifully nodded my head because that was what she wanted.

  “It’s not my place to repeat his personal tragedies.”

  But you will.

  “But since you’re his close friend and all…” Pausing, Nancy raised a perfectly penciled-in eyebrow as if waiting for approval. Of course, it probably didn’t matter one way or the other. Nancy was a natural leak. The wind could blow the wrong way, and she’d take it as a sign to blab.

  “Of course.” I smiled. “We go way back.”

  That was all she needed. Nancy’s mouth opened, and everything I’d missed in the last year came spewing out like a geyser. “You know he had an estranged sister, right?” Obviously, it was a rhetorical question, because she barely took a breath before answering for me. “Well, about six months ago, she came back into town. Not long after that he started missing court dates and got into some seriously deep shit…I mean hot water with the Carreras.”

  I gasped. “The cartel?”

  “Shocking, right?” Nancy said, waving her hands around like a lunatic. “Unfortunately, one thing led to another, and she died, and then his mother got arrested.”

  I had to refrain from poking holes in her story. Nancy’s version was like staring at a jigsaw puzzle when half the pieces were missing. “So, this is the scandal you were talking about?” I asked, shifting her back on topic. “The DA’s office forced Brody out?”

  Nancy shrugged and lowered herself back into her seat. “No, Mr. Harcourt resigned first. After he lost his family, something snapped up here.” Tapping her finger against her temple, she sighed, the corners of her mouth turning down as her excitement faded. “Such a shame too. He was one of the good ones.”

  I wanted to laugh in her face. The Brody Harcourt she knew was a façade. A skin he stepped into the minute he walked into this office and took off the minute he walked out. His palms were just as greasy as his mother’s, and his loyalty was twice as thin. I wanted to take that heroic image she’d created in her mind and twist it until it was nothing but useless dust.

  But I didn’t.

  As sickening as it was, devotion like Nancy’s could be a useful tool. Besides, I still needed one more thing from her. Luckily, emotional manipulation had always been one of my finer talents.

  I shot her a pleading look. “Do you have any idea where I can find him?”

  “All I know is he bought that cantina from one of the Carrera wives.” She glanced up at the ceiling, snapping her fingers as if it held the answer. “Crap, what’s its name?”

  “Caliente,” I muttered, more to myself than her.

  “Yes! That’s it—Caliente. He bought it to make it respectable and give back to the community.” She beamed with pride, and I wanted to punch her face. “Although I’m not sure he’ll be there.”

  She might not be sure, but I was.

  The only thing sure in life was that history repeated itself. This whole thing started when I walked into that damn cantina, and it’d end the same way.

  “Thanks.” Widening the distance between us, I turned to leave when she grabbed my arm.

  “This is going to sound crazy, but do I know you? You seem so familiar.”

  So close.

  A year and a half ago, Brody Harcourt was an overly ambitious politician tucked into Valentin Carrera’s pocket. I spent many days shadowing and interacting with him, and he never knew it. But Nosy Nancy apparently had a mind like a steel trap.

  “I don’t think so.” Each word carried an implied message, spoken with a cold darkness that sent goose bumps scattering up Nancy’s arms. Blood pulsed in my ears and every muscle in my body stiffened. Nancy’s breathing quickened, those bug eyes growing impossibly wide and filling with unshed tears.

>   Let it go, Nancy. For your sake.

  “Oh, well, maybe you just have one of those faces,” she whispered, her skin growing pale.

  We both knew I didn’t. However, it seemed Nancy had a brain as big as her mouth. She knew she’d screwed up. She also knew she’d screw up even worse by saying a word.

  Call it women’s intuition. We understood each other.

  Maybe there was hope for our gender.

  I didn’t offer a goodbye and neither did she. I walked out of the district attorney’s office on a mission. Nancy could think whatever she wanted, but Brody Harcourt wasn’t just a bar owner. Every fall from grace came with loose ends. If I tugged hard enough on one thread, the whole tapestry would unravel.

  The former public servant had sold his soul and roughened up that shiny penny exterior.

  He’d appointed himself my executioner.

  And now, I was his.

  Chapter Four

  Brody

  “Adriana Carrera,” I growled into my phone, the sound of my wet shoes clapping against the dusty tiles as I pushed the door open to Caliente Cantina. “I don’t know how, Carlos. But a man with a bull’s-eye on his ass isn’t going to throw out a name like that for no reason.” Approaching the bar, I snapped my fingers at the dumb bitch behind it playing on her phone. “Yes, I’m on it.” I listened to him go on and on until the last thing he said made me come to a dead stop. “Another shipment? Shit, okay. I’ll handle it. I said I’d handle it!” I ended the call without waiting for a response.

  Another two million dollars intercepted near Chicago. This was getting out of control and covering my ass while pretending it wasn’t on the line was getting harder. How did people do this shit day after day without staying permanently drunk? Maybe anger and guilt could coexist in some people’s world, but not in mine. Spinning a wheelhouse of emotion was nothing but suicide. The only way to survive was to commit to an extreme and never look back.

  Pocketing my phone, I glanced up to see the latest in a revolving door of bartender bitches lift her chin and stare at me, her red lips pressed into a thin line. I couldn’t tell if it was out of intrigue, fear, or brazen pity, but I didn’t give a shit. She needed to mind her own business—a point I made by meeting her curious gaze with a steeled glare and holding out my hand.

  “My drink.”

  In response, she slid a glass of scotch toward me, eyeing my shirt while arching an eyebrow.

  I glanced down and gritted my teeth. The white button-up shirt underneath my navy-blue suit was splattered with José’s blood. I always kept a spare in my car for situations like this, but my mind hadn’t exactly been focused lately.

  I calmly stared back and waited for her to speak. She didn’t, and neither did I. A successful prosecutor controlled the narrative by forcing the defendant’s hand. So, we stood in silence. The longer we stood, the more unsettled she became.

  Most people considered silence to be peaceful. I found it to be a necessary evil—one I masterfully manipulated to my advantage. Quite the impressive family trait. Reserve was a façade we were forced to wear like a crown.

  And by the look on bar bitch’s face, I was still the king.

  As expected, she broke first, narrowing her heavily lined eyes. “Did you cut yourself?”

  “No.” My lips twitched while attempting to hold in a smirk.

  Her mouth fell open, and the sound of metal crashing against tile shot through the cantina. My smirk widened. Shock value always delivered a guaranteed pick-me-up. However, as much as I enjoyed a good blindside, I also had a business to run. I couldn’t have what’s-her-name using this as an excuse to be late for work.

  I made myself a mental note to buy her a new cell phone.

  Once I remembered her name.

  The thin skin underneath her eye twitched, and her whole demeanor changed. With a weak smile, she offered a courteous nod, fighting to keep her gaze impassive and failing miserably.

  Not that most people would’ve picked up on it. Years of working in the DA’s office taught me to notice the slightest involuntary human reaction. The twitch of a witness’s eye told me more than their entire testimony. Hers told me she’d heard the rumors about me. She wanted to ask if they were true, but she wouldn’t.

  Even she knew curiosity killed the cat.

  Our conversation ended as she turned her attention back to whatever the hell it was she did every day instead of her job. I wasn’t offended. As long as she kept her mouth shut, I would too, and we’d both live to see tomorrow.

  Continuing down the deserted hallway, I realized being stuck at a dive bar in the middle of the day had its perks. At least I’d have a few hours of privacy before the booze brigade rolled in. Houston’s town drunks were more punctual than any of its so-called professionals. They wouldn’t flood the cantina until at least three o’clock.

  Which gave me plenty of time to call in a favor.

  Plus, we were still short-staffed, so I wouldn’t have to deal with nosy waitresses who didn’t know their place. That wasn’t a generalized chauvinistic statement. It was a brutal fact, considering the last two employees I vouched for ended up in the obituary column.

  Needless to say, women had crossed over to my shit list months ago.

  Making my way to my office, I unlocked the door and collapsed in my chair. In the solitude of my own space, my lungs finally began to heave much-needed air into my body, and I clicked on the desk lamp, bathing the tiny office in dim yellow light and shining a spotlight on the reason I was going to hell.

  Well, one of them anyway.

  Sinking into the chair, my fingers flexed around the picture frame as I dragged it toward me. Even protected by the glass, the photo was worn and faded. Destroyed by time just like each one of us.

  Four smiling Harcourts. One living on borrowed time.

  I closed my eyes and sighed. “None of us had to end up like this.”

  Sure, if my mother hadn’t sold us out and my sister had trusted me with the truth then one wouldn’t be in jail and the other wouldn’t have been declared dead.

  Unfortunately, it was too late by the time I saw through my family’s carefully constructed personas. Maybe if I had, things would’ve ended differently. Bitter laughter rumbled in my chest.

  Should’ve. Could’ve. Would’ve.

  But didn’t.

  Story of my fucking life.

  Of course, none of that mattered now. Things had changed, and so had I. My job wasn’t to protect and serve anymore as much as manipulate and destroy. Preferably, before anyone else beat me to it.

  Like the Muñoz Cartel.

  Opening my suit jacket, I pulled out my cell phone and rolled it over in my palms. Carlos said he would take care of things, but I didn’t like leaving my fate in someone else’s hands. If there was one valuable thing I learned from my mother, it was that political officials’ morality had a price tag. Luckily for me, the consulate general at the Mexican Embassy was just as corrupt as she was, only with half the intellect.

  I scrubbed a hand over my face and dialed Leo Pinellas’s private number. It took two rings for him to answer, his voice a satisfactory mix of fear and unease.

  “Hola, Señor Harcourt, I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon.”

  No surprise there, considering the last time we spoke, he put up so much resistance to my request, I had to threaten him. To be fair, he did end up betraying his own country.

  “Yeah, well, I have a problem—which means you have a problem.”

  “Vete a la mierda,” he grumbled. Not that I expected a warm greeting, after all this time, but telling me to fuck off was a bit over the top. “I can’t be involved with you anymore. It’s too risky.”

  “It’s riskier for you to ignore me.” On edge, I tossed the picture frame onto the floor. “I already made one widow today. Don’t force me to make another.”

  Silence filled the line while I assumed he weighed his options. He really didn’t have any, but I humored him and spun a full
two revolutions in my chair before he came to his senses.

  “Tell me what you want,” Leo hissed through clenched teeth, his broken English slipping as his anger grew. “But this has to…” The rest of what I presumed to be a futile demand trailed off as a muffled voice laced with huskiness and an edge of insolence filtered through the line.

  Son of a bitch.

  I had enough on my plate without having to worry about some jerkoff in the Mexican Embassy hearing me spell out the details of someone’s murder.

  I closed my eyes and cursed. “Is someone there?”

  “Just my puta secretary who doesn’t know how to fucking knock,” he yelled, the two words punctuated by the sound of a slamming door. “As I was saying, this has to be it. The Harcourt name isn’t too popular around here and unsealing Adriana Carrera’s birth records for you turned too many eyes my way.”

  I winced at hearing her name again. It had been months since I’d thought about her, and now she was the ghost who wouldn’t go away. An unwelcome pang of guilt settled deep in my stomach. The woman nearly assassinated my boss then walked out of a Houston safe house like a fucking queen. She made my life hell for months. A Muñoz creation whose mind ticked with only one emotion—hate.

  Until I blew her life apart by revealing her entire existence had been a lie. Marisol Muñoz was Adriana Carrera, Val’s not-so-dead sister.

  After she disappeared off the face of the earth, I assumed she was buried in a shallow grave somewhere. It was inevitable. She never would’ve stood for her family’s legacy to be dismantled, and they never would’ve accepted a Carrera.

  I assumed wrong.

  Dragging myself out of that lethal rabbit hole, I changed the subject. “Unfortunately, you don’t call the shots, Leo. However, I’ve had a bitch of a day, so I’ll make this brief. The Muñoz Cartel has restructured. I’ve already had a chat with a man named José Rojas. I’m sure you’ve heard of him.” I didn’t wait for a confirmation. I didn’t need one. “He’s given me some interesting new information on Adriana Carrera. I need you to do some recon on her last known whereabouts.”