by Cora Kenborn
I threw my head back and laughed, then turned my attention toward my intrusive family. “How long have you guys been listening?”
“Long enough to hear things about my sister’s sex life I can’t unhear,” Val grumbled on the other end of the line.
“Val, stop it!” Eden hissed, then as if flipping a switch, her voice rose about twelve octaves and she let out a squeal I was fairly certain only dogs could hear. “Congratulations, you two! You have to have the wedding at the estate! Oh, a Christmas wedding would be beautiful! Leighton and I could plan it. You wouldn’t have to do a thing but show up, and—”
The rest of her exuberant tirade ended in a series of muffled grunts.
“Cereza,” Val chastised as the muffled sounds got louder. “While I’m sure they appreciate your adorable, yet disturbing enthusiasm, they just got engaged. Besides, you’re five months pregnant. You don’t need to be planning anything.”
There was static and shuffling before another big squeal almost shattered my eardrums. “Congrats, big brother!” Leighton shouted.
Brody grinned. “Thanks, Lil’ Bit.” With a peck on my cheek, he set me on top of the bar and retrieved his phone. “Okay, I think that’s enough family togetherness for today. We’ll call everyone later once we’ve celebrated privately.”
I couldn’t help but laugh at Val’s growl of disapproval. We’d come a long way from trying to kill each other to being insanely protective of each other. I suppose blood really was thicker than water.
Once we stopped trying to spill it, of course.
Everyone said their goodbyes, and Brody ended the call with promises of video and a visit to the estate. I mixed a few more drinks, and after pacing the floor for fifteen minutes, he gave up and closed the bar early.
As soon as Frankie left, Brody locked the door behind him and swept me into his arms. “I get to kiss the bride now.”
I laughed and ran my hands through his thick hair. “That’s only when we get married.”
“When have we ever followed tradition?” His lips twitched in a half smile seconds before his mouth claimed mine in a slow and seductive kiss. Brody’s fingers tightened in my hair, and he pulled me closer. He tasted and took, and I happily gave.
I told him once that my kisses were all his, and I meant it.
His mouth left mine and marked a heated trail across my jaw and down my neck. I closed my eyes, reveling in the feel of his lips on my skin, and the feel of his ring on my finger.
“You know, I never thanked you.”
Brody pulled back and eyed me closely as he brushed a piece of hair away from my face. “For what?”
“For exposing who I really was. I hated you for it at the time, but if you hadn’t, I would’ve died. I was convinced you wanted to take my life, and you ended up saving it.”
He backed me against the bar, and the space between us disappeared. “I think we saved each other.”
We did. In every sense of the word. We risked our lives for each other, but it was so much more than a sacrifice of pain or a gift of life. Both of us were headed down our own dark path when they unexpectedly crossed. It would’ve been so easy to keep running deeper into the shadows until those paths consumed us, but circumstance, fate, or whatever you wanted to call it, stepped in.
We still walked in the dark, but we didn’t walk alone. This life we led wasn’t bathed in sunlight. Neither of us was all evil, and neither of us was all good. Extremes were what brought down empires.
And what we’d built was indestructible.
As if reading my mind, Brody brought my left hand to his lips and kissed the diamond now residing on my third finger. “So, what do you think, princesa? Ready to be a queen again?”
It was funny. Reclaiming my crown was why I came to Houston, but it turned out that the one thing I wanted ended up being the last thing I needed.
“Only yours, counselor. Only yours.”
STAINED WHITE LINES
Every great rivalry has a beginning.
Ours is no different.
Mexico.
Colombia.
A feud borne in blood and sealed with a vow.
My sister’s wedding was supposed to symbolize the joining of our two empires.
But betrayal changed everything.
Carrera.
Santiago.
One bullet started a war.
Two stained our history red.
Introduction
Dear Reader,
When I wrote the last words of Drawn Blue Lines, I thought I’d closed the proverbial book on this series.
I thought wrong.
It seems these border busting alphas weren’t done with me yet, and they saved the most explosive part for last.
Stained White Lines isn’t a standalone book, so if you haven’t read the first three books in the trilogy, you might be a bit lost at times. Previous plotlines are referenced throughout this story, but if you’re a romance rebel and want to jump in with both feet, go for it!
The following book is a collaboration with my author friend, Catherine Wiltcher. She will introduce you to Dante Santiago, overlord of the Colombian Santiago Cartel from her Santiago Trilogy. You’ll want to know him because Stained White Lines serves as the prequel to our upcoming Carrera/Santiago crossover duet, Corrupt Gods. You can even preorder both books in the duet at the end.
So, enjoy the clash of the cartel titans as the reaper meets the devil.
Because all hell is about to break loose.
xoxo,
Cora
For Catherine.
Sorry about all those three a.m. texts.
Eventually, I’ll figure out that time zone thing.
Playlist
Eye of the Storm - Watt White
Closer - Kings of Leon
This is My World - Esterly, Austin Jenckes
New Kings - Sleeping Wolf
Alive (Chris Lord-Alge Mix) - P.O.D.
The Beginning of the End - Klergy, Valerie Broussard
Numb/Encore - JAY-Z, Linkin Park
All I Want - Kodaline
I Remember You - Skid Row
Only One King - Tommee Profitt, Jung Youth
End of Me - A Day To Remember
Next Girl - The Black Keys
Feel It - Michele Morrone
New Blood - Zade Wolfe
The Legend Begins - Mawr, Silverberg
Listen to the Stained White Lines playlist.
Prologue
Valentin
There was too much red.
It stained the wine in my glass. It spilled out of the middle of a perfectly white iced cake. It covered the shoulders of a newly married bride. It wrapped around the rustic canopies and lay draped atop scattered tables. It set me on edge, and I didn’t like it.
I was at my own home, tense as hell, and there was too much damn red.
Red was a complicated color. Ask most people what it represented, and their eyes usually glazed over as they went on and on about passion and love.
That was their world. It was full of hearts and flowers and goddamn rainbows. It was a world where everyone followed the rules, worked honest jobs, loved thy neighbor, and fucked missionary style every night of their miserable lives.
Then there was my world. One where red symbolized anger and hatred and ruled kingdoms. One where every shade signified punishment, consequence, and blood.
Red was the sound of war and the smell of death.
It thrived in a world those cabrónes pretended didn’t exist. The one that broke the rules and created its own. The one that owned all the jobs and their neighbors. And the one that had no problem bending his woman over a wedding reception table and fucking her raw.
Their world gave. My world took.
Over the years, I’d coated myself in many shades and layers. I’d built an empire on all three, long ago accepting the permanent stain into my life.
Until today.
Today, we said the vows, made the promises, and pretend
ed to be part of their world. The hearts and flowers and passion and love world.
Today was meant to be white.
But it wasn’t.
It was stained with red and the black cloud of Dante fucking Santiago’s presence.
I ignored Eden and Ava’s mosh pit of red hair as they huddled together and made my way over to the bar, avoiding the attendant’s plastic smile as I grabbed a bottle of red wine and a glass. Try me, bitch. She quickly backed up, and no one said shit as I walked away. My gaze shifted across the estate grounds to where my sister stood on a raised platform, commanding everyone’s attention with her back to a herd of incessantly loud women.
I rolled my eyes. Thank God, I didn’t miss the fucking bouquet toss.
Adriana glanced over her shoulder with a wide smirk. “Ready?” Lifting her arm, she dangled her bridal bouquet like a piece of raw meat in front of a pack of hungry wolves.
It worked. The pack let out a collective howl and bared their fangs, ready to rip each other to shreds over some fucking roses.
Red roses.
I clenched my hand around my wineglass, my gaze trained on that damn bouquet. Thirty-two years of instinct sharpened my eyes as I watched Adriana count down from three and then toss the bouquet over her head. I stared as the pack of wolves leaped forward, claws ripping everything in their path.
And in the end, I saw destruction.
I sensed anger and hatred. I heard war. I smelled death.
Adriana’s bridal bouquet laid in tatters, petals scattered across the grass.
Like spilled drops of blood.
Red never lied.
Chapter One
Valentin
Miami, Florida
Two days ago
A man like me had better things to do than waste the day in a place like this. I owned businesses like Seventh Heaven. I extorted money out of them then siphoned it right back through like a spin-cycle.
I did not spend thirty minutes in an uncomfortable metal chair waiting.
Valentin Carrera did not wait for anybody.
Not to mention, it was the middle of March, and it was hot as Satan’s ball sack in here. Granted, Mexico wasn’t exactly a fresh spring breeze, but what the fuck? Was Florida the training camp for hell? Because if this was where eternal damnation started, I was fairly sure it ended directly on the surface of the sun.
Maybe I was just being a dick. It wasn’t like Seven was some back-alley shithole. It was a famous Bratva owned Miami strip club boasting some of the most expensive pussy you’d ever want to fuck.
Not that I was interested.
Why the hell would any man dip his dick in gas station beer when he had a bottle of Gout de Diamants champagne waiting to suck it dry at home? Then again, the clientele here didn’t appear to have enough balls between them to handle a woman like my wife, so maybe gas station pussy was the best they’d ever know.
Shame.
I’d rather put a bullet in my own head.
However, these pendejos and their limp dicks weren’t why I interrupted my day to fly three hours across the border. It was because of a phone call I got yesterday. One that very few people had the cojones to make.
And even fewer lived to tell about.
To be honest, I almost hung up. I was a man of action and zero bullshit. If someone had something to say, they’d better fucking say it instead of hiding behind a shield to deflect a bullet.
Two important things about me: I never fired just once, and I never missed. First bullet took out the shield. Second bullet took out the target.
However, this time, the shield had a shield of his own.
A verbal one.
“I have intel on the Italians.”
Six fucking words spoken over the phone, and here I was, drinking shitty tequila while watching some bitch swing around a pole who looked like she should be at home playing with dolls, or whatever the fuck girls were into these days.
As the girl took one hell of an awkward spin that almost sent her careening off the stage, I sipped what could only be described as an assault by agave and scanned the perimeter again.
Second nature when most of the world wanted you dead.
“Her name is Giselle, and she’s nineteen. Born and raised in St. Petersburg. Mother’s dead, dad’s in jail, and she has a fifteen-year-old brother the state is trying to put in foster care.” Glancing out of the corner of my eye, I saw an explosion of red hair falling down a skin-tight black dress. “And before you ask, yes, I asked for proof, and then got it myself just in case she’s a little Photoshop queen.”
“Ava,” I muttered, lifting the glass back to my lips. Her name was all I could say without disrespecting the woman in her own club.
No one was supposed to read me like that.
I was fucking El Muerte. The Reaper. Your closest ally or worst enemy, but you’d never know because my mask was always in place. Unreadable. Emotionless. Cold as fuck. However, my face betrayed my thoughts this time, and especially in front of Ava Chernova, that shit was deadlier than any bullet.
“Valentin Carrera.” The South Florida queen and pakhan of the Miami Bratva slid into the chair across from me, a smirk twisting her red lips. “Don’t pout. I get enough of that from Niko.”
Niko Gaheris, Russian mercenary-turned assassin, otherwise known as her fucking shield, was the reason I was here with her instead of balls deep in my wife.
We went way back.
Back to the moment he had my wife in his crosshairs and his finger on the trigger. He was lucky he hesitated, and he was even luckier I saw it before I blew his brains out.
I wasn’t a merciful man, but the way he stared at Eden… I knew. I fucking knew that look. I saw it in the mirror every damn day.
I asked him what her name was.
His answer was a single word.
“Ava.”
It wasn’t until weeks later I found out why Ava had rendered one of the most skilled sharpshooters in the world fucking useless.
Setting my glass down, I leaned back in my chair and smirked as she gathered her long, bright red hair in her hand and draped it over one shoulder. From a distance, I noticed the resemblance, but up close, there was no comparison.
Fuego. Ava’s hair was fire red. The color of an angry sunset. Similar, but nothing like my Cereza. Not cherry-red like the sweet bite of a candy apple.
“Why are you staring at me?”
Dragging myself out of the past, I cleared my throat. “Speaking of your husband, will he be joining us tonight? After all, he is the one who made the call.”
“And I’m the one who ended it.” Puckering her red lips, she drummed her matching nails on the table. “Are we going to keep playing this game, or can we talk business now?”
“Here?” I wasn’t a hypocrite. I laundered money out of a cantina in Houston, but I never talked business at its bar. A man sitting at the far end could be the town drunk, or he could be a DEA agent in a dirty baseball hat and a T-shirt.
I suspected everyone.
It was why I was still breathing.
“Idi k chertu!” She slammed her fist down, telling me to go straight to hell while making the table rattle. Amused, I leaned forward and propped my elbows on top of it, an act that only fueled her temper. “Do you think I’m a fucking moron? I vet my employees, Carrera. Employees who know all too well tongues that speak outside these walls get removed.”
I pressed my fingers together and smirked. “Should I clap now?”
Ava stood, raising me a condescending laugh. “My husband respects you, Valentin; therefore, I respect you. He considers you an ally; therefore, I consider you an ally. He pushed for the Miami/Corpus Christi port trade alliance you wanted; therefore, I agreed to it.”
I didn’t know where this was going, but I never turned my back on anyone—man or woman. Fuck it, especially a woman. When one advanced toward you in the middle of an argument, you could bet your ass it wasn’t to high-five you.
Swaying her hips,
she circled the table, my eyes tracking her every move. With inches separating us, she leaned down with her lips a breath away from my ear and whispered, “But know this, Carrera, my husband isn’t here. This is my club, my town, and my port. I may wear his ring, but I’m still a Chernov. So, don’t think for a minute, I wouldn’t reach under this dress, pull out my blade, and carve my name in your chest, El Muerte.” Without another word, she walked away and toward the back of the club.
My smile widened as I stood and followed her up a flight of stairs. “You really need to meet my wife.”
Ava didn’t answer, and by the time she opened the door to her office, my mind had settled back into business mode. She motioned toward a tall wingback chair that I purposely stood beside until she sauntered behind the large desk and settled down behind it.
I wasn’t chivalrous. Just cautious.
Rule number one: Never go first.
We sat in silence for a few moments, which bored me. It was like a page out of the Crime Boss for Beginners handbook. I’d spent too many years in this game to waste time with such bullshit.
“On the phone, Niko said you had intel on the Italians, which means you know one of my lieutenants is days away from closing a deal with Don Ricci for New York port access. Now, either you know something I don’t, or you’re about to fuck up something I already have. Which is it?”
Ava chuckled while bending down and pulling a bottle and two glasses out from under her desk. “If I wanted to fuck up something you had, Valentin, I wouldn’t invite you into my inner circle to do it.” Pouring one nearly half full, she extended her arm across the desk.
Rule number two: Never drink anything given to you.
“So, you know something.” Sitting back in my chair, I waved my hand, declining the offer. “What’s your price?”
Her lips hovered near the top of the glass. “Are you always so blunt?”
