The Carrera Cartel : A Dark Mafia Romance Collection

by Cora Kenborn

  “Archie will be mad as well, papá,” she added sternly.

  Archie can fucking deal with it, I reflected, gearing up for some tough negotiation—the one parenthood staple that all the books forgot to mention. “If you brush your teeth for Sofia, chiquita, I promise to make it up to you and Archie.”

  “How?”

  She still wasn’t impressed. She needed a five-point fucking plan for how I was going to fix this. I wonder who she gets that from? I never explained my shit to anyone, but with Ella and Thalia I found myself curbing my own rules on a daily basis.

  “A new saddle?” I offered.

  “Uh-uh.” She paused to mull it over before delivering her verdict. “You gotta hug him, papá.”

  What the fuck?

  “Papá?” she prompted.

  “Fine, fine,” I said in exasperation. If she asked for my heart, I’d pass her my knife and tell her to get on with it. “Now go and brush your damn teeth!”

  “Bad word!” she crowed with a naughty giggle, and the strength of her innocence made my black heart explode with light.

  Her mother taught me how to yield to love.

  My daughters taught me to accept its cruel sting.

  There was so much harm in this world, but they would never know pain and danger. Not like me. Not like their eldest sister. Ella and Thalia’s lives would be shaped with warmth and safety, and I’d kill every single threat to keep it that way.

  “Love you, papá,” she trilled, finally placated. “And Archie loves you, too.”

  “And I love Archie,” I replied through gritted teeth, ignoring the bark of laughter behind me. “Be good for Sofia… Mamá will call you later.” Papá’s got some even tougher negotiation to do for the next twenty-four hours. “How about you take that laughter and shove it down your fucking throat, Sanders,” I roared, hanging up on my daughter.

  “Has anyone ever accused you of having a bipolar disorder?” Rick responded mildly. “And have you ever considered getting your inflight entertainment room soundproofed? I never knew Eve had so many vowels in her vocabulary.”

  Motherfucker.

  “If bipolar means splitting a man’s body in half, here…let me demonstrate.”

  “Why don’t you have a drink first?” Joseph rose to his feet and thrust a bottle of bourbon at me to slow my murderous intent. He gave me a look as I stopped and swigged from it like a man possessed. He could tell that my current state of mind was Carrera-made, and not courtesy of Rick’s big mouth.

  “These are piss-poor bartering lines,” I mused darkly, taking another swig. “I never should have agreed to leave the island.” I never should have brought Eve with me.

  “Then redefine them,” he responded without blinking. “Shove your terms down Carrera’s throat so far, he’ll be spitting them up for weeks. At least it’ll blindside him from what’s really going on.”

  This produced my second broken smile of the journey. Joseph had already guessed I’d no intentions of honoring this deal. I knew he would. He moved in my shadow. He stung like a bee. And he’d anticipated my moves more times than a fucking chess champion.

  “Roman, talk me through what Chernova said to you about New York last week.” I turned to the blond-haired FBI agent sitting next to Rick.

  “Don Ricci cut a deal with the justice department on the sly—the Italians are on the ropes and Carrera wants the city as much as we do.” Roman yawned and pulled out his cell to check his messages. Sometimes I had to remind myself he was a useful asshole to keep around instead of just an asshole. The latter would have seen him six feet under a long time ago. “Carrera is against this deal as much as you are, Dante,” he warned. “But, it’s mutually beneficial, so please shelve any ideas you have about sabotage until after we smash this organization wide open.”

  Roman could also be a pious prick when he wanted to be.

  “Why the hell does a Miami pakhan care so much about this anyway?” I demanded.

  “Let’s just say we all have a vested interest in this trafficking ring operating in Mexico. She hates this shit as much as we do.” Roman’s expression tightened as he slid his cell back into his inside pocket. His twin sister was also trafficked and murdered by Sevastian Petrov. In retaliation, Roman was the one responsible for his uncle’s death inside a dirty jail cell. The official line was that the Russian had been shanked in his gut by his cellmate, but everyone on this plane knew otherwise. Roman’s slick, well-groomed, corporate facade hid his own mayhem and murder.

  “Does Carrera know about your Russian connection to her?”

  “As far as he’s concerned, I’m just another dirty cop on the make.” He smiled at me with all the warmth of a great white shark. “The fact that I’m Andrei Petrov’s son would tip the merger too much in our favor. My father’s name still carries weight in certain circles. Remember, Chernova wants this to happen as much as we do. She lost one of her girls, and she wants her back.”

  It was all playing into my hands too perfectly. The truth felt like water. I could feel the trickles seeping through the cracks, but I couldn’t stem the flow with an answer. Something didn’t feel right about any of this.

  The names of the Mexicans… New York falling back into our laps… It was all too easy.

  “Is Viviana joining us there?” I said, referring to my niece who was busy making quite the name for herself fronting my cartel in Colombia these days.

  “She’s meeting us at Miami-Opa Locka.” Joseph collapsed back into his seat with a groan. “She’s swinging by Florida on her way through. Something about a shipment delay.”

  “Call ahead and make sure she’s ready and waiting. I want a united family front for Carrera.”

  “All two of you,” Rick muttered, picking the ice out of his whiskey.

  It’s a good thing I didn’t bring him along for entertainment purposes. Rick was still a Brooklyn crook at heart, with a loyalty like Joseph’s and an aim as lethal as mine.

  “Three,” I corrected him with a grimace, thinking of my angel lying naked ten feet away from me.

  Though I wish to fuck it wasn’t.

  Chapter Three

  Valentin

  Mexico City, Mexico

  “Again?”

  I slowed my stride, my teeth grinding together. Any other day, a question like that would’ve earned a .45 caliber response. Fortunately for my soon-to-be brother-in-law’s first lieutenant to our stateside operation, the price I’d pay for the bullet wasn’t worth the effort.

  “Shut the fuck up and do your job. I’m not in the mood to clean your blood off my lawn, Suarez.” Leaving my newly appointed head of security behind, I walked the perimeter of the grounds once more, checking every lock and interrogating every guard.

  Third time’s the charm.

  It was a ridiculous phrase. People said it all the time as if men like me got more than one chance to get it right. We didn’t. If we fucked up on the first try, that was it.

  Game over.

  Maybe they got another shot.

  I just got shot.

  But my safety wasn’t what prompted all this. Taking a bullet was as routine as breathing in this business. Life was a constant roll of the dice, and I lived it knowing I’d eventually throw a bad hand.

  But this wasn’t about me.

  It was about them.

  “Everything satisfactory now, boss?”

  Coming to a dead stop, I turned and shot him a lethal look over my shoulder. “If you have to ask me that question, then I made a mistake in bringing you here.”

  Whereas most young men Rafael Suarez’s age would’ve pissed themselves trying to correct their mistake, he simply tightened his jaw. Barely a noticeable reaction to anyone else, but I wasn’t just anyone. I was the son of one of the most infamous men in modern history—an indiscriminate monster who killed for money and tortured for fun.

  My father raised me to identify the slightest twitch and manipulate it to my advantage.

  Cartel regime may have controll
ed Rafael’s reaction, but it ran through my veins.

  “I’ll have ten sicarios run hourly perimeter checks,” he announced in a strong, monotone voice.

  I stifled a smirk. He was learning, and the words weren’t offered as a question, which earned him another hour with air in his lungs. Some might consider it insubordination, but I appreciated a man who didn’t have to be told something twice. Every day I made split-second decisions, and I didn’t have time for hand-holding. Read between the lines or bleed out. I didn’t give a damn.

  Those allowed inside my inner circle swore to four oaths.

  Honor the cartel above anything else.

  Shut your fucking mouth.

  Protect your leader.

  Give your life for his family.

  Although last, the fourth and final oath held precedence over all the rest. It was why we stood here having this conversation. It was why I was here doing the work of men ranked so far below me I didn’t even know their names. It was why my breath kept getting caught in my chest, and every step sounded like thunder in my head.

  To the majority of people here, these walls contained a private wedding. But to that inner circle, they caged a brewing storm—a storm, very few people knew was currently thirty-six thousand feet in the air, somewhere between Colombia and the estate.

  Standing in one spot was against my nature, so I continued my security check, not surprised when Rafael’s footsteps fell in sync behind me. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched the line of heavily-armed guards pretend not to notice us. “What have you told them?”

  “Just that some very important and influential people will be in attendance, and you’re putting extra measures in place to ensure their safety.”

  “That’s all it took?”

  “I may have dropped a few names.” He nodded toward a line of stone-faced guards. “They’re killers, not idiotas. No one wants to fuck up and land on a Chernov or Sinner radar.”

  “And the Colombians?”

  The corner of his mouth twitched. “Only that Santiago and his men are invited guests and aren’t to be shot out of the sky.”

  Well, at least not today anyway. “Muy bien. Anything else?”

  “If hostile shots are fired, the four oaths stand,” he added, his fists clenching by his side. “It doesn’t matter who’s at the end of their gun; they fire back.”

  That was exactly why men twice Rafael Suarez’s age stood on the front lines while he gave the orders. I didn’t appoint him head of security for my sister’s wedding as a favor to my soon-to-be brother-in-law. It was because he was a ruthless sicario who knew the grounds better than anyone.

  When I sent the twenty-two-year-old to work under Brody, it wasn't an insult.

  It was a sacrifice.

  Rafael was one of my best men. Born to my father’s housekeeper, he knew the grounds like the back of his hand. That was why I brought him here, leaving Houston in the hands of second-rate lieutenants. His clean-shaven face and dimples made him appear otherwise, but Rafael Suarez was a stone-cold killer. If there was a hole in our defense, Rafael would find it.

  However, along with strong defense came a carefully crafted offense.

  “What’s the status of what we discussed this morning?”

  Instead of responding, he motioned me down the line to where a scarred-face man stood at attention, his black uniform crisp and neat. When he noticed us approaching, he stood straighter. “Jefe.”

  “I gave Francisco the order,” Rafael explained, ignoring the greeting and speaking directly to me—yet another point in his favor. Once I nodded, he faced the guard. “Have you received confirmation that Dr. Vidal is on site?”

  Hierarchy wasn’t just a chain of respect for men like us; it was our own stone-etched commandment. He outranked this guard, but I outranked everyone. Every word was spoken directly to me, or it wasn’t spoken at all.

  Just as I anticipated, Francisco glanced toward me, waiting for a nod before answering him. “Sí, jefe, about an hour ago.”

  “And the backup?”

  “Two additional helicopters have been brought in from Médica Sur, as requested.”

  “Staffed?”

  The guard gave a stiff nod. “Two surgeons and a nurse on each one.”

  Not nearly enough in my opinion, but more choppers would raise questions I wasn’t prepared to answer. As it stood, once Eden saw them, I’d have to think fast on my feet or there would be hell to pay.

  Fucking women.

  Rafael nodded his approval. “Muy bien. Keep me updated.” Motioning me off to the side and out of Francisco’s earshot, he lowered his voice. “I didn’t want to say anything in front of the others, but Mateo’s wife saw the Médica Sur helicopters and started asking questions.”

  “Leighton?” My underboss’s wife usually stayed out of my way. Not that I’d ever given her reason to fear me. In fact, I’d gone out of my way to welcome her into my home, which after the bullshit she put the Carreras through a couple years ago, was more than she deserved. However, since we all seemed incapable of marrying outside our inner circle, my soon-to-be brother-in-law’s sister was also Adriana’s soon-to-be sister-in-law, which made her family.

  Did I say that right?

  Fuck, it was a wonder our children didn’t have three heads and webbed feet.

  “Has the situation been handled?” I asked.

  “For now. I told her it was all for Adriana.” Rafael glanced down at the grass, clearly uncomfortable. “You know, just in case anything happens.”

  Nobody liked talking about my sister’s medical condition. Mainly, because it sent my mood straight to hell. As if being diabetic wasn’t bad enough, I almost lost her a year and a half ago.

  Adriana called my excessive caution overbearing. I called it protecting a lucrative investment.

  “You’d better hope nothing happens,” I warned. “I only have one kidney left. If ‘anything happens,’ I have medical files on all of you motherfuckers and a scalpel.”

  Rafael laughed. I didn’t.

  Was I being irrational? Of course. There wasn’t a more secure place in Mexico today. The men walking these grounds were the best of the best. Trained killers stripped of empathy and conscience. They existed to do two things: obey orders and shoot to kill.

  My head knew that.

  But the gut that still twisted into knots at what also happened a year and a half ago didn’t give a shit. It tortured me with constant replays of my wife’s screams as she stood by our son’s empty crib.

  I’d failed her. I promised I’d never allow the violence outside our marriage to find its way inside the walls of this estate.

  But it did.

  Tilting my chin up, I stared up at the darkening sky. A sky waiting to betray me by welcoming a man I hated with every cursed bone in my body.

  I wouldn’t fail her again.

  There were two places that defined a man.

  His bedroom and his office.

  Inside his bedroom, he let his guard down. It was usually minimalistic in décor because it was where he was at his most vulnerable. Stripped of his outer armor and inner control, he needed dark bare walls to cage the animal he restrained outside them. There were typically very few windows and only one door, always locked with a key only he held.

  Because once he brought his prey inside, there was no escape.

  Inside the walls of his bedroom, he was king. A predator whose dick throbbed at the thrill of the chase and leaked for the taste of raw flesh. The stress of life outside those walls unleashed within them, and God help the woman who couldn’t handle the beast.

  A man’s office, however, served as his inner sanctum. It was both his seat of power and his corner of peace. It was where deals were made, and lives ended with one solitary word. His desk was his throne, and an unspoken barrier not to be crossed. It was where he went to reflect, plan, and judge. And the chosen few allowed inside should consider it a gift.

  For atop that man’s throne sat everything h
e held sacred.

  His drink. His legacy. His heart.

  Closing the door to my office, I walked across the marble floor toward the fully stocked bar nestled in the far corner. I didn’t think; I poured a stem glass full of añejo tequila and downed a good third before taking my seat behind the large mahogany desk.

  Drink.

  As always, the glint of a shiny silver picture frame caught my eye. Setting the glass down, I picked up the frame, scowling at the man staring back at me. A man I saw more in my own reflection the older I got. We had the same vicious black eyes now. “La marca del diablo,” my mother used to call them.

  The mark of the devil.

  Legacy.

  I wonder what she’d think of her little boy, now? The one she died to protect. The one with the eyes she feared more than her own death.

  El hijo del diablo.

  “I may be the son of the devil, but you’d roll over in your grave if you knew what was about to happen, wouldn’t you, old man?” Tossing the picture across the desk, I picked up my glass again and toasted to the both of us. “See you in hell.”

  “Papá!” After all this time, it still amazed me how one word could feel like both a burst of sunshine and a dagger to the chest.

  Heart.

  My glass quickly went back down as two toddler legs tore full speed through the slightly opened doorway. I barely had time to spin around in my chair before my determined son, Santiago, wrapped his arms around my legs, something red and sticky on his hands.

  Something now trailing down my pants.

  “Santi!” His nanny came barreling in wide-eyed after him, panic plastered across her face. “You know not to bother your father when he’s in his office!”

  I held up my hand. “It’s fine, Luisa.” Without hesitation, I untangled myself from my son’s death grip and planted him in my lap. “Are you being a good boy, Santi?”

  “Sí, papá!”