Their Cartel Princess: The Complete Series: A Dark Reverse Harem Box Set

by Logan Fox

  “She came for you after all,” Will said, sounding surprised.

  Fuck, he was just as shocked.

  “Thank you,” Cora said, giving the cab driver a wave as he put his car in gear and drove away.

  It had been a strange two hours. The driver kept giving her weird looks whenever she’d tried to engage him in conversation. Eventually, she’d hunkered in the back seat, flipping through Lars’s phone to find something to keep herself busy with for the entire trip.

  She’d found a game where you had to match different candies together. After that, she’d been incredulous when it felt like, a few minutes later, the driver was telling her they were about to reach their destination.

  They drove into Mallhaven just before midnight as it began to drizzle. She leaned her forehead against the window to peer out at the sleeping town as they drove through it, her breath misting against the steadily cooling window. The closer they drew to the address the Irish man had given her, the more her fingers trembled.

  She stood outside the block of mortar and brick and found it almost impossible to move at first although it was raining harder now. Her driver disappeared around a corner, leaving her stranded in the middle of a strange town at midnight. Desperate not to linger on the thought, and to avoid getting even more drenched, she hurried across the street and pressed reluctantly on the buzzer.

  There was precious little shelter out here — the overhang by the door was one brick, and the rain fell at an angle that rendered even that slight cover useless. Water dripped down her neck, making her shiver as she hugged Bailey’s jacket tighter around her. Again, she pressed the buzzer. Turning, she tried to peer through the glass doors and into the dim room beyond. A crack of lightning illuminated her, and she stared at her reflection in astonishment.

  What the fuck had she been thinking? Rain plastered her hair to her face. Bailey’s hoody was far from waterproof — the rain was seeping into her pathetic excuse for a dress.

  “Hello?” a dry voice enquired through the intercom.

  “Hi. I… I have an appointment.”

  She didn’t even know the Irish man’s name.

  “Come on through,” the voice murmured. A buzz sounded from the glass doors, and Cora shoved through the doors.

  At least it was warm. She gave the place a quick once over as she strode over thick carpets to the reception counter a few yards away. The husk of a man stationed behind it rose when she approached.

  He gave her a double take, lingering on her gumboots for at least a second before his eyes snapped back to hers.

  “May I take your… coat?” he asked.

  “I’ll… I’ll keep it on for now,” she said.

  Wet and useless as it was. Taking off her hoody would expose hardened nipples to anyone who happened to look in her direction. Plus, where would she keep her Taurus?

  Nope. The hoody stayed.

  The fact that it smelled of Bailey — that his scent endowed her with a vein of strength — had nothing to with it.

  The man led her into a large foyer with stairs sweeping up one end. She headed for them, some strange instinct driving her. He let out a quiet cough that stopped in her tracks.

  “This way, if you please,” he said, gesturing down a broad hallway leading from the foyer.

  She nodded and followed him, but her eyes turned back to the stairs, a frown drawing her eyebrows together.

  The man brought her into a den. From the leather settee to the polished mahogany bookshelves, the room exuded opulence like its orchids exuded their exotic fragrance.

  Come to think of it, maybe she was just smelling herself. She was, after all, still smothered in orchid-and-vanilla bath oil.

  “Would you like something to drink? Tea, coffee?”

  She opened her mouth and then closed it again. Fuck, coffee.

  How many cups have you had today, Cora? Caffeine isn’t good for the baby.

  Well, fuck it. Meeting with the Irish Mafia wasn’t good for the baby, yet here she was, in the middle of the nowhere town of Mallhaven, waiting to meet the prick who’d dared kidnap, threaten and torture her men.

  She would ask for an Irish coffee — the irony be damned — but heard herself say, “Tea is fine, thank you.”

  Baby Girl, apparently, didn’t want coffee.

  The quiet of King’s place bore down on Cora the longer she waited. She checked Lars’s phone, and for a second almost wanted to dial Swan Manor and let them know where she was, that she was okay… that she’d be home before breakfast.

  But she knew none of those things. Not where she was — not really — not if she was safe… and she had no fucking clue when she’d be home.

  Where the hell was her tea?

  She so badly wanted to sit on one of the overstuffed armchairs, but there was water trickling down her bare legs. The den had wooden floors, and she was making a small puddle on it.

  Was someone watching her? She turned and then jerked around when she saw the silhouette standing in the doorway.

  A silver-haired man stepped inside the room. He wore slacks, a button-up shirt open to his breastbone, and a curious smile.

  He walked closer, bare feet soundless on the plush carpet, and studied her with narrowed eyes for a second, head tilted to the side as if he was examining some rare species he’d only ever read about and never seen up close.

  “So y’her,” he said, the words sounding pleasant with his Irish lilt. “La Sombra.”

  Cora pushed back her shoulders, lifted her chin, and tried to stare the man down. It was difficult — he was a foot taller than her — but she managed. “And you are?”

  He moved forward in a fluid step, grasping her elbow and herding her to the door. “Ya seem a little worse for wear. Let me show you—”

  Cora tugged her arm free, stepping away from him. “I’m fine, thank you,” she said through her teeth.

  His gaze stayed on her face for a second before trailing down her body. Pale eyes took in her wet dress, her gumboots. It was a quick, sweeping gaze, but mortification heated her face when his eyes returned to hers.

  Way to make a first impression, Cora. Wet, bedraggled, shivering. You’re not a capo, you’re a fucking stray.

  “You wouldn’t care to freshen up?” King asked, lips curling in a would-be smile.

  Why was he being so goddamned polite? He’d sent her a video of Kane in agony, and then kidnapped Bailey, and then threatened them both… but there was time for them to freshen up?

  “You wanted to talk,” Cora said, spreading her arms. “So let’s talk.”

  King gave her a bemused look when she walked over to the nearest armchair and perched on the edge. Outside, the rain became a heavy storm — if it hadn’t been for the incessant patter against the window and the occasional crash of thunder, they’d both be able to hear her clothes dripping onto the seat.

  “Could I at least get ya a towel?” King asked, with a laugh in his voice.

  “Yes,” she said, desperate to keep her tone neutral. She could do nothing about the shiver that tore through her, however.

  King shook his head, his smile growing as he turned away and headed out the room. Her gaze tracked him, catching when she noticed a second figure waiting just outside the door. The man’s face was in shadow, but he looked familiar.

  King returned with a thick towel and what turned out to be a bath robe. She refused to take the fluffy robe and slipped the towel over her shoulders instead.

  Rain had collected in her gumboots, squishing between her toes when she moved. She hesitated, and then yanked them off, drying the bottom of her feet as King walked away from her.

  “Scotch?” he asked, heading over to the wet bar against the wall.

  If only. “I asked one of your men for tea.”

  He poured himself a drink and lifted a telephone receiver from its bracket against the wall.

  “Tea in the den.” King twisted to look at her, pressing the receiver to his chest. “Hungry?”

  She
blinked at him. Managed a shake of her head.

  “That’s all.” He put down the phone, took his glass, and came to perch on the edge of the mahogany desk.

  She suppressed another shiver. Maybe whiskey wouldn’t have been such a bad idea—she was frozen to her core.

  He extended a hand. “Ronan King.”

  She took his hand and shook it as firmly. “Eleodora Rivera.”

  He didn’t release her when she tried to take back her hand. Instead, his gaze bored into her as the set of his mouth solidified. “You’re foundered,” he murmured. “Sure y’don’t want some dry clothes?

  “I’ve been through worse,” she said, wrenching her hand free.

  “I don’t doubt it.” Ronan leaned back against his desk as he took a sip from his glass. “I had you pictured different in my mind, how Owen described you.”

  Cora squirmed, using the edge of the towel to dry the ends of her hair so it would stop dripping on her neck. “Which was?”

  “He called you as a fiery little wench.”

  A blush heated her cheeks. She glared at King, but what the fuck was she supposed to say? Before she had something figured out, the den’s door opened. A dark-haired woman in her late thirties came inside, balancing a tray on her hand. She put down a full tea set—cream, sugar, sweetener—and a freshly baked croissant. The aroma of strong tea hit Cora’s nose as the woman decanted dark liquid into a cup for her.

  “Thank you,” Cora murmured, but the woman didn’t even look up. She left the room as silently as she’d entered; footsteps barely audible. Cora took a sip of the tea.

  Heaven.

  “So, Eleodora, what are we going to do about our problem?”

  The next sip she took was too big; she scalded her tongue and hastily set her cup back on its saucer. “Depends. How much money do you want?”

  Ronan studied her for a moment and then tossed back the rest of his drink. He twisted the tumbler in his hand as if studying its cut before setting it on the table.

  The sleeves of his light blue shirt were rolled up as if the cool air didn’t affect him. Then again—it was perfectly air conditioned inside this room. Or maybe it was to show off his tattoos? He had a panther on his left arm, its tail wrapping around his wrist. On the right, a flock of crows bursting from a cracked skull surrounded by roses.

  She blinked. It was as if the dining room had been transported into the center of a pitch-black cave. Walls so vast they were invisible. Sound traveling back in a faint echo.

  The skull tattooed on Ronan’s arm grinned at her—as skulls do. It had three missing teeth. And the crack—the one the crows emerged from—ran down the center of its forehead.

  A crash snapped her back to the present. She jerked, gasping faintly as her eyes shot up to Ronan’s.

  He’d pushed his glass off the side of the table to get her attention. Now, with her eyes on him, one side of his mouth moved into a ghostly smile. “D’ya know how much that glass cost?” he asked quietly.

  She stared at him, immobile, her heart pounding in her chest.

  “I don’t,” he said. “Money holds no meaning to me anymore.” He lifted a hand, twisting his wrist to take in the room’s lavish furnishings. “This house was a gift. Someone pays the staff, someone stocks the kitchen.” He leaned forward conspiratorially, grinning at her. “Someone even cleans the jacks.” He shrugged and sat back. “I don’t know their names. I don’t know who pays them. And I don’t care.”

  He got up and poured himself another drink. Free from his hypnotic gaze, Cora’s gaze dropped to the floor. The shattered glass sparkled in the den’s demure lighting. A large piece lay by her foot, but none of the shards touched her.

  Had that been intentional? Had he even considered that he might cut her? Would he even—?

  “We’ve had a breakage in the den,” came Ronan’s voice. “Send someone up.”

  A hand closed on her shoulder a second later. “Do try the croissant. My baker is exceptionally talented.”

  She didn’t want to eat. She didn’t want any more of the delicious tea. She wanted away from this place. She wanted to be home; warm and safe with Finn’s arms around her. Lars and Bailey’s too. Maybe even—

  “Where are they?” she asked, dipping her shoulder to break contact with Ronan’s warm hand.

  “Nearby,” he said. He walked a circle around the broken glass and took a seat in the armchair opposite her.

  “How do I know they’re alive?”

  “Because you arrived before midnight,” Ronan said, smiling as he sipped from his new glass. “Else we’d be having a different conversation.”

  “I don’t have any heroin,” Cora snapped. The smell of the croissant was making her stomach growl in hunger, but she knew a single bite would have her heaving into the orchid planter. “All I have is money.”

  “A shame, that,” Ronan said. “I need product.”

  “So use the money to buy it from someone else.” She shifted in her chair and scratched discreetly at her leg. Her clothes were starting to dry which was making her skin itch.

  “Or…” Ronan mused, pointing a finger from the hand holding his glass. “We can arrange a trade.”

  Goosebumps broke out over her skin. “A trade.” The words came out wooden.

  King smiled. “A few hours of your time, in exchange for the ton of heroin you owe me.”

  Her teeth squeaked how hard she clenched her jaw. She shot to her feet. “You men are all the fucking same,” she growled and started for the den’s door.

  Owen stood in her way. Unlike King, Owen wore a formal business suit that seemed too dark and too intense in the den’s warm, ambient lighting. She came to a stop, pressing her mouth into a line as she willed him out of her way.

  Then again, where would she go? She couldn’t leave Bailey and Kane to their fate, not when she was so close.

  “The Shadow,” Ronan said behind her. “An unusual nickname.”

  Owen swung out a hand as if inviting her to stay.

  The easy way, or the hard way.

  Cora swiped her tongue over chalk-dry lips and spun back to Ronan.

  “What do you want from me?”

  King laughed as if her demand amused him. He sat in an armchair, spreading his hands over either armrest like a king on a throne. Cora hesitated before taking the seat opposite him.

  “You left me looking a right wanker,” Ronan said, running his finger around the rim of his empty tumbler.

  “I told you, I can pay—”

  He lifted a finger. It shouldn’t have made her stop talking, but it did.

  Her lawyer, Nick, had come to her a few days after the fire on Zachary’s island. He’d come to collect her signed papers and officially transfer Swan Manor into her name.

  He’d also mentioned that, with Neo’s possible incarceration looming, that the villa would remain unoccupied until the courts made a decision.

  She’d been fine with that; she wanted nothing to do with the villa or the blood money from the sale. Nick tried to talk sense into her—offshore investments and a few other terms thrown in that she didn’t understand—before Finn escorted him out the door.

  Cora Swan had enough money to last her a lifetime. Even to last Baby Girl a lifetime.

  “Heroin itself isn’t that difficult to find,” Ronan said. “But high-quality product on the other hand? Rare as fucking unicorns.” He’d stood, going over to the wet bar to pour himself another drink, but this he just swirled in his glass without touching.

  “I don’t have any contacts. I don’t know anyone who could—”

  “But I do.” Then Ronan watched her again as if waiting for her to piece together some puzzle game she wasn’t even aware she was playing.

  Ronan took a tiny sip from his glass. “You are going to negotiate a trade on my behalf.”

  Cora barked out a laugh as Ronan took his seat opposite her. She grabbed her lukewarm tea and chugged it down, trying desperately to gather her thoughts.

  “
Why me?” she asked.

  Ronan inhaled deep before speaking. “Racial preferences.” Ronan licked his lips. He clenched his hands, making the tattoos on his arms move as his muscles bulged.

  “I don’t—” Cora began.

  “This producer only deals with Mexicans.”

  Cora blinked and then settled back in the chair. “Still don’t understand why it has to be me.”

  “Because you owe me a debt, Eleodora.” Ronan moved until he was on the edge of his seat, dangling his whiskey glass between his hands. “And you’re La Sombra, the capo of one of the largest drug cartels in the Americas.

  “I used to be.” Cora pushed herself up from her seat. “I’m not anymore.”

  Ronan tilted his head back. “Then I guess you’re right.” He rose to his feet, putting the glass on his desk and giving her a sad smile. “You’re useless to me.”

  Shit, that wasn’t good. King didn’t look like the kind of guy that left useless people hanging around.

  A deal? That’s all she had to do? One meeting, maybe two? Even Finn couldn’t argue such a low price for Bailey’s life. He probably wouldn’t add Kane to the equation, but —

  “Return my men to me,” she said. “And I’ll get you your heroin.”

  King smiled. “I’m glad we could come to an agreement.” He motioned to Owen, who left the room. “Another cup of tea while you wait?”

  She shook her head, and Ronan left the room with that same broad smile on his face.

  Her hands tightened into fists, and she hurriedly relaxed them again. For the first time, she realized her heart galloped like a race horse in her chest. She slid Lar’s phone from her pocket and checked the time. One thirty in the morning. Her fingers brushed her Taurus as she settled her hands back in her lap.

  Casually, she slid her hands inside the kangaroo pouch. She knew it was loaded — why sleep with a gun in your nightstand if you had to load it first? — but would she be fast enough to put a bullet in Owen and King before they put one in her?

  14

  Lithium