Silence was golden. There were no exceptions.
Wrapping my fingers around the stem of the short tequila glass, I sat back, controlling my temper as the hinges from the chair protested. I held the glass up to eye level, ensuring it remained at room temperature.
Without so much as a knock, my office door flew open and bounced against the wall behind it with a crash.
“Quién crees tú? Te calmas o te calmo,” Who do you think you are? Calm down before I calm you down. I ordered, lifting an eyebrow at my first lieutenant. “You don’t knock anymore?”
“Sorry, boss.” Mateo lowered his gaze in respect. “May I come in?”
I waved my wrist, indicating my disinterest. “You already are, aren’t you?”
He gave a quick nod and closed the door behind him. “We have a situation…”
“Do you know how old I was when my father gave me my first stem of tequila, Mateo?”
A deep line etched in his forehead. “Boss?”
“I asked you a question.”
He clutched a paper in his hands and shook his head. “I don’t know, boss…fifteen, maybe sixteen?”
A smile pulled at the corners of my mouth. “Nine.”
His only answer was an immediate widening of his eyes. Not that I didn’t expect it. I enjoyed a little shock value from time to time.
I lifted the stem between us and swirled the liquid against the sides of the glass. “Do you see how it sticks to the walls? That’s called a string of pearls. It means it’s good shit. My father taught me how to tell the difference as a boy. Now, most men would just shoot this and be done.” I narrowed a stare at him. “What would you do, Mateo?”
His face flicked from the glass to my face, I assumed trying find the correct answer hiding somewhere between the two. Unexpectedly, his gaze shot across the room to the side table where the bottle of Gran Patrón Burdeos Añejo sat, half empty.
“I’d drink it in small sips, boss, letting it touch every part of my tongue before swallowing.”
My tug of a smile extended farther. “And why would that be, lieutenant?”
“Because it’s expensive shit, sir. When tequila is three-thousand-five hundred pesos per shot, you don’t drink it…you experience it.” He stood straighter, radiating the strength of a man confident he’d proven his worth.
“Buena respuesta!” I laughed, approving of his answer and raising the stem. Taking a sip, I set it down and clapped my palm down on the wooden desk. “What do you need?”
Mateo shook his head slightly and glanced at the paper in his hands. “There’s been a situation, but we’ve contained it. I just wanted to inform you.”
Situations were never good. If I had to be informed of their existence, it made them worse.
“Shipments or ranks?” I asked, studying his young face.
“Ranks.” He lowered his head. “Another task force. This one slipped by us. They infiltrated through the lower ranks and pinched a lieutenant.”
A red haze shifted across my vision. Task forces were as commonplace as waking up and taking a piss. By now, we’d learned every trick the DEA agents threw at us. It was always the same song and dance set to a different beat. Each time a hotshot agent rose to power, thinking they were the second coming, we’d knock them back down. It soon became my favorite game. Hearing that one slipped by my guarded lines fueled my anger.
“How the fuck did someone just slip by? Do you know what this could do to us?” My hands clenched and swept across the desk, sending the bottle and glass crashing to the floor. “Pinches idiotas!”
Mateo flinched as glass shattered at his feet. To his credit, he made no attempt to move from his spot. “It was pussy, sir.”
I paused my tirade. “I’m sorry, did you say ‘pussy’?”
His chin dipped as his blunt fingers stroked the sparse hairs of his goatee. A momentary break in his armor exposed the nervousness on his face. “The DEA sent a female agent, sir.”
“A female DEA agent got to one of our lieutenants…and now we’re fucked?” I arched my brow, not quite believing the words.
Mateo smirked. “Not as much as she was, sir.”
If the situation didn’t screw us nine ways till Sunday, I would’ve laughed. But nothing about a betrayal in a cartel’s ranks warranted humor. “What do they have?”
“Our informant on the inside says three months of wiretapping. They’re moving tomorrow.”
Without thinking, I ran my hand through my hair, dislodging it from the carefully combed back style my father favored. I cursed as unruly strands dusted over my forehead. “Who?”
Mateo hesitated. “Nando.”
My shoulders hunched as a dagger lodged deep in my back. Nando Fuentes sat next to me as we crossed the border six years ago. He’d been with me from the beginning, and to find out he’d sold my soul for his own tested my control.
“What has he told them?”
“According to our informant, just details about upcoming shipments.” Mateo shifted the paper from hand to hand. “No names or chain of command, but…”
“But?”
He steeled his expression, holding my stare. “He’s flipping.”
Regaining my composure, I pressed my fingers together for a moment before reaching into my pocket for my phone. Hitting a coded button, I dialed the last number I wanted to call. It annoyed me to need a favor from anyone—especially him.
After several rings, he answered with a smirk in his voice. “Carrera, what a pleasant surprise.”
I gripped the edges of my desk to calm myself and tempered my voice. “Harcourt, we have a slight situation.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
I paused a moment to stop a knee-jerk reaction I’d regret. “How’s the bid for the district attorney nomination coming?”
“Steady,” he answered cautiously. “DA Garrison is all but out the door. Favorability polls are looking up.”
“Good.” I knew I’d hit him where it counted and went in for the kill. “As I said, there’s been a situation. My lieutenant tells me it’s with one of my men and a DEA agent. Is it a bluff or has he already made a deal?”
“It’s not a bluff,” he said after a long pause. “He hasn’t talked yet, but they’re coming for him tomorrow.”
“I need a glitch in the paperwork to stall them.”
A slow sigh preceded a hush in his voice. “Damn it, Carrera, this isn’t the time to be sticking my hands in evidence.”
He should have thought of that before he stuck his hands in cartel business for career advancement. Having Houston’s first Latino governor’s ear came in handy.
“Think long and hard, Harcourt. It’d be a shame for someone to be tipped off about a few grams in your car. No one would elect a junkie DA.”
“Asshole,” he growled. “You wouldn’t. Besides, how do you know I’m not recording this whole conversation?”
“Because you’re not a suicidal moron. You think an assistant district attorney scares me, Harcourt?” I leaned back in the noisy chair. “I’ve poured men like you down drains with nothing left but a bad smell. You want to take the risk? It’s been a while since I’ve made soup.”
Silence between us had a smile breaking across my face. The soup talk always clinched the win in an argument with Americans. They wanted to believe it was an urban legend but didn’t want to take the risk to find out.
“Fine,” he mumbled, clearly irritated. “Name?”
“Nando Fuentes. And hurry; I don’t like to wait.” I disconnected the line before he could respond. I’d learned the tactic from my father. Always end a conversation with the last word—by whatever means necessary.
I turned to Mateo. “Take care of him.”
A slow blink indicated his acknowledgement of Nando’s fate. “Fifty-five-gallon drum? The acid will leave no trace within three hours.”
Hell, no. I wanted a trace. Pieces of Nando were going to trace all over the goddamn place for his betrayal.
&nb
sp; “No,” I replied calmly. “I want a message sent. Make it look like a murder-suicide. You know the policía around here. They’ll claim that’s what it was whether they believe it or not.”
Mateo tilted his head. “Suicide?”
A wicked grin spread across my face. “He’s been fucking some puta who’s snorted more of our profits than he’s moved. I’m sure his wife won’t mind.”
“Está bien,” he nodded, accepting his task without argument.
After what was left of Nando was bagged and tagged, I’d have to reevaluate Mateo’s place in my hierarchy. Although he and I hadn’t known each other very long, he’d proved his loyalty repeatedly.
I briefly glanced at the destruction of my desk, now residing in chaos on the floor. “If that’s all...”
Mateo shifted his weight and cleared his throat. “There’s one more thing.”
I sighed. “Make it quick.”
He finally glanced at the paper he held in his hands and scratched his head. “One of our new dealers, Isabella, informed us that a repeat buyer in Maplewood has put four grams of our shipment up his nose. He’s in for about ten g’s and missed the last two drops. Do you want us to torch his place?”
I remained silent for a moment, processing the information. Normally, morons who snorted their paychecks meant very little to me. That’s why I had a crew. But with Nando disrupting the trust in my organization, I needed to send a message to our associates that we weren’t to be fucked with on any level.
“What would my father do?” I countered.
Mateo’s face paled. “He’d have them beheaded and mounted on a stick in the family’s yard.”
“True,” I said, the images I’d seen as a boy in Mexico giving me pause. “However, that’s hardly our style.” Shifting in my seat, the damn chair creaked, eliciting an involuntary clenching of my jaw. “But the debt makes us look weak, so it can’t go unpunished.”
I paused as my gaze roamed my desk and landed on the only thing that withstood my earlier mood swing—a framed picture of my father as a young man. His blackened eyes mocked me with silent words he’d ingrained into me before every beating: ‘Mercy doesn’t exist in our world. Mercy yields weakness, and weakness brings death.’
“Boss?”
I met Mateo’s stare. “Ten g’s?” He nodded. “Have Emilio pay our friend a visit and see what he’s managed to collect for a payment. For every grand he’s missing, he owes us a finger.”
“And if he has nothing?”
Leaning back, I loosened the top button on my collar. “I suppose our friend will need to find a new profession. I imagine it’s hard to hold a hammer with two bloody stumps.”
Without another word, Mateo nodded and left my office to handle business. It was half of what I liked about the guy. I gave orders and he shut his mouth and followed them. I needed more men like him in my operation.
“Fuck.” Surveying the broken glass on the floor, I watched the expensive tequila soak into the carpet, making no move to clean it up. As usual, my thoughts wandered to an unwanted distraction who’d managed to invade my day-to-day business more and more lately.
When I arrived in America, I assumed everyone had my same tastes and high standards. The first time I ordered a shot of añejo tequila in Houston, the bartender handed me a highball glass of chilled, blanco piss water garnished with a hunk of lime and a salt shaker. It was insulting. In Mexico, a man could get shot in the face for less. There seemed to be only one bartender in the entire Houston metro who could get it right, although I tried not to show my face there if I could help it.
Being there wasn’t safe or smart. Regardless of what she looked like in those shorts.
Chapter Two
Valentin
Six Months Prior
I stood in the corner of the cantina watching her long before I sat down. She wore an expression of a caged animal that had been poked with a stick one too many times. Leaning my back against a corner wall, I studied a line that sank deep between her eyebrows and the line of sweat that trickled down the back of her slender neck. Fascinated, I followed her busy hands as she poured drinks with marked precision without giving a thought as to what she was doing.
That took skill. I appreciated skill.
It’d been a long day making sure I had the district attorney’s office in my back pocket. Not that I couldn’t run my business around them, but having someone on the inside of the legal system made life a hell of a lot easier. The young assistant DA had been resistant, but everyone in this town had a weakness—the challenge was simply to find it.
And I never backed down from a challenge.
I needed to unwind in the quiet of my own house, but as much as I told myself I should stay away from a business I cleaned cartel money through, curiosity won out over common sense.
Since opening Caliente Cantina, my lieutenant, Emilio, had gone through no less than four bartenders. They weren’t particularly bad at their jobs; Emilio just had a problem with employer/employee lines. If he didn’t calm the hell down, his proclivities would cost me a sexual harassment lawsuit.
I cared less about paying the girls off—to hell with them. They were expendable and no great loss, as far as I was concerned. In fact, every bartender in Houston failed the simplest task of a drink order. That alone could be how I’d ended up here.
Maybe I’d come here to see if his new hire was as useless as the others.
Shouting diverted my attention to wild, animated hand gestures coming from an obviously not twenty-one-year old male trying to order beer. The new bartender demanded identification, having none of his shit.
Good girl.
Even while he cursed at her and flipped his middle finger, she never wavered. Not one flicker of emotion clouded her face as she cocked an eyebrow, calmly held up her palm, pointed to him, and nodded toward the door. Cursing at her again, the punk shoved the drink menu across the bar and motioned for his buddies to leave with him.
An amused smile tugged at my mouth, stunning me. People rarely entertained me. Most often they annoyed me to the point of solitude. I needed a closer look at this girl; but first, I needed to show this asshole some manners.
He passed me on his way to the door looking like an over-privileged frat boy who knew nothing of the real world. His face was red with anger as he tugged on his overgrown, shaggy, brown hair.
“Bitch took my ID.” He turned to his friend as he reached for the door. “Maybe she just needs to get fucked really good. Maybe I should wait for her outside and help her get rid of that shitty attitude.”
I brushed his shoulder with enough force to make my displeasure known, locking eyes with him in a way that made grown men piss themselves. “And maybe I should wait outside for you and help you get rid of your shitty attitude.”
Flushing, he opened his mouth to argue. When his eyes landed on my waist, he choked on his own cockiness. “I…uh, no, dude. I’m just joking. It’s a joke. No harm.”
No one would call me a huge man by any stretch of the imagination, but I had enough muscle on me to kick his ass before he had a chance to fight back. It didn’t matter, though. I didn’t have to lift a finger. I knew where his eyes were and what made him want to disappear into himself.
I didn’t go anywhere without my pistol. To make my point, I pulled my jacket back to make sure he knew I wasn’t fucking around. “If I ever see your face in this cantina again, I’ll have dick fajitas on the menu so fast your fucking head will spin. Are we clear?”
He couldn’t speak. I got a quick nod as he grabbed his friend and ran.
God, I love power.
Returning my attention to the bar, I strained to hear her conversation with the random drunks gawking at her. Loud Mariachi music blaring in the background and annoying yells of over exuberant patrons made eavesdropping almost impossible. Trying to act bored as hell, I slipped into a seat at the end of the bar and leaned forward.
“I’ll be with you in a minute.” Tilting her chin in my dir
ection, she kept her focus on the sugary frozen concoction she created. Puckering her red lips, she blew a piece of hair out of her face that escaped the sloppy bun on top of her head.
A sloppy, candy-red bun to match candy-red lips.
The kind of lips that could tell a man any lie they wanted and he’d gladly buy any shit they sold for just a taste.
My dick twitched, reminding me it’d been a few days since I’d gotten laid. It didn’t help matters Emilio found it amusing to dress the bartenders in the tiniest denim shorts he could find, with black tank tops drawn across their chests so tight that the Caliente logo disappeared under their arms.
Well played, Emilio.
I’d never been one to chase women. I didn’t have to. They fell at my feet, crawled in my bed, and blew my phone up with calls and texts I never returned. But I found myself intrigued and unable to turn away as I watched Emilio’s new bartender flip through her texts, frown, and bite her lip, smearing the bright red lipstick that still had my pants in an uproar.
I watched her eyes glaze over as she muttered something under her breath and stared at the liquor bottles in front of her. With a long, drawn out sigh, she snuck a sweeping glance around the bar. Immediately, I dropped my eyes down to my phone, suddenly engrossed in a blank screen.
Do it. Be bad.
Satisfied no one watched, she bent down and pretended to tie her shoe, taking a bottle of vodka with her to the floor. Tucked safely underneath the sink, I shifted over the bar to get a better view of the show as she reached up with a slim, milky white arm and snagged a glass. Pouring two large shots, she downed them successively, grimacing at the eighty-proof burn.
Well, damn. She just became much more interesting to me.
I arched an eyebrow and fought a smile. “Bad day?”
“Bad life,” she shot back, narrowing her eyes and licking the remaining cheap vodka off her lips. Screwing the cap back on, she pushed off her heels and slipped the bottle back onto the counter.
“I would’ve gone for the Grey Goose myself. Drinking that shit is just asking for the day to get worse.” I should’ve stopped talking. I considered small talk to be a waste of time.
Carrera Cartel: The Collection Page 2
