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?”
“Yes. I dislike small talk. It’s a waste of time. We both know information is always attached to a shitload of strings.”
“Well said.” Taking a healthy drink, she cradled the glass in both hands and ran her tongue across her top teeth. “I have multiple high-level connections at the FBI.” As soon as I arched an eyebrow, she added, “You can verify that fact with Niko if you want, but the story behind it is mine, Carrera.”
“The price, Ava. I don’t have all day.”
I really didn’t. Eden knew I was in Miami, but I told her it was to iron out a shipment loss. The last thing I needed was for her to start blowing up my phone.
“Actually, it has to do with Giselle,” she said, folding her arms over her desk.
“Who the fuck is Giselle?”
Ava rolled her eyes. “The girl on the pole. The one you were ten seconds away from tattling about to your Houston lawbreaker.”
Mouthy bitch.
Absolutely right, but still mouthy.
“My connection uncovered an active human trafficking ring started by Sevastian Petrov.”
“Petrov? As in Andrei Petrov’s brother?” What the fucking fuck? The late Bratva pakhan had ruled Moscow almost as hard as he’d hated Sevastian. Their Cain and Abel shit only ended when Sevastian’s bullet exited Andrei’s skull last year. Sevastian died months later in an empty jail cell with a knife sticking out of his throat. No one mourned him, but it sounded like someone mourned his business.
Sighing, she scrubbed a hand across her forehead. It shook. Her fucking hand shook, and when she realized I was staring at it, she cleared her throat and dropped it in her lap. “That’s the one. He wasn’t operating alone, either. I don’t have to tell you that my father was one of the most prolific sex traffickers on the East Coast.”
I connected the dots for myself. Sevastian Petrov and Sergei Chernov were both sadistic sons of bitches who deserved much worse than they got.
“I put an end to that shit,” she continued. “But girls have started disappearing again. Giselle’s friend, one of my own, went missing two weeks ago. Turns out, someone’s been carrying on their messed-up trafficking legacy.” She let out a long breath as I studied her pinched lips and rounded shoulders. “My contact traced leads to Mexico.”
I allowed a marked silence to fill the air, so I could be calm enough to speak without choking her. “The Carreras don’t deal in flesh if that’s what you’re insinuating.”
“I’m not. I’m insinuating that someone is filtering them in and out of your country, Val.” She let the sentence hang, and it wasn’t by accident. The message was clear.
Right under your nose, motherfucker.
“I’ll ask again, what do you want, Ava?”
Fire ignited in her cat-like eyes. “I want your help in shutting this ring down. I want your word that you'll work with us. That you’ll work with all of us in doing whatever it takes to end these mudaks!”
Not an unreasonable request. And a cause I’d enjoy spilling blood for.
“If I do this, you’ll tell me what…” I trailed off, replaying her words in my head and picking out the three that didn’t sit right. “What do you mean by ‘all of us’?”
“Well, my Bratva and FBI connections...” Clearing her throat, she brushed an invisible piece of lint off her desk. “And Dante Santiago.”
In a flash of movement, my palm cracked against her desk. “¡Estás loca, hija de puta!” You’re fucking crazy!
Dante Santiago was the overlord of the largest cartel in South America: Colombia’s counterpart to yours truly. Men weakened at the mere whisper of his name.
Most men.
That asshole didn’t intimidate me. No one did. But I didn’t feel like making war with him, either. He stayed in the red corner of the world, and I stayed in the blue. Narcos didn’t simply “team-up” and don white capes when it suited them. We were criminals, not saviors, and Santiago, by all accounts, was an inhuman bastard.
I should know. I looked at one in the mirror every day.
“You and Dante might enjoy playing truth or dead with each other,” she snapped, “but on the sly, he’s spent the last few years destroying trafficking rings like this.” With her reserved façade gone, she waved a frustrated hand in front of her. “When one’s crippled and bleeding, it’s li
ke Christmas morning on Santiago’s Pacific island. No survivors. No marked graves. You’ve heard the stories for yourself.”
Back the fuck up. “You brought this to the Colombian before me?”
“Not exactly.” She knows she crossed a line. Her wince just now was telling.
Son of a bitch. “Santiago has FBI connections as well.” It wasn’t a question.
“You could say that.”
“I didn’t; you did.”
Ava glanced up, clearly startled, but quickly recovered—that infamous Chernova cold queen act falling into place. “Be that as it may, if you accept my agreement, I’ll give you the information that will save your Italian deal from blowing up in your face.”
“Fine.”
“I want your word, Val. Don’t fuck me over on this. Trust me, you do not want me as an enemy.”
“I said yes, didn’t I?” I growled. “Trust me, Ava, you don’t want me as an enemy. Just tell me what you know.”
There it was again. That flicker of fear. That break in the ice. She knew I wasn’t fucking around. But then again, neither was she. I’d seen the carnage Ava Chernova left in her wake.
In many unrecognizable pieces.
She nodded. “The Feds have Don Ricci on tax evasion charges, and it seems the boss crumbled like a stale donut.”
“He talked?”
“Talked?” She let out a throaty laugh. “He sang, tap danced, and somersaulted his way into a witness protection deal for him, his mistress, and their perfect bastard of a son.”
“Does the rest of the syndicate know?”
She shook her head. “No, he’s still pretending to run shit, and the Feds are letting him conduct business with a wiretap.”
I was out of my chair before I knew it. My mind was reeling, and since I thought better on my feet, I didn’t bother to care what my manic movements looked like.
I paced and planned, the new development rolling around in my head. “That will leave New York disorganized and without a leader. Weak. Ripe for the taking.”
“Exactly.”
I paused mid-step. “When are the Feds moving on Ricci?”
“In four days.”
“¡Hijo de su puta madre!” Son of a bitch! I was in information overload, trying to connect the dots and mold fucking art out of a pile of shit. “My sister is getting married in two days. I can’t organize a takeover in that short amount of time.”
“There’s one other thing you should know.”
“Let me guess, your ‘FBI connection’ told Santiago this as well.”
This time her face didn’t change. She wasn’t shocked, and why should she have been? We were up to our necks in acid-laced quicksand. It didn’t take a genius to know it burned.
“Val, if you worked together on the trafficking ring and the New York port, the world would quake. The two most feared men in the world aligning? There’d be no hope for mankind.”
I resumed my pacing. “Why the hell would the Carreras hand over half of something we’ve been working on for over a year?”
“Because Santiago used to run New York’s cocaine distribution before the Italians took over, in case you’ve forgotten.” Sighing, Ava stood and moved to the middle of her office, blocking me. “He’s going for it whether you like it or not, Val. However, as a favor to my connection, he’s willing to have you fly to his island to consider a merger.”
It was a good thing I’d never raised my hand to a woman.
“I’m not fucking flying anywhere,” I roared. “Did you hear me? Not only is my sister getting married, but my wife is nine months pregnant. Dante Santiago can shove his merger up his ass.” Storming toward the door, I flung it open and made my way back down the stairs toward the main area, cursing everyone’s name the entire way.
I barely cleared the last step when Ava caught up, moving in front of me and blocking my path…again. “Damn it, Val, can’t you meet him halfway?”
Absolutely fucking not.
I physically moved her out of my way and then clenched my fists by my side. “If he wants to talk to me, he can put on a goddamn suit and come to Adriana’s wedding.”
Ava sighed. There was an eye roll in there somewhere as well. “There’s no way in hell he’d do that, Val. You’d need to give him something in return first. He needs to know you’re serious about this.”
I paused in the doorway. “Like what?”
“Eyes on the ground in Mexico to smash this trafficking ring. His jurisdiction stops at your borders. He needs a dirty politician or five. He needs access.”
“Why the fuck does a man like him give a shit about trafficked whores?”
“It’s personal.” She shrugged. “Think about it, Val.”
“This is bullshit.” The ball of adrenaline that had been slamming against my chest dropped like a rock in my stomach. I steeled my reaction, diverting my attention to the young blonde, still attempting to climb the pole like it was a rope in gym class. “One politician, take it or leave it. When you finish playing puppet master, keep me updated,” I conceded darkly.
Ava’s gaze followed mine, and I felt the heat of her brown eyes burning into the side of my face. When I refused to react, she gave another long sigh. “You’ll be the first person I call.”
Can’t wait.
“Oh, and Val?” Pausing at the door, I squeezed the shit out of the handle and glanced over my shoulder to where Ava held a six-inch blade in her hand. “Never fucking touch me again.”
As I walked out into the thick Miami air, I let out a slow breath and tried to wrap my head around what the hell had just happened.
I swore to fuck, women would be the death of me.
Chapter Two
Dante
Present day
My wife’s voice was the perfect playlist. It was like a compilation of all my favorite sounds—a life source for my fucking soul, or whatever the hell was left of it. It was easy and sweet when I thrummed with violence. It was rough and dirty when I was making good on a threat and driving my cock so deep inside of her I was forced to cradle the crown of her head to stop it from slamming into the wall.
Her desperate pleas were a melody to my ears as I pounded a rhythm into her tight, wet heat—chasing down sin like the sinner that I was—punishing her for an earlier defiance that was said in part-play, part-frustration.
She’ll never learn.
I could feel her inner muscles rippling as she came so beautifully around my cock. At the same time, I wanted to steal the ecstasy from her mouth and return it to her, two-fold.
I needed this.
I needed her.
I needed every beat in her repertoire. I needed her grace, her strength, her everything. Right now, the edges of our lives weren’t as safe and defined as I’d like them to be. I made a decision last week that still tasted bitter and unclean to me. As a result, I was dragging my wife and fifteen of my best men halfway across the world to choke on it.
Fucking Carrera bastards.
The Santiago Cartel didn’t have allies. We had enemies. We had associates who cowered and pleased. We had a pocketful of dirty law enforcement officers in every country from here to Africa. Except in Mexico where we needed it most.
These days I had three obsessions in life: my wife and a couple of skipped heartbeats called Ella and Thalia; my newly resurrected Santiago Cartel; and the total destruction of the international sex trafficking trade.
Anything connected to Sevastian Petrov’s former empire was like a jagged blade in my side. It was the black seed that sowed the worst of my depravity. Sevastian raped and murdered my eldest daughter, Isabella. He abused my wife when she was barely a child herself. Whatever was left of his sex trafficking organization—whoever the fuck picked up the reins in Mexico—that same jagged blade would carve my name into his gravestone, and if it took a deal with that asshole Valentin Carrera to make it happen, so be it.
This merger came with a sweet-as-fuck bonus. We needed New York to strengthen our product�
��s entry routes along the East Coast. If I played nice, the city could be back under our control within the week. Once upon a time, that territory was mine, but I’d passed the powder-white baton to an old friend, Rick Sanders, when I’d temporarily washed my hands of the business to kill for hire instead.
Rick did good. The former Brooklyn boy turned the other side of the Bridge into his own kingdom of immorality. Then he married Bratva and took a sweet turn into a different form of corruption. These days he was not only a New York Senator, he managed to get himself elected Senate Minority Leader, which meant he was sitting pretty in government for us—spending half his time in Washington and the other half bullshitting his own constituents.
Since Rick’s abdication, the territory had fallen into the hands of the Italians. We’d made plans for a hostile takeover until Carrera’s Russian bitch whispered a pretty alternative into my associate Roman Peters’s ear.
I was a man who never compromised, but I could fake a concession when required, particularly if it meant sinking our claws into Mexico’s trafficking underground. Today, that concession was flying to some Carrera wedding to talk terms with a bunch of assholes instead of enjoying a second honeymoon with my wife.
It didn’t mean I was happy about it, though.
My savage groans competed with the roar of the private jet’s engines. The mirror above the bed, the strained atmosphere—everything in this small bedroom was being scorched by the twin heat of my anger and lust.
One vow bound our hearts.
Two children bound our souls.
If I could make her come again so soon, her self-control would be mine for the taking as well.
“Dante!” she screamed out suddenly, her soft body arching into me.
Instead of slowing, I increased the viciousness of my thrusts. In response, her teeth snagged at my bicep and her legs around my waist slackened, falling away like the petals of a rose and giving me even more access to the heart of her.
“Not finished yet, mi alma,” I growled, pulling out and flipping her onto her front.
Carrera Cartel: The Collection Page 94
