Carrera Cartel: The Collection

by Kenborn, Cora

  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 he 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!”

  “Lo siento, Señor Carrera,” Luisa said, wringing her hands. “I’m sorry for the interruption. The cook made the children cupcakes, and Santi ran ahead of us, and…”

  “So, am I to assume this is red icing I have adorning my pants?”

  Her face blanched. “Oh, lo siento! Lo siento, Señor!”

  I raised my hand again. “Enough. I said, it’s okay.”

  She bounced from foot to foot, nodding like a barely held together bobblehead. It was only then that I saw a swish of long dark hair, followed by a pair of curious dark eyes peeking around from behind her ass.

  Little Stella. My second-in-command’s six-year-old daughter. A Cortes female just as skittish in my presence as her mother.

  “Hola, Stella.”

  A small smile was all I got before she disappeared behind Luisa’s ass again.

  Strange child.

  “Santi, come,” Luisa demanded in that stern nanny voice. “We must get ready for our trip.”

  “Noooo,” Santi whined, locking his hands around my neck. “Mi papá.”

  I frowned. The trip. Another security measure I’d put in place. As much as Adriana wanted Santi and Stella to be part of the wedding, I decided it’d be safer to send them to my house in Monterrey. Every precaution had been taken to ensure our safety, but with the Colombians here and an impending meeting that could end in bullets as easily as a handshake, I wasn’t taking any chances.

  “Go.” I motioned toward the now open doorway. “Rafael has the plane on standby. I’ll have one of the staff send Santi to you in a few minutes.”

  “Of course, señor.” With a nod, she took Stella by the hand and left us alone, closing the door behind them.

  Grinning, Santi climbed up on his knees, and placing a red-stained hand on either side of my face, squeezed the shit out of it.

  And you know what I did? I fucking laughed.

  I laughed so goddamn hard, my chest hurt, which only made him pinch even harder. I was one of the most hated and feared men in the world. Public enemy number one, and this toddler was twisting my cheeks like goddamn Play-Doh.

  And I loved it.

  I loved him.

  My son. Something I thought I’d never have. Hell, I never thought I’d have a family at all. I expected to live alone, grow old alone, and die alone. But Eden came along and changed all that. She gave me a home, and then she gave me my son—my fucking heart, bleeding in my hands every damn day.

  Settling him down, I clasped his hands and stared into his eyes. Dark brown and peppered with gold, a Carrera signature. “I’m doing this for your future, Santi,” I told him. “I’m building you an empire that will one day rule the world.”

  Santi stared down at his red-stained hands tucked in mine. “Cookie?”

  So fucking innocent. His hands were so small and innocent. Now. But no one outran their legacy, and one day they wouldn’t be stained with red icing. They’d be stained with blood.

  Just like mine.

  Exhaling hard, that sunshine from earlier burned a hole right through my heart, allowing the dagger to slice through what was left. I couldn’t change his fate. The only thing I could do was try to help him to understand it.

  “We aren’t good men, Santi, but we’re as fair as descendants of the devil can be. No one in this world is innocent, son. Every single one of us is born with sin. As Carrera men, we punish the worst of the worst and let our fate determine itself. You are a Carrera, son. I build for you. I kill for you. I steal for you. And I will die for you. One day you will be El Muerte, and I only hope I leave you the legacy my father denied me.”

  Kissing his forehead, I called for a staff member. Within ten minutes, my son was out of my arms and safely boarded on a private plane bound for Monterrey.

  As I heard the engine roar, the dagger sliced even deeper.

  I couldn’t get the image of his stained hands out of my head.

  “Val?”

  Shaking my head, I looked up to see the second most powerful man in Mexico standing in the doorway, wearing an expression I didn’t like.

  In seconds, I was out of my chair. “What the hell happened? Mateo, is Eden all right? The baby…”

  I swear, I’ll carve Dante Santiago into so many pieces he’ll return to his island in a goddamn envelope.

  “Eden and the bab
y are fine,” he said, motioning for me to sit down. “This isn’t about her.”

  A relief, but I didn’t take fucking orders, so I continued to stand, waiting for him to spit out whatever had him all twisted up.

  Letting out a low curse, he closed the door behind him. “It’s about the meeting. Dante Santiago isn’t our only problem.”

  Chapter Four

  Valentin

  I narrowed my eyes at Mateo, my voice escalating. “What the hell do you mean he’s not our only problem? Adriana is getting married in a few hours.”

  “I realize that,” he said, making his way farther into the room.

  “Do you also realize that Dante Santiago is about to drop out of the sky like a goddamn lightning bolt?”

  “Of course, I—”

  A full day’s worth of tension swelled within me, bubbling toward a surface held intact by sheer fucking will. Filling my lungs full of stale air, I gripped the edge of my desk with both hands, letting it out slowly. “In the last forty-eight hours, I’ve aligned with my biggest rival, agreed to share a port that fucker didn’t do a goddamn thing to earn, turned my sister’s wedding into a potential war zone, and lied to my wife about all of it. So, if you’re coming into my office with another problem, you’d better have already solved it.”

  Mateo didn’t flinch. “No, but there’s someone outside who can.”

  My grip tightened at his words. “Tell me you aren’t that stupid, Mateo. Tell me you haven’t involved someone in this without my approval.”

  “I’ll pretend you didn’t just question my loyalty.”

  “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

  “Will you at least hear him out? You said yourself, Adriana is getting married in a couple of hours. We don’t have much time.”

  I didn’t answer. Instead, I sat in my chair and finished off what was left in my glass, immediately filling it again. Whoever was on the other side of that door not only warranted it, a full glass was in their best interest. My nerves were coiled tighter than a boa constrictor. Two ounces of tequila might be the only thing preventing the one remaining spring from snapping.

  The one holding the monster at bay.

  The man my father groomed me to be.

  The one scratching so close to the surface, it kept me up at night.

  The one he swore, regardless of what I did or how far I ran, I was destined to become.

  Him.

  I’d kept these thoughts to myself, drowning myself in nightly booze and keeping busy with our latest US shipments. No one could fight this battle but me, and if I lost, I’d damn well ensure no one would be around to suffer the consequences but me.

  Even if it meant sacrificing the only link to my humanity.

  My family.

  I watched silently as Mateo made his way back toward the door. His steps were both deliberate and cautious, a testament to the man himself. Mateo Cortes didn’t earn his place as my second-in-command by taking unnecessary risks. He earned it by staying one step ahead of both ally and enemy. He earned it by striking when opportune—not when convenient. But mostly, he earned it by welcoming all four oaths as part of his soul. He lived them. Breathed them. And more than once, almost died for them.

  The man was the epitome of loyalty.

  “Come in.” He stepped to the side, allowing two men to walk in.

  One, I immediately recognized. The tall, blond asshole who looked like someone shit in his toybox was about to be my brother-in-law. But the other… I’d seen a lot in my life, so I wasn’t a man easily shocked. However, as I took in the familiar thick dark hair, blue eyes, and painted-on scowl, I cocked an eyebrow.

  “Cristiano Vergara.”

  A name I certainly didn’t expect to speak today—or any day for that matter. The last time I saw Ronan Kelly’s bastard grandson, he sat tucked away in the corner of a hospital waiting room in Guadalajara, avoiding eye contact as well as Brody’s right hook.

  He was, after all, partially responsible for my sister being there in the first place.

  Even though both the bride and groom had forgiven him, I wasn’t so generous. My forgiveness came in the form of allowing him to live. That was where my benevolence ended. However, Adriana had an incessant need to fix people, and her ex-fiancé had been her pet project.

  While Brody worked the New York deal, I’d put her in charge of creating an alliance with Ronan Kelly and the Chicago Northside Sinners. I wanted access to that port almost as much as New York. But Adriana wasn’t satisfied with that. My once-heartless sister wanted to mend fences between Vergara and the grandfather who wouldn’t give a fuck if I cut off his dick, stitched it to the top of his head, and gave him to Stella as a pet unicorn.

  Needless to say, there was no love lost between them.

  Or between us.

  “Carrera.” Those Irish blue eyes narrowed at me as he crossed my office, taking a seat in front of my desk without an invitation. In response, Brody leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest and fire in his eyes.

  I slid an irritated look at Mateo who closed the door with more force than necessary, taking a seat beside our guest, his hands clenched around the armrests.

  “Bienvenidos, gentlemen. Welcome.” I turned toward Cristiano. “Mateo tells me you have information I might be interested in hearing.” An understatement, but it was a mistake to seem overeager.

  A sarcastic chuckle drew my attention toward the wall. “This ought to be good.”

  I landed a sharp glare at Brody who scowled back. The man had a temper, but he also knew his role, and wisely chose to shut his mouth.

  Ignoring him, Cristiano tilted his chin, keeping his eyes focused on me. “Is Dante Santiago here yet?”

  “What makes you think I’d invite that Colombian asshole to my sister’s wedding?”

  The fucker actually rolled his eyes. “I know you don’t like me, Carrera, but I’d appreciate you not insulting my intelligence while I’m sitting right here.” Clasping his hands together, he leaned forward with a hard stare. “I know about the meeting.”

  “What meeting?”

  “You want to keep your cards close? I get it. But, here’s the thing; you don’t have a lot of time and neither do I. So instead of doing this back and forth shit, I’m going to be up front. If you let my grandfather sit in on this meeting with you and Santiago, you’re going to blow the entire operation.”

  Fuck. I had no intention of verifying anything he said, but he sure as hell had my interest. Letting a few more beats of silence pass, I picked my glass up and took a drink. “What do you want, Vergara?”

  “From you?” He let out a sardonic laugh. “Not a goddamn thing. You and Santiago could blow each other to the moon, for all I care. It’s not my problem. But you’ve turned Adriana’s wedding into ground-fucking-zero, and that is my problem. People are going to get hurt.”

  I’d had enough of this shit. “What do you know about Ronan?”

  “Do you think it’s a coincidence Adriana hasn’t made any gains with him in opening up Chicago?” I didn’t say anything. Which didn’t matter because the asshole barely took a breath before answering his own question. “My grandfather despises cartels.” A smirk played on his lips as he gestured to the tan skin on his exposed forearm. “Obviously, racism in Chicago’s underground is alive and well.”

  No surprise there. Ronan Kelly was a misogynistic, racist pig. It didn’t matter that his own blood ran through Vergara’s veins. As long as it was tainted with Latino blood, it might as well be poison.

  Still, it had nothing to do with Dante Santiago or our meeting.

  “Is there a point in all this? If not, I have somewhere to be.”

  “There’s a sex trafficking ring running through Mexico, right? Straight through your jurisdiction.”

  I almost choked on my drink. “What do you know about that?”

  “Come on, Val, think about it,” he taunted, flashing a cocky smile. “My father may have seized control of the Muñoz Cartel for a
short time, but it wasn’t a fruitless reign. Remember, he also traveled back and forth to Chicago pretending to be Carlos Cabello, Ronan’s Colombian supplier.” His smile widened as he swung his attention toward the seething man against the wall. “And also Brody’s, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  “Asshole.” Brody fisted his hands, his face turning a shade of red I hadn’t seen in nearly two years.

  Vergara continued, ignoring both of us. “He set up a lot of underground operations in Guadalajara. He may be dead, but it doesn’t mean his endeavors died with him.”

  “Are you saying Ronan is funding a faction of an old Muñoz trafficking ring?”

  “No. I’m saying Ronan is the trafficking ring. What’s that old saying? You can cut off the head of the snake, but another one will grow in its place. Use your ears instead of your eyes, and you’ll hear the rattle in your own courtyard.”

  Locking eyes with Mateo, I reached under my desk and slid my gun out of its holster and curled my finger around the trigger. He knew the question sitting on my tongue. One laced with suspicion and doubt.

  But he intercepted before I could ask it. “How did you know about the meeting, Vergara?”

  Cristiano laughed. “I spent eighteen years of my life trying to please that man. If you don’t think I have at least one trusted contact inside the Sinners, you’re a fucking idiot.”

  Mateo’s hand went for his gun, and I narrowed a sharp gaze at him. He didn’t pull it, but didn’t move his hand away either. The man was loyal, not stupid.

  I had to think.

  If Santiago found out about this, it could blow another lucrative deal. No way in hell was I going to share two ports with that Colombian motherfucker. I’d compromised enough.

  But if what Vergara said was true, there was also no way I could allow Ronan to return to Chicago. Human trafficking was a financial food chain practice I strictly forbade. Just the thought of women and children boxed like trash and sold like cattle made my blood boil. Knowing that fat fuck had been running young girls through my territory made me want to go out into the courtyard and blow the back of his head off.