Twisted (A Zeta Cartel Novel Book 5)

by AJ Adams

  Jorge's methods of underlining his rules came flooding back. He'd take what was his, me, and there'd be no stopping him. My pride wavered. But then my courage slid back. When it got bad, I could switch off.

  He lifted the silk shirt, not bothering with buttons, but pulling it briskly over my head. An efficient tug sent the boxers falling to the floor. His hard body leaned towards mine as he ran a hand over my waist. "Sweet."

  I was back in his bed, watching as he stripped. The bashes and bruises highlighted the ropy muscles, punching home the message: this was a hard man, ruthless and unstoppable.

  "Fresa." His strong hands ran over my skin, blunt powerful fingers tweaking my nipples before cupping the swell of my breasts. His head dipped as his tongue flickered over the tips taut with nerves at what was to come. "Preciosa," he growled.

  Teeth nipping lightly at my skin, exquisitely balanced between pleasure and pain. My breath was punching out fast, my body tight with tension. Back in the cellar, humiliation hadn't made a dent but pain had always ripped past my defences.

  His hands took a firm grip on my hips, "Roll over."

  Lights, music and me, seeing my creations parading down a catwalk. His fingertips trailed down my back, lingering over my arse. I shimmered back into the present. Trying to blank out wasn't working. He was big and it would hurt. An icy block of fear was settling in my stomach. "Jorge," I gripped the sheet and twisted around. "W-wait."

  The hands on my hips gripped harder. "What now?"

  "If you hurt me, I'll go crazy," I whispered.

  The dark eyes locked on mine, merciless and narrowed with purpose. "You want to walk, I'm not stopping you."

  He saw life as a battle, his will against mine. Stay and pay or walk away. I had a choice.

  Time stretched. "Well?"

  It wouldn't kill me. "Okay."

  The sheets were soft against my face, his chest hard against my back. His erection hot and heavy as it pushed against my thighs. He traced a line down my spine, fingertips trailing over my arse. It was a gentle touch.

  Then, lips pressed into the back of my neck. "Fresa, other way round."

  "W-what?"

  He was turning me over, brushing the hair off my face. "I want to look into those beautiful eyes."

  My arms snaked around his neck. "Really?"

  The jet eyes were warm. "You're so pretty that I can't resist." His thumb rubbed my nipples. "You're one hell of a package, fresa."

  Relief and gratitude flooded through me. I kissed the strong neck, square jaw and hard lips. "You're all right too."

  He chuckled, his laughter softening the toughness. "You English! That's a compliment, right?"

  "Damn straight." I flexed my hips, rubbing the heavy hot hardness of him. His answering gasp and shudder went straight to my clit. I hugged the muscles, revelling in the strength of him.

  I'd surrendered, and he'd shown mercy. The ice melted away, making way for surging heat. I arched against him, offering myself. His scent drifted over me, the male musk deepening as his skin warmed.

  His finger ran down my collarbone. "I solemnly swear I'm up to no good."

  The soft growl of promise went straight to my heart. There'd be no pain, no humiliation, no torrent of insults. This man wanted me; would use me sweetly.

  "I'm all yours," I whispered.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Jorge

  She lay in my bed, her back curled up against my chest. I'd woken up with my arm around her, wondering what the hell I was doing. Rescuing her was bad enough because it cost me a chance to get rid of Kowalczyk and kept alive a woman who'd repeatedly beaten and humiliated me. She'd even shot me, for fuck's sake!

  I should've shown her who was boss, taken what was my right. But I'd not even done that. It was that bruised ass and the little pink spot in the back of her neck from where I'd fitted that goddamn collar. It was just business, but the guilt flooded in. It was damn stupid. Soft gets you killed.

  But even though I cursed myself, I couldn't be sorry because it had been one hell of a fuck. Also, as she'd been ready to give it up, it was clear I was in charge. I assured myself I had it in the bag. Mercy at the right moment is motivating. After this, the fresa would work hard for me, in bed and out. As for the ass fucking, we'd get to that soon enough.

  I shook her shoulder, "Time to get up."

  "Don't you need sleep?" Persia yawned. "It's not even seven yet."

  "We've got work to do."

  "Oh," she brightened up. "This is where I help you stick it to Kowalczyk?"

  "Exactly."

  While I pulled out my favourite tie, a hand-stitched paisley silk from Turnbull and Asser, a gift from my cousin Arturo, she was raiding my closet, moaning, "Boxers and a shirt, I'll look ridiculous."

  I'm no good before my first coffee. "If you don't like it, walk."

  The warmth vanished. "You've already said that," she snapped.

  "Then stop bitching."

  Once in my office, and with an espresso warming my mood, I laid it out for her. "Kowalczyk is putting it about that you're a two-timing slut and I'm the bastard you cheated with. We're going to turn that around."

  She leaned in, listening intently as I explained exactly what she was to do and say. "Got it," she nodded. "He will come out of this looking a right bugger. He'll hate that."

  "That's the plan."

  "What's amazing is that it's all true, too."

  "The best lie is the truth. It's all a matter of presentation."

  She shook her head. "Lying comes naturally to you, doesn't it?"

  The zorra! As if she wasn't neck deep in her own web of lies! "What's it you English say, the pot calling the kettle black?"

  She tossed her copper curls but had the sense not to clap back. "Whatever." Then, with ice, "The second Kowalczyk is gone, I'm out of here."

  "Believe me, I'm looking forward to the day." I meant it, too. "Stick to the script and talk as little as possible." I didn't want her messing up my strategy.

  "Yes, yes. Look pretty and shut up. It's the story of my life," she said impatiently. "But what about Kowalczyk trying to kill me? What do I say about that?"

  "Nothing. I'll deal with that."

  "Well, I think no one would believe me, anyway." She eyed me up, as if assessing a car for its points. "Do you want me all over you when you have visitors?"

  "No, you don't want people calling you a slut."

  "Shut the front door," she drawled. "Bit late for that, don't you think?"

  "Just act regular friendly." My mind flashed back to the time I'd seen her in Kowalczyk's office. "That sex act was part of his deal, was it?"

  "Yes and going to events with him." She picked up her phone, flipping through her contacts. "You'll want the same?"

  "No."

  "Right." She put it down abruptly. "I guess being seen with me isn't a plus right now."

  I reacted before conscious thought kicked in. "Ay, fresa, no! It's not personal. It's business. I stay below the radar."

  The hurt vanished. "Because cartel bosses can't be in the limelight?"

  "Bruja! Because I like my privacy," I said firmly.

  "What's bruja?"

  "Witch."

  "I've been called worse," she admitted.

  "And deservedly so."

  She grinned, and I eyed the creamy skin, exquisitely slanted bones and rich mouth. She was a beauty, even without makeup and sitting in the unforgiving morning light. That must have been what had drawn me, I decided. It's why I'd not rubbed her nose in her defeat.

  "So, pretty, pathetic, and silent," she summed up. "I can do that."

  Typical fresa, still big on the sass. "We'll go to Bubbles tonight. If you want friends to join us, that's okay. But no media."

  "I don't have a thing to wear. All my stuff's at Kowalczyk's."

  "London's full of shops."

  She hesitated and then nodded. "I suppose so."

  "I'll have someone take you." She had a boatload of cash, hidden in her in
vestment accounts, and she couldn't go around forever dressed in my gear. "You'll be safe."

  She shook her head. "Thanks, but I'll make some arrangements."

  Again, I should have pushed to find out why, but I didn't. Another opportunity missed. "Okay."

  Certain she was prepped, I checked up on Smith. Our fearless bloodhound was up north, testing two tonnes of sugar. It was a perfect start to the day, so I was smiling as I got started on my email. With James out, I added his work to my to-do list.

  At eight, Lencho walked in, carrying a box of croissants, still hot from the oven. Paco was right behind him, holding up packs of coffee. "Prime Chiapas," he announced. "Straight from home."

  They both eyed my girl. "Persia York," I told them. By the way I spoke, they recognised this was friendly.

  Lencho put down the croissants and hugged. "Que guapa!"

  "Way too beautiful for our boss," Paco agreed as he embraced her.

  I made sure the fresa settled on the sofa, well away from my desk and occupied with her phone. To be certain she didn't eavesdrop, I lowered my voice and switched to Spanish, "The girl will help us," and then I caught them up rapidly.

  "Sounds good," Paco nodded.

  "It'll do the trick," Lencho agreed.

  They'd both checked in with their teams and met with James' people too. Adding it to Amit's report, it had been a quiet night.

  It was a relief. "By now, Kowalczyk will know Baros and his enforcers are out of play," I suggested. "He'll be focussing on getting product and reorganising his men so he can patrol his boundaries."

  "Do we carry out the expansion plan?" Lencho asked.

  Tactfully, he didn't mention we were a man short. But I felt it. "Can you two keep covering for James, take care of his plaza?"

  "Yeah, he's well set up," Paco nodded. "We're good, right, Lencho?"

  "Yeah, no problem."

  "Then I'll handle his email and office staff, and we stay on track," I decided. "Tell the sicarios and the halcones to move one street up at lunchtime. I want our eyes spotting trouble and our muscle removing it. Then have the dealers setting up by close of business. Trade starts tonight." And with James being unavailable. "As we're moving slowly, we should have plenty of time to deal with any legal issues that may crop up. But I'm not expecting any."

  "Me neither," Lencho agreed. "Just checking, boss."

  And there it was again, the respect but also the distance.

  "These inch by inch tactics are interesting," Paco mused.

  "Yeah, the jefe is doing great in Texas but it's costing us," Lencho said. "If we can keep our risks low the way we have so far, this might be the wave of the future."

  Considering I'd gotten James shot and Zeta Towers attacked, it was generous of them. But I wondered if they worried secretly, and there was no way I could ask. I had what I'd craved: I was the boss and that meant I could no longer reach out in the old way.

  Whining is for losers, so I sucked it up. "We're going to do great," I assured them. "How about some breakfast?" As they broke out the croissants and coffee, I picked up my phone. "I'll check on James."

  He was fast asleep but Miranda, the chupita who'd trained as a nurse, said he was fine. "The doc dropped by half an hour ago. No temperature and no sign of infection. He's doing great."

  "I'll send over clam chowder from the Ritz. It's his favourite."

  The second I'd placed the order, Lencho was waving his phone. "Boss, Liam O'Connor wants to drop by."

  The head of the Rathkeale Rovers, London division. "Tell him we've got the best breakfast in town here. If he hurries, we'll save him some."

  You may not know the Rovers but you've certainly heard about their operations in the news. They're Irish, originally part of the Traveller community, and they're ace at art theft, fraud and drug smuggling.

  As you might guess, they're competition but we have a truce. Not a terrific one, we don't trust those Irish fucks as far as we can spit, and they feel the same way about us, but it meant I was welcoming. "Liam, cabrón, it's good to see you."

  "Jorge, how's she hanging, boyo?"

  Liam O'Connor. Short, blond and dressed as if he were living rough in a back alley. It was camouflage that hid a mind like a razor. The Serious Crime Squad and Interpol had been after his hide for years and they'd not been able to land him with even a parking ticket.

  "So, it's true!" He was eyeing Persia. "She left that gorger Pole to hook up with you."

  "Liam, the Rampage should take you on as a source." But it explained why he'd come visiting. He was concerned by the war. But as he was alone, he was signalling it was a personal meet, friendly, not formal. "Persia, this is my good friend, Liam O'Connor."

  All she did was get up and walk over. But the undulating curves and blasting smile knocked the Rover sideways. He held on to her, proclaiming, "I'm smitten. It's love at first sight. Marry me!"

  As Persia giggled, I knew my line. "She's with me, you bastard."

  The Irish have a great gift for drama and O'Connor could've been on the stage. Hanging on to my girl, he declared, "I'm crushed." Then he kissed her hand. "If you ever get fed up with Santos, promise you'll come and see me."

  Persia smiled and exited, murmuring, "I'll leave you two boys to talk business" just as she'd been prepped.

  As O'Connor had come alone, Paco and Lencho followed, making noises about their email.

  The second they left, I was pouring my guest coffee, pressing a croissant on him, and spinning my web. "So, you heard about Kowalczyk. Que hijo de puta, huh?"

  "From what I hear, you're the rat."

  "Yeah, well, he would say that. But you don't slap a woman around because she flirts a little."

  "Oh-ho, is that it!" O'Connor laughed.

  I gave it my best disinterested shrug. "When I like what I see, I say so. It was just chat – in his office, for fuck's sake! Just like you did just now."

  "Jealous, was he?"

  "He went completely loco. First, he disses me in the press. Then he makes Persia hand over her phone, and he starts posting shit all over the Internet." I was the big man, calm and forgiving. "I was taken aback, but I didn't want to make a big thing out of it. I mean, I took it as their personal issues, not business."

  "You're a better man than me," O'Connor sighed. "If he'd called me just one of the names he called you, I would have knifed him."

  "Meh, it's not like anyone takes him seriously." Dissing the opposition is always a good tactic. "But Persia set him straight, or tried to, and that's when he slapped her around. Talked about acid in the face, too."

  "No!" O'Connor was right on it. "The bastard!"

  "Yeah. The poor girl was so freaked that she ran." I put in the final piece. "I took her in. I mean, I felt responsible."

  "Shit yeah, you couldn't turn her away."

  "Do you know he tried to ice her? She went to see her family, and he ordered one of his goons track her down."

  "I saw he's looking for her," O'Connor nodded. "Some of my boys were thinking of taking up the offer. For a quick job, £2000 is easy money."

  "Yeah, it will spark a lot of interest."

  O'Connor tore off a bit of croissant and chewed happily. "He must've been crazy about her."

  "Maybe. But to kill her?"

  "Rejection does strange things to men. Especially entitled shits like Kowalczyk," O'Connor said judiciously. "They're the type who give girls a beating for walking out on a relationship. Sometimes just for refusing a date."

  The pinprick of conscience was easily shrugged off. I was fine with refusals. But no man would tolerate disrespect. It wasn't the same at all.

  "Kowalczyk is a prick," O'Connor repeated.

  "I thought it would give him time to calm down," I sighed. "But he went nuts and posted a load of deepfake porn."

  "I saw."

  "Que hueco! Persia was in tears!" I acted outraged. "That's when I decided the fucker should pay."

  O'Connor sipped his coffee and thought. "Kowalczyk has always be
en a right bastard," he said finally.

  It was a relief. My story was going over well.

  "But a war means bodies and we don't want the plods getting excited," O'Connor pointed out. "They might get extra funding, and then we'd all be up shit creek."

  "We're not at war," I lied. "I'm just expanding."

  "Burned kebab houses, men missing, and three big-name dealers shot dead. Never mind the hullabaloo here yesterday."

  "Just a little upset," I assured him. "From now on, the violence is over." Because I'd dispose of the evidence. "Your plaza runs east of ours and Kowalczyk's runs north, so we won't disturb your business. You know I'd never break our truce."

  "Is that so?" O'Connor laughed derisively. "Well, boyo, while you're not fighting your war and incidentally expanding into Kowalczyk's territory, we need to talk."

  "Tell me. What can I do to help you, my friend?"

  "Access," he said briefly. "I've got a few projects on, all temporary, but if you keep carving into Kowalczyk's fief, we'll soon be treading on each other's toes."

  Reading between the lines, the Rovers were planning their usual tricks. Art heists, perhaps, or selling fake masterpieces. "That's no problem. We put our people together and work it out." I handed him another croissant. "Because we're friends, I'll take just half."

  O'Connor threw his hands in the air. "What? That's outrageous! Thievery! You should be one of us, mate! Two percent, that's fair."

  We took ten minutes to battle it out, five more to schmooze and then he was off, promising, "Tell the fair Persia that I'll forbid my people to take up Kowalczyk's contract."

  Lencho and Paco heard and were delighted. "Ten percent of his haul is pure profit. And with the Rovers badmouthing Kowalczyk, we can hang back and act like the good guys."

  We were pumped at the prospect. It's always good when others volunteer to do your dirty work for you.

  "Okay, you two focus on the expansion, while I work on the next move," I directed.

  It was time to take over Kowalczyk's remaining treasures: his horses. That meant calling in Rovero, my most senior sicario. "I have a job for you." I gave him his orders. "Got it?"

  He just nodded. He never spoke much, so it didn't worry me. I also didn't bother trying to spin Persia's story to him. For one thing, he'd know it was a lie. Not much got past Rovero. For another, he didn't gossip. Clams are chattier.