1
Sebastián
I fought hard against my legacy. Denied my heritage with every breath in my body for nearly thirty years. I believed escape was possible.
I was wrong.
Los Muertos blood runs through my veins, the expectations and obligations of the powerful cartel an invisible, inescapable prison.
And so, here I am.
Making small talk with the privileged and powerful of Manhattan. Billionaires. Bureaucrats. Blue bloods. At the exclusive club I opened just a few months ago, in the heart of New York City, luxury and elegance wrap around me like a silken cocoon.
Smooth.
Suffocating.
Membership is by invitation only. My invitation.
Sixty-six stories above Fifth Avenue, this city’s most prestigious thoroughfare, I’ve created a playground for the wealthy and well-co
nnected. Politicians mix with criminals, nobility with the notorious.
My eyes briefly flick to the marbled gold logo on the wall. Reign.
When I finally succumbed to reality—that I could either fight a losing battle or take control of the war itself—I chose to fight … and win.
This is me, fucking winning.
Los Muertos operations are no longer based in the Bronx, our influence not limited to drugs and various illegal enterprises up and down the East Coast of the United States.
Since brokering a deal with Damon King, the unofficial ruler of Manhattan’s criminal underworld, I’ve changed the way Los Muertos conducts business. And by change, I mean: expand. Los Muertos still controls the vast majority of drugs that make their way to this city’s streets. But now we cater to a very powerful—and lucrative—segment of the market as well. Reign is the keystone of my plan.
A plan that will weave Los Muertos interests into the most fundamental elements of this city’s infrastructure. Real estate, finance, media, construction. I intend to blur the lines between vice and virtue. Between illustrious and illegal.
The woman who has been glaring daggers at the back of my neck as I work the room is part of my plan.
She is less than thrilled with the situation.
“Hello, Finley.” I finally make my way to the bar where Damion King’s second in command is perched on a stool, an untouched drink in front of her. Catching the eye of the bartender, a glass is immediately placed in front of me as well.
“Sebastián.” My name slips from her lips, a throaty purr with a flinty edge.
“Thank you for meeting me—”
“Cut the bullshit. I’m only here because Damon couldn’t be.” Her aquamarine eyes narrow. “Which is the only reason I’m here.”
True. I waited until I knew King would be unavailable to request this face to face meeting. But I keep my features impassive. “Trust me, not all obligations are unpleasant.”
Also true. This is not the life I envisioned for myself. However, I am enjoying it.
She scoffs and tosses her head, a silken tendril of dark hair breaking free from an upswept knot and sliding along the curved rise of her cheekbone. “Trust? I don’t trust you.”
Of course, she doesn’t. Finley is no one’s fool.
I glance around us, at the elegant, dark wood paneling gleaming beneath crystal chandeliers, at the floor to ceiling windows that boast three-hundred-and-sixty degree view of Manhattan. From this luxury skyscraper, it’s impossible not to feel the power I now wield. Ruthlessly.
This shouldn't be an environment I take comfort in.