His head dips sideways, allowing a sunbeam from behind his head to temporarily blind me. “If it turns out you're a rat, I’ll cut out your lying tongue and personally deliver it to your parents’ house in a cardboard box.” The calm timbre he uses doesn’t threaten me as it should given the ultimatum. It's controlled and honest, like a charming fable with an unexpected sinister ending.
“That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?” I goad him. “Plus, a courier service would save you a heap of time. Manaus is a bit out of your way. I’m sure they have special rates for refrigerated packages.”
“A smart ass and a looker. You’ve got it all, kid.” He glares at me. “I’d hate to be the one who has to bury your fine body.”
“Don't worry, big guy.” I pat his shoulder. “When your time's up, it’s up. I’ve nothing to hide. However, if you're the one digging a hole for me, make sure you say a few nice words.”
His mouth twitches to hide a smile. “Behave yourself and I won’t have to.”
“I’ve agreed to be his sex slave, or whatever it is he needs from me.” I scowl at him, aware of his brawn and lethal prowess, yet completely at ease beside him. “I’d hardly go running my mouth off about something like that. Would I? I’m not in a hurry to tell the world I’ve jumped into a never-ending nightmare.”
He chuckles lightly. “It's better to jump than to be pushed. Don’t you think? You’ve positioned yourself in his direct line of sight with a big fucking halo on your head. If you do what he asks, kid, he’ll be the light at the end of that tunnel and not the suffocating darkness.” He winks and simultaneously lowers the peak of his cap a fraction in a respectful gesture. “One word of friendly advice…” Shane pivots on his boots.
“Are we friends now?” I fold my arms over my chest, popping my brows high with fake surprise.
He shakes his head and sighs. “Don’t make yourself too comfortable by his side. You’ll never be his Queen. It’s impossible.”
15
TOMÁS
I check my phone, three unread messages.
The most recent is from my mother about funeral arrangements. Before hers, my youngest brother Matheus is flying home and wants to know when I’ll be at the plantation, and the other message is from Shane.
One of our pharmacies was hit during the night. A few years ago, we’d invested millions into legitimate businesses to provide a smokescreen for the chemicals we need to refine the coca-paste. As usual, Shane acted fast and he’s given me the names of the motherfuckers who had the confidence to do it.
I don’t usually roll up my sleeves and take part in lower-level warfare. It’s not my style, nor is it necessary when I havesicarioson standby to deliver the message of death. But stepping up and taking over for a psycho kingpin like my father has left high expectations—and my reputation is on the line.
I’ll adopt his ruthlessness when appropriate, while adhering to my grandfather’s lessons in savvy scheming and diplomacy. Mickey Hennessy, otherwise known as Mad Mick, is a notorious Irish mafia don, who taught me there’s a place for cunning strategy and a time for brutality.
It’s those principles my brothers and I were raised by, those and the erratic, troubled rants of a drug lord.
War isn’t coming on the horizon.
It’s arrived already.
And I’m leading the army.
I stroll to the walk-in wardrobe and pick an outfit fitting for a son in mourning. It’s only right I respect Papá’s death by wearing a pressed midnight navy shirt, fitted black jeans and brand-new shoes. I leave the top button open and secure my signature cuff links in place.
Checking my reflection in the wall-length mirror beside my watch cabinet, I make sure my hair is sitting as it should and my shirt tails are tucked in. I’ve no idea why the act of buckling my belt makes me think of Carina—lately she’s the first and last thing on my mind.
And this belt could teach her a lesson or two. Not that I want to whip the spirit out of her. I enjoy her gutsiness. Her desire for sexual corruption and the horny buzz I get when I think about her plump tits brushing against every t-shirt of mine she wears.
Christ, I’m hard again. For the umpteenth time this morning. And she’s solely to blame. I should punish her for making me want to fuck her so damn much.
Just as I reposition my swollen dick, the hairs on the back of my neck lift. She’s right behind me, arms folded. The hem of the claimed t-shirt skims her lean thighs. Disheveled sable tendrils spill over narrow shoulders, sexy and wild like the fuckable siren she is. Her fiery eyes drill into my reflection.
“We had a deal.” She pads closer. “I’d like my phone now, please.” Her hand juts out in the space separating us. Expectant and unafraid of me. Adrenaline turbocharges my veins, so I’m alive with the urge to ravage the dainty beauty.
I turn into her and stare down at those big amber eyes that remind me of an exquisite sunrise. Carina pushes her shoulders back in rebellion of my silent inspection and elevates her chin. Her chest expands in the movement, drawing my sole attention to her plump tits.
She traps her bottom lip between brilliant white teeth and dents the soft flesh. I imagine her glistening pink lips encircled around my impossible hard-on.
Reaching out, I pluck the shirt’s hem grazing her thigh and slowly hitch the material higher. Her skin visibly prickles and her waiting hand flops to her side. With the cotton still hiding her tits, I lift it a little higher to reveal two half-moons of pillowy flesh.
Fuck! I swear my dick just wept a bead of pre-cum. Her eyes widen when a thick grunt escapes my throat. I force myself to let go and check my cufflinks again in an act of self-preservation. It’s not wise to let her see how she affects me.