On quick inspection, I note four of his men standing in each dark corner and one guarding the door. I prowl across the room, unaffected by his bodyguards, and drag out a chair. Papá circles the table before selecting a seat next to Morales.
We have a team of armed men in the alleyway and a few more discreetly positioned in the bar. Across the road, there’s an SUV filled to the brim with explosives, should I need to wipe out the building with these fuckers in it.
I had learned the hard way. I never enter a building or step into a meeting without taking appropriate precautions beforehand.
These guys have witnessed the backlash of my father’s psychotic temperament. He’s old school—ruthless. On the flip side, they’ve only ever experienced the diplomatic side of my character. The refined and cultured half that understands business. I'm more calculated and controlled—more mafia than cartel—until I’m triggered. They think they know me, but they don’t.
No one really does.
Those who meet the ruthless version of me never survive. Luckily, I’m stone-cold tonight. Numb.
The Mexican cartel is here to barter with us over crossed wires. Granted, it was a fatal mishap, but if they think we’ll bow to demands, they’re wrong. One shady move and I’d shower the room with lead. They won’t get the chance to threaten my family. If that’s the path they choose, I’ll take every motherfucker in this place out.
A full bottle of Grand Old Parr separates us. “Scotch?” I lean back into the velvet padded chair and unbutton my jacket. “Good choice.”
Morales' chunky gold bracelet noisily skims the table’s wooden surface as he grabs the liquor and pours. He systematically fills three glasses halfway. The overweight asshole isn’t stupid. In this scenario, he has a slight advantage of justice and control over transit hubs in the Mexican ports and crucial smuggling tunnels. Valuable assets I’d rather not lose. I’m not afraid of war. Though losing established trafficking points is a headache, I’d rather not endure.
“So...” His lashes point in the direction of my father like daggers. “You invited Flávio to your home and murdered him?”
Papá reaches across the table and swipes a drink. “I did,” he answers, void of emotion. At least, he’s keeping himself in check. “As it turns out, it was a simple case of mistaken identity.”
Morales' brown eyes widen with displeasure. His vicious snarl hides behind a raised crystal cut tumbler.
“Didn't he explain why he was there? You invited him, Tomás.” Morales glares at me, surprise etched on his swarthy face. “Surely you wouldn’t start a war with us, would you? Is blood for blood the only way?”
My instincts tell me this guy wants something, and it’s not a feud. The Souzas have unlimited resources, government officials eating out of our hands, and most of the police department on our payroll. We make the law, and he knows it. A war with us wouldn’t be pretty and they’d be the ones burying loved ones.
Over the years, I’ve progressively legitimized a hefty percentage of our businesses. Yet, we still hold the monopoly on cocaine production and distribution. So, having these guys in our corner only strengthens our position and ensures the smaller cartels don’t get too greedy.
The Souzas stay on top.
“Morales, we’ve been peaceful allies for a long time. Tell me, what sort of compensation will clean up this misunderstanding?”
Morales sits straighter in his chair. His gaze cuts to my father and then back to me. “I don’t trust the Souzas like I used to.”
Papá silently swills Scotch and proceeds to knock it back like a shot. I sense his impatience unravel when he sighs.
“I can’t say how long it will take to establish that trust again.” Morales continues.
“A week?” Papá mocks, then clears his throat as if he’s about to say more.
I swiftly interject before he pulls out his gun and fires a bullet into Morales' eyeball. “What does that mean, exactly?”
The dark-haired Mexican with a scraggly ponytail retrieves a packet of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. Morales' quick movement has my fingers twitching in a subconscious reflex. He lights one, sets the zippo on top of the box and sucks in loudly.
“It means I’ve put a hold on all trade routes for the foreseeable future.” The acrid tobacco odor reminds me of my uncle. Same brand. Same smoky swirls. It’s both pleasant and painful. “Unless you’d be open to rekindling a show of faith with something far more binding than your word?”
“Spit it out, Morales, before we all die of boredom.” Papá drains another scotch, his attention slipping.
A smirk stretches Morales’ thin lips. “Either I cut off your access through Mexico and put a bounty on each of the Souza brothers’ heads or you, Tomás, marry my niece, Bianca. Rather than spill blood, our families will blend and forge a stronger bond.”
Well, fuck, tonight just got a lot more interesting. This guy has big balls. War or marriage. One I was born to orchestrate, the other I have zero desire to participate in.
Papá’s rumble of laughter takes Morales by surprise. When he claps in tandem, it’s clear to me my father is dangling from a filament of decorum. He’ll lose his mind over this.
“You want a Souza to marry yourniece?” my father guffaws. The fact he focuses on the marriage proposal makes me smirk. We both know we’d easily annihilate the Mexicans—if we wanted an inconvenience. Nonetheless, I don’t take kindly to threats made against my family.
“That’s the proposal,” Morales replies, his expression deadpan. “I’m sure we’d all appreciate a day of celebration rather than months of mourning.”