“A Souza and a Morales?” Papá chuckles.
“Till death do they part.” The second Morales’ eyes lock with mine, his eyebrows drift skyward. “Well?”
“It’s never gonna happen, motherfucker,” Papá announces, his scathing tone so acidic it could strip paint from the walls. His chair skids backward as he bounces up to stand. “Never.”
Both hands settle on his hips, barely restrained, yet waiting for me to rise with him.
What’s the worst that could happen—I’d marry a woman I have no desire to fuck? Big deal. I’d get it elsewhere.
Who needs a wife to better their life? Certainly not me. I would rather stay as a bachelor and wallow in untethered loneliness for the rest of my days.
But an arranged relationship, with no expectation of love. Well, it would stop my mother searching for the perfect unwanted bride and possibly present an opportunity to carry on the Souza name for another generation—if I’m up for consummating the marriage. Currently, that’s up for debate. Me and kids aren’t a thing. I’ve no desire to speak to them or create them.
A simple contract with mutual benefits. I’d garner a firmer hold on the transport corridors and make sure my product isn’t cut with fentanyl to lessen demand.
I don’t seek emotional attachments, nor do I crave them. Outside of my family circle, I’m emotionally unavailable.
Papá’s eyes drill into my quiet contemplation. It’s not that he wants me to marry a nice girl of my choosing and settle down. No, he wants to build an empire on his terms. And he’s blinded by paranoia.
“Tomás. Let’s go. This is bullshit. These fuckers can rot in the shallow graves our men dig for them.”
His obvious disapproval makes this decision easier by the second. Lately, I’ve found it refreshing to push the boundaries of his authority. He makes disastrous, off-the-cuff decisions that negatively impact the organization, and that puts him at risk of being shoved from his throne. Our men are restless, and I’m growing tired of cleaning up his messes.
I wish he’d retire and see out his days on a super yacht in Belize where he can tame his growing neurosis. Years of being our leader have made him hungrier. He’s even more determined to expand further than his predecessors.
My father is a twisted son of a bitch. Always has been. Despite that fact, his blood runs wild in my veins. I’ve withstood his mean temperament and still continue to prove I’m worthy of praise more than constant criticism. His harsh and ruthless ways have carved me into the man I am today.
Eventually his reign would come to an end and the old man would have to congratulate his first born as his successor. Though at this rate I’d be fucking gray by the time he hands over the crown.
Until then, I’ll stand by my father as I’ve always done. Loyal to the core, but I’ll also enjoy a little head fucking. I'm capable of doing things my way too, and he’ll get a taste of it now.
“What age is Bianca Morales?” My fingers drum the table while I think.
“Twenty-two, and a real beauty, let me add. This isn’t a disadvantage, Tomás. You’ll be a happy man with my sweet Bianca in your bed.”
Instantly my mind blips out. The face of a woman I recently watched sleep in my bed pops into my head. Those fierce eyes and that imperfect thread thin scar on her pouty lip. So, delicately fine, it was almost invisible, but I saw it. That and the slash marks on her arms. There was something about her courageous spirit that caught my attention and bred curious intrigue.
She reminded me of myself.
Tortured.
Detached.
My dick swells below the table.Fuck… focus, cabrón. It’s not normally so active during important meetings. Angelo had taught me to ignore irrelevant shit and keep my wits about me. So it's a mild annoyance how I’m aroused by thoughts of a sexy young thing that I’d never see again.
“I need an answer, Tomás.” Morales' chair squeaks as he leans back, a blank expression masking his uncertainty.
“How about no?” Papá speaks on my behalf, his reply a blunt snap. “Not. Going. To. Happen.”
I’m an unapologetically rebellious man at times. It’s the inbred waywardness of my Uncle Angelo. He’s to blame and to thank.
“Perhaps,” I say with an air of nonchalance. “I’ll think about it.”
Papá’s scowl darkens before his expression turns into a wolfish glower. “Tomás,” he warns.
“Will you reopen the smuggling tunnels immediately and continue distribution of our product? Then, pledge your allegiance to us?” I could blow this fucker off the face of the earth. Except my goal isn’t fucking up the business, it’s containing his loyalty. Not to mention securing my family’s safety and ensuring Carlos fucking Blanco stays beneath us in the pecking order.
That alone is worth marrying the niece of an ally.