Chapter 3

Aléjandro

Emiliano Ruiz drove us through the night along deserted roads in the Tijuana River Valley. The roads weren’t completely deserted. A mile back we’d passed a truck, empty of merchandise with two of our men, killed. Bullet holes in the back of their heads.

“Fucking bratva,” Em said, his grip of the steering wheel loosening for the first time since we’d come across the carnage.

“We’ll find them. They can’t be too far ahead of us.” I sent a text message to another of our drivers, telling him to watch for and report any signs of trouble. “There’s a shack about a half mile down that dirt road.” I pointed to the right. “If I were the assholes who intercepted our drivers, I’d try to hide out there until we moved on.”

“If you knew we were coming. Nothing says they know.”

“Two million in product. They fucking know.”

Em nodded.

“Cut the lights.”

He turned off the headlights and slowed. The sliver of moon and thousands of stars overhead did little to light the way. My blood grew warm in anticipation, the way it did whenever I was on the verge of a fight. Some men may take that sensation as a cue to run. Not me. My hands itched for my guns and knives. I wanted to find the motherfuckers who dared to mess with us and make them pay.

Maybe we’d let one go—with his dick in his pocket—to take a message to his fellow Russians. Don’t fuck with the Roríguez cartel. If you do, you’ll never fuck again.

Em slowed the car even more. “Look out there on the road.”

“Looks like fresh tire tracks.”

He turned my way with a grin. “Ready to fuck up some Russians?”

“Si, amigo.”

The two of us worked well together. We’d known one another most of our lives. The Ruiz men were some of mi padre’s best soldiers. Upon Padre’s demand for me to spend more time in the States, it made sense that I’d be stationed near one of our highest-producing operations.

We drove the next mile in silence, our windows down. Our vision and hearing were on high alert. Bugs and reptiles filled the air with sounds as our eyes adjusted to the darkness. This was why mi padre wanted me in the States. Emiliano was a fucking good soldier. So was his cousin Nick. Mi padre trusted the Ruizes to do their jobs. Emiliano’s padre, Andrés, had spent his life making our organization wealthy.

That was the problem.

The more we made, the stronger we became, and the more of a target we were. It wasn’t only the Russians who were fucking with us. It was also the Taiwanese. Truth be told, we weren’t one hundred percent certain of who we’d find when we located our stolen merchandise.

Em cut the engine. About five hundred yards away were lights—bright lights. In the middle of fucking nowhere, they had to have a generator to produce that kind of electricity. There were only a few reasons why anyone would need that much light way out here. One was that they were counting the bales of cocaine. The second was one that caused me to remove my gun from my holster—a human-trafficking drop.

Quietly, we both got out of the car, crouching low to the ground.

With a nod to one another, we moved slowly and steadily through the underbrush at the side of the road, going toward the fucking lights. There was little chance that they’d be able to see us in the darkness. Their damn lights could illuminate a fucking baseball stadium.

I reached out, stopping Em’s progress at the sound of muffled crying.

Fuck.

His gaze met mine as we both pulled a second firearm from our arsenal.

The sickening feeling I’d had was right. This wasn’t only a place to count their bounty of drugs. This close to the border, these assholes also had women and probably children. It was too easy for the coyotes to seduce immigrants forced to stay in encampment sites in México with promises of the land of the free and all the other bullshit. Only freedom wasn’t the destiny of these people. It was servitude.

The Roríguez cartel made our fortune in drugs. We weren’t boy scouts by any stretch of the imagination. That said, we didn’t traffic humans. Shit like what we were seeing would be blamed on us, and that had to stop.

Depending upon the age and physical characteristics of the smuggled people, they would be sold either as sex slaves, prostitutes, or domestic help. If they didn’t speak English, there was an even better chance they’d never get away with their lives.

Em and I lifted our faces, counting our adversaries. He held up four fingers. I did another scan. Four was all I could count. Four men. The other people were sitting tied together on the ground with gags in their mouths. I wasn’t sure how many hostages were present. Currently, they weren’t our concern.

Once we killed the motherfucking smugglers and thieves, we’d worry about the cargo.

The four men were speaking in Russian, laughing, and busy counting the bales—our bales. No doubt that they had money signs dancing in their heads. It would be the last fucking thing they had in their heads, well, other than our bullets.

We nodded to one another, our heads bobbing in rhythm. On the count of three, we both stood. From about fifty feet out we were both scarily accurate with our shots. The women screamed as the four men systematically fell to the hard-packed ground.

Em and I hurried forward, our guns still out and ready.

A collective whimper came from the smuggled people. The women were dressed only in their bras and underwear. The few men or boys were wearing only boxers. Despite the earlier heat, the night had brought dropping temperatures. They were shivering. Of course, the blood spatter from their kidnappers dotting their exposed skin could also be a cause of their trembling. Wide eyes looked up at us as Em and I checked the pulses of the four men. One of mine had a weak pulse, nothing another bullet couldn’t fix.

The blast echoed through the dark expanse of desert-like terrain.

“How many?” Em asked the bound people. He asked again in Spanish. “Cuantos hombres?”

It was a thin woman to the side who answered. “Cinco.”

Fuck.

That meant there was one more.

The woman tilted her head toward the darkness. Not far from where we were was the shack I’d mentioned.

“Quédense callados,” Em said, telling them to stay quiet.

The bound people feverishly nodded as Em and I went toward the shack. There was no way the fifth man hadn’t heard the gunshots. Creeping low to the ground, Em went toward the door, and I went along the back, looking for another escape.

There was a window opening. The fresh scuff near the window let me know someone had recently jumped from the opening. I heard Em kick in the door. The absence of gunshots told me I was right. Our fifth man was out here in the darkness.

“Over here,” I called as I scanned the terrain. I needed the fucking lights to find anyone in the dark of the night.

“Do you think he’ll come back for the cocaine?” Em asked.

“Not if he wants to live.”

“They were definitely bratva.”

I nodded. “We need to get our product and call for backup. Someone needs to get those people.”

“Nicolas would champ at the bit for a few of those girls at Wanderland.”

The small hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention. “If it’s their choice and if we can get them papers. Otherwise, they’re going back to DHS. We don’t need problems at the club because of a pretty pussy.”

Em laughed. “My uncle isn’t usually as kind.”

“Well, he will be now, or I’ll find someone else to do his job. I’m not saying we’re out of the prostitution business. I’m saying we’re out of the sex-slave business.” I stood taller. “I’ll be glad to talk to Nicolas myself if he questions me.”

Em shook his head. “I’m easier to convince. Old men are stuck in their ways.”

“Call for backup.”

Em nodded. “We need to turn down the wattage on those damn lights. I’m surprised they haven’t already summoned fucking border patrol.”

Two hours later, we had all our product accounted for, two of our men dead, four of theirs dead, and one of theirs still missing. If he was smart, he’d eat a fucking bullet. His other choices were to tell his captain he’d lost both the product and the people, surrender to us, or give himself up to the US government. The bullet was probably the most appealing.

My brother Reinaldo and a soldier named Julian loaded all eleven women and two men into two large vans. They would take them to a halfway house we had hidden in the outskirts of San Diego. I was glad Reinaldo was involved. Since Padre had sent the two of us to oversee the workings of this operation of the cartel, we’d had more than a little pushback on some of our policies. Reinaldo would make certain that the thirteen people received a shower, food, and a bed for tonight. Tomorrow they would decide their own fates.

Back at Em’s parents’ home, after a shower, I kicked back on the pool deck with a glass of tequila. For the last two months, Reinaldo and I had been living in the Ruizes’ pool house. It was a temporary situation, but it wasn’t bad digs. Em’s little sister was as pretty and pure as her older sister before her marriage. While Camila was a bit of a tease with the way she dressed by the pool, she was also off-limits. I’d never had the yearning to marry a timid child. Submissive was only appealing in the bedroom. When it came to sharing my life, if I was forced to do it, I wanted a woman with fire.

I didn’t even care if she didn’t like me.

Like and love weren’t a part of my future.

Imagine my intrigue when a woman who fit that bill became available.

“When are you getting your own place?” Em asked as he appeared, hair wet, in a t-shirt, and nylon shorts.

“You can’t kick me out.”

Em laughed. “I’m kind of getting used to having you around. I’ve lived my life surrounded by sisters. You and Reinaldo have been a nice change.”

“Padre isn’t sure about his plans for Rei. He might be headed back to México. There’s still shit happening with Herrera.”

Elizondro Herrera started out as part of the Roríguez cartel. Over time, he found himself too enamored with wealth and power. He broke out on his own with a fair number of our men. The split was amicable until it wasn’t. Nearly six months ago, he tried to double-cross us, enlisting the help of our newly acquired ally, the KC Mafia.

Em settled into a lounge chair at my side. Instead of tequila, he was a bourbon man. After the night we’d had, he had the bottle and a glass with him. The house and sky were dark. Our only light came from the colorful display under the water within the swimming pool.

“You’re not going to cram your new wife into that pool house, are you?”

“New wife.” I exhaled, laying my head back and looking upward at the stars. I’d lived twenty-seven years without a woman at my side. Mi padre decided that was too long. After the blip our alliance went through, he decided it would be best to form another bond with the Italians.

Cue my upcoming wedding.

“You’re not changing your mind,” Em said. “The Mafia offered up their princess.” He laughed. “Of course, she’s not as pure as that redhead.”

“The redhead,” I said, speaking of Jasmine, “is too young. Too docile.”

Em laughed again. “I didn’t get to meet Mia during Cat’s wedding. Never imagined she’d be up for another wedding. That husband of hers was a prick.”

A smile curled my lips. “I hear the same about her next husband.”

“Oh fuck yeah.” Em laughed.

I never fathomed that Mia Luciano would be available to marry. If I’d known, I would have been happy to accelerate her late husband’s demise. Thinking about Mia at the wedding, the way she acted…when we were alone in that dark hallway—the slap. I was seconds away from kissing her smart and sassy lips when her husband and brother appeared.

Yeah, the memory of that fire did something to my dick every time. However, I also remembered her asshole husband talking about Mia on their wedding night. He’d said something about how much she bled. The fucking kicker was that he made that comment in front of Vincent Luciano, her father, as well as Dario, her brother and now the new capo, and Dante, her other brother.

I didn’t have a sister, and I was far from having a daughter, but if I had either one, and anyone spoke that way about her, I’d slit his throat first and demand his respect, second.

“It doesn’t bother you that she’s been married?”

“Who did you fuck last night?” I asked.

Em shook his head. “You want a name? I’m not sure I got a name.”

“Did you give a fuck that she wasn’t a virgin?”

Laughter filled the air. “I prefer my whores with experience.”

“Mia isn’t a whore.” Why I had the urge to stand up for her was beyond me. I went on, “The experience doesn’t bother me. Too much fucking responsibility to be the first. I’ve popped my share of cherries. If I’m going to settle down, I don’t want a scared virgin.”

“Does she know yet?”

I inhaled and exhaled as my cheeks rose with my widening grin. “The capo dei capi said she’d be informed this week. I’m flying to Kansas City next weekend for the engagement.” I looked to my friend. “Come with me. You can see Cat.”

“I’m still not sure I won’t ruin the alliance and slit Dario’s throat.”

It was my turn to laugh. “You could have done that the night of the attempted coup, and no one would have known it was you.”

“I thought about it.” Em poured more bourbon into his glass. “El Patrόn would have been pissed.”

“And Cat would have been heartbroken.”

Em sent me a disgusted look. The night of the attempted coup in Kansas City, the cartel learned that Dario Luciano was a man of his word. That didn’t mean that Em was any more thrilled that he was also his brother-in-law.

“I’ll go with you,” Em said before downing the bourbon. “I’m headed to bed. Morning is coming early.”

Staring up at the star-filled sky, I thought about what Em said. I needed to start looking for a place of my own. One thought led to another as I began thinking about Mia Luciano. I’d revisited the vision of her at Cat’s wedding a hundred times since making the marriage deal with her brother. I saw her in the long silver dress that accentuated her tits. Her slender shoulders and suntanned skin. She stood out the way Jasmine stood out. Their hair. While Jasmine’s was fiery red, Mia’s was paler than most, a light brown with hues of caramel and even lighter strands of blond. The night of the wedding she had it all twisted in some fancy hairdo. I also remembered the way it looked while she was lying by the pool, piled on her head with rogue strands dropping in curls around her face.

Her pouty lips.

Her hazel stare.

Her stinging slap.

I sighed.

There was part of me who knew I wanted Mia the first time I saw her. I was thinking about a quick fuck, not a lifetime commitment. No matter my goal, it was no secret she didn’t share that attraction—which was not what I was used to. Getting women to spread their legs was not usually a problem. And once they did, they were guaranteed to come back for more.

Mia’s reaction was different. That’s probably why it stood out.

The morning at the pool, the Mafia princess scanned Padre, Reinaldo, and me like she’d stepped on better things. When I learned she was married to that asshole Rocco, I felt sorry for her. She was supposed to be a princess, and if I was going to go with fairy-tale analogies, she’d ended up with a frog.

The night Dario took Rocco’s life, many of us shared the satisfaction of watching him suffer. It had been Dario to do the honors of killing the rat. I remembered thinking—after Dario and Dante’s interrogation as Rocco bled out in that basement—now it’s your turn, motherfucker.

Bleed.