Bad blood

Santi

“Good men follow the rules. Smart men follow their instincts.” Locking eyes with Legado’s casino manager, I raise my glass, letting the words hang in the air.

The man’s face blanches, and with good reason. While mildly entertaining, the pathetic song and dance routine he just performed broke two of my three cardinal rules.

Never lie to me.

Never waste my time.

I can’t decide if it’s because he’s scared, stupid, or shrewd. All three can be dangerous to a man like me, which is why I don’t care to delve into what drove him to commit his first sin.

Never steal from a Carrera.

“Santi…” He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “You don’t understand…”

“See, that’s where you’re wrong,” I offer calmly. “I understand you perfectly, Ashford. You’ve reeked of desperation for weeks.”

A bead of sweat rolls down his temple. “Santi...”

“Your priorities shifted from the bottom line to a white line.” A tinge of anger seeps through my cool façade.

He lifts his chin. “A little hypocritical from a man who imports and distributes it.”

Well, look who decided to grow a pair of balls.

“I sell it, cabrón, not snort it. That shit rots the brain, and like I said, smart men follow their instincts. If you’d followed yours, you would’ve come to me for a loan. Instead, you helped yourself.”

I’ve known for months that the man was up to his ass in debt and addiction. Not my problem. As long as he came to work, did his job, and kept his mouth shut, he could snort fucking bath salts for all I cared.

But he stuck his hand in my pocket and made it my problem.

“Yeah,” he huffs, more sweat glistening his forehead. “At forty percent interest.”

“This is Atlantic City, pendejo. You play, you pay.” Finishing my drink, I set the glass on the table before adding, “One way or another.”

I don’t elaborate. My reputation speaks for me. At twenty-two, I’ve accomplished more than men twice my age. New Jersey’s playground bows to me. For two years, I’ve owned its cocaine distribution, and now I’ve seized control of another of its vices.

Gambling.

It’s a side venture that feeds my hunger for power and vengeance. The only thing I love more than the smell of money is the scent of blood.

Neither masks the scent of a traitor.

Does forty-thousand-dollars make a difference in my bottom line? Not in the least. I’ve made twice that during the span of our conversation.

Could I forgive it? Probably.

Will I? No.

“I swear, Mr. Carrera,” he pleads, his knees bouncing with the frantic cadence of his words. “Nothing like this will ever happen again.”

More empty promises fall from his lips, faster than a golden-tongued auctioneer. Pointless, of course. They’re nothing but wasted energy and white noise.

That’s when I hear a familiar, throaty laugh behind me. One that knows better than to show up three hours early.

Good men follow the rules. Smart men follow their instincts.

My own words chisel into my skull as I rise from my chair, ignoring the frantic bargaining still going on. Ashcroft is throwing himself on the mercy of the devil’s court, and at any other time, I’d enjoy delivering his sentence.

But not today.

He gets a reprieve.

She doesn’t.

Pulling out my phone, I make my way over to her, unsurprised when RJ answers before it even rings—a hallmark of his upbringing. “Platinum Bar Lounge,” I say before disco

Two slender shoulders stiffen under a curtain of long, dark hair. “Why start now?”

“You weren’t supposed to be here until five o’clock. Explain yourself.”

“Boss.” Like a phantom, RJ, my second in command, appears by my side.

A

His brain.

A diabolical machine with the IQ of a genius.

Despite his appearance, RJ Harcourt can blend in better than any of us. Having been born in Mexico City and raised in Houston he’s a cultural chameleon—able to look the part of a hardened narco and speak with the eloquence and civility of a silver-spoon fed CEO.

I nod at my ill-fated casino floor manager, still sitting motionless where I left him. “Please escort Mr. Ashford downstairs.”

Where he’ll pay until his skin drips red.

RJ crosses the room and engulfs Ashford’s arm in his grip. Impressively, the doomed man doesn’t say a word, simply stumbling along the trajectory of his fate, his face the color of spoiled-milk.

Once they’re both out of sight, I shift my attention to my left and the college asshole at the bar with his eyes attached to my sister’s chest. “Leave.”

Cocking a blond eyebrow, he offers a disinterested scan down my handmade Italian suit. “Man, fuck off. I’m buying the lady a drink.”

I don’t argue; I act.

One glance at the bartender is all it takes. With a subtle nod, he discreetly hands me a credit card.

I glance down. “Cha

“Santi…” a soft voice groans next to me.

“Quiet,” I snap. “I’ll deal with you in a minute. Now, Mr. Yeager...” I say, redirecting my focus. “You have thirty seconds to leave the premises of your own free will”—leaning in, I lower my voice—“and in one piece.”

That cocky smirk melts off his face like a crayon in the sun. “Y-you’re Santi Carrera…” I have to admit, my blood sings at the terror my name etches into his face. With a shaking hand, he retrieves his card. Glancing briefly at the fuming woman beside him, he sprints toward the exit. “You’re on your own.”

Silence dances an out of step beat between us as I slide into the newly vacated barstool. Both of us wait for the other to speak first, neither wanting to concede.

Without asking, a glass of Añejo tequila appears in front of me. Biding my time, I lift my glass, savoring the familiar burn to the familiar tune of spi

“That was a little over the top, don’t you think?” she says finally.

Setting my glass down, I fight a smirk. “No.”

“What are you going to do?” She peers up at me from underneath those dark lashes. “Run every guy who looks at me out of town?”

I’m rarely questioned—even less so in such a petulant tone. Biting back a knee jerk response, I filter my words through clenched teeth. “If I have to.”

There’s a long pause before my little sister tilts her face up at me, the stubborn set of her jaw frustratingly familiar. “It has been a year and a half. How long are you going to punish me?”

Until every trace of Sam Sanders is gone and forgotten.

Until I raze New York to the ground, leaving nothing but a bad memory.

I gaze at her, refusing to give my pain a voice. Emotion equals weakness, and all a man’s enemy needs is one crack. “I’m not punishing you, Lola,” I offer solemnly. “I’m protecting you.”