Tainted blood

Santi

Present Day

I’m standing on the marble steps outside Legado Casino. Unable to move. Unable to breathe. Unable to right everything that’s just been wronged. Watching as Grayson’s taillights disappear into the darkness, like a thief in the night.

A thief who just stole my wife.

The Colombian’s revelation spins in my head until every word hums a sinister melody. “You know, all this could have been avoided if I’d just shot you that night outside the church. You’re lucky I’d never aim a bullet near her.”

Her.

The angel I chose to let fly, rather than clip her wings.

The signs had been there all along, dancing in the shadows. They’d watched and taunted, waiting for me to look past my own blind revenge and see the truth.

The girl in the red toboggan. The i

Muñequita.

Thalia.

Everything has always been red.

Red Wedding.

Red toboggan.

Red dresses.

“Santi?”

I glance over my shoulder to find a gathered crowd of sicarios waiting for a command, anticipating a volatile reaction to the grenades Grayson just tossed out the window of his piece of shit car.

This wasn’t so much a truce as a diversion. That Colombian bastard lured me outside so he could drive his way in. He dangled a Bardi-shaped carrot in front of my face, distracting me with warnings of princess rings and trafficking auctions, allowing Sanders enough time to turn my wife against me.

With the truth.

I grit my teeth. “I want this place surrounded,” I say, forcing a calm I don’t feel. “No one leaves the vicinity.”

They all look at each other. One finally clears his throat. “What about the invited guests, boss? What if they’re already leaving?”

“Then fire bullets into their tires until they’re not.” I don’t wait for any more questions. Turning, I take two steps at a time, with RJ and Rocco falling in behind me as I barrel through the doors of my casino.

Curious eyes turn our way, but no one speaks.

“Have two guards stationed at every exit and the rest searching every inch of this place for Thalia like their lives depend on it.” Pausing, I hold Rocco’s stare. “Because they do.”

My threat doesn’t fall on deaf ears. As it shouldn’t. I’m dead serious. Nodding, he slips out from behind us, his phone already to his ear, barking out orders.

RJ doesn’t question where I’m going as I continue my path. He silently shadows my heavy footsteps as I weave through the layers of smiling patrons and make my way toward the Platinum Bar Lounge.

I don’t hold out much hope, but it’s the last place I saw her.

I scan the sea of faces, finding nothing but old money and ambitious socialites laughing as they turn a blind eye to Legado’s bloody foundations. Six days ago, I looked at them and saw dollar signs. Now I just see my own fallibility.

But no red…

She’s not here.

Fucking Grayson.

All I needed was a few more hours. I was going to tell her everything tonight—about Bardi, about finding the tape, about there being no debt to pay off…

About my decision to let my muñequita fly away. Again.

“What happened?”

I’m straddling the line between control and chaos as my father steps in front of me, a glass of Añejo tequila in his hand. It’s not a question. It’s a demand, delivered with the casual bite of a snake. Calm and controlled. Almost fucking pleasant. Valentin Carrera doesn’t shout. Men like him wield much more power in a steady tone than a deafening roar. The danger lies in the delivery.

Despite all that, I don’t bother to answer. The explanation of tonight’s events would take too long, and frankly, I’m not in the mood to watch my father’s head explode when he finds out I’ve ignored everything he ever taught me. Instead, I focus on more pressing issues.

“Have you seen Thalia?” I grit my teeth, adding, “Or Sam Sanders?”

At the mention of Sanders’s name, he stiffens—his fingers clenching so tightly around the glass I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter. “Why would a Santiago pinche cabrón be in this casino, Santi?”

That’s a no, then.

Sanders is a reckless son of a bitch, but he’s not stupid. You don’t violate a man’s daughter and then dance at his party. If Grayson sent him in here for Thalia, he’d stay out of sight until she stepped into view.

The irritating sound of spi

I have to get out of this damn place.

Just as I turn to leave, my father’s firm grip clamps down on my shoulder. “I repeat… Why would that pinche cabrón dare step foot in New Jersey, much less on Carrera ground?”

“I’ll explain later.”

“You’ll explain now.”

“I’ll explain when I have something to say,” I appease with a low growl, shrugging him off.  I’m not doing this with him. Not here. Especially not now. “In the meantime if you happen to see my wife, please escort her to my office.”

They say when you find yourself standing at the end, return to the begi

So that’s where I am—at the begi

I glance at the floor where she stood, head held high, lying to my face as her knees shook with fear, then at the wall I shoved her against seconds before putting a gun to her head… My office is a battlefield of scattered landmines, all of them filled with reminders of her.

I can’t think straight when she’s invading my head like this.

Knocking the top off the crystal decanter sitting on my desk, I lift it, and take a long hard drink, not bothering with a glass. Strangling the neck of the bottle with one hand, I shove the other in my hair, tugging at the roots as I pace the length of my office.

RJ remains uncharacteristically quiet as I come undone.

“She can’t just leave like that,” I say, swiping the back of my hand across my chin. “We’re fucking married. I don’t care what shit Grayson convinces her to pull, I won’t give her a divorce. She’s a Carrera for as long as I say she is, goddamn it!” The decanter shatters against the wall as I hurl it across the room. Staring at the jagged pieces of glass strewn across the floor, my tone lowers. “The only way Santiago is going to cut that tie is by cutting my throat.”

I’m spiraling. Half an hour ago, I had every intention of telling Thalia the truth and letting her go. But now… Now, I’m irritated, concerned, and pissed the fuck off—a dangerous cocktail with a hairpin trigger.

As I pass my desk for the fourth time, I stop to check my phone.

Nothing.

“Have you heard from Rocco?”

When all I get in return is an incoherent mumble, I glance up from my screen, narrowing a suspicious glare at my second-in-command. He’s perched on the edge of the couch, an elbow braced on each knee, his phone tucked protectively in his hands. Now that I think about it, he hasn’t taken his eyes off it since we caught the finale of Grayson’s orchestrated shitshow.

“I asked you a question, RJ.”

His thick eyebrows knot. “In a minute.”

No. That’s not how this works. Especially tonight. “Put the damn phone away, or I’ll shove it somewhere you won’t like.”