Tainted blood

Holding my stare, he presses another button, flipping his middle finger as he lifts it to his ear. “Go to hell, Santi.”

Too late. I’m already there.

In two strides, I have his phone in my hand. In response, RJ catapults off the couch, his fists clenching by his side. He wants to take a swing at me. I can see it in his eyes. But we both know he won’t.

“Give me my fucking phone,” he bites out between clenched teeth.

This kind of volatile reaction isn’t like him. He’s the still waters to my raging tempest. But those lines darting across his forehead are new. This distraction he’s had since Grayson’s visit is out of character.

I don’t like it. And if he’s not going to give me an answer as to why, then I’ll find it myself.

Illuminating the screen, I stare down at the contact name, and the nine unanswered calls. “Rachel Marlow?” I spit the name out, my anger cranking up about ten notches. “What the hell, RJ? My whole operation just went up in flames, and you’re worried about getting your dick sucked?”

 “It’s not like that.”

“No? Then explain it to me?”

“Why don’t you worry about finding your wife?” he bites back, snatching the phone out of my hand.

It’s the wrong thing to say.

Red mist clouds my eyes and uncertainty clouds my judgement as I shove him up against the wall.  The dam breaks, and RJ pushes back, causing the lid to blow off what little restraint I have left. Drawing my fist back, I aim for his nose.

“I’d go for the throat myself.”

I freeze mid-swing, releasing my grip on RJ’s neck. Turning, I find my father leaning casually against the doorframe to my office, his arms crossed, wearing a look of amused boredom.

“Collapses the larynx,” he adds. “Then you get the pleasure of watching them suffocate.”

“What the hell are you doing here?” I demand.

“You said you’d explain later.” He shrugs. “It’s later.”

Forgetting about RJ, I shove another hand through my hair. I’m irritated yet unsurprised. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

 “And you know I’m not accustomed to waiting.”

And I’m not accustomed to answering to anyone. Dios mio, I need time to plan. To find Thalia and somehow get her back under my roof.

“You left máma alone at a party?” I accuse, dealing my father a low blow. When he cocks a dark eyebrow, I add, “Do I have to remind you what happened last time you did that?”

A chilling smile spreads across his face. “No, that won’t be necessary... I never make the same mistake twice.”

He pushes away from the doorframe to reveal my mother standing right behind him. She’s staring at me just as intently, maybe even more so. But what I notice most is the determined lift of her chin, as if she’s stepping into old, but familiar skin.

“Mijo,” she says, baiting me with a name she hasn’t called me since I left Mexico. “Let us help you.”

I glare at my father. The bastard knew exactly what he was doing in bringing her here.

I shake my head. “Not this time—”

The crack from a single gunshot swallows the rest of my protest. It’s a stab of adrenaline straight to the chest. When the second blast sounds, we all have our guns out.

“Grayson.” RJ hurls his large frame off the wall, our fight already forgotten, but there’s another name in my head as I lead the charge.

Thalia.

My father falls into line as we cross into the lobby. When I turn to stop him from coming any further, it’s not a power play, it’s a plea. “Don’t tempt fate.” I draw his volatile stare to my mother. “Lightning can strike twice.”

His scowl hardens, but he steps back. The man may be a killer, but the mind is an unforgiving sadist. All my father’s demons are carved into three jagged words:

La Boda Roja.

I can’t run fast enough. I’ll burn this city to the ground if she’s hurt. Throwing the stairwell door open, I run straight into the heavily armed chest of Rocco. Before I can demand answers, he’s jerking his chin over his shoulder.

“Shots came from the rear parking lot.”

 With my gun drawn and finger wrapped tight around the trigger, I storm ahead, giving zero fucks about protocol or protection.

The rhythmic click of boots scatter across the asphalt as swarms of sicarios pour in from every direction. The ones I commanded to secure the perimeter have already arrived, forming a half-circle around a black sports car.

They’re silent.

Unmoving.

Guns lowered.

No.

Time slows, each second stretching long into the next. My throat tightens. My heart stutters.

“Move,” I order. My men glance up, their unreadable stares feeding the monster inside me. “I said ‘move’!”

As soon as they part, I take a step forward. Then another. I don’t stop until the soles of my Santoni dress shoes are submerged in the spreading pool of blood. I take in the crumpled body lying motionless on the asphalt—the two gunshot wounds turning his white shirt an angry red.

Thank God.

The pile of bricks crushing my chest lifts as RJ lets out a staggered breath.

“What the fuck? Is that Sam Sanders?”

“What’s left of him,” I say, not bothering to hide the elation in my voice. “Point blank range. Nice work, men.”

Grayson’s invasion never made it past the parking lot, although my men’s aim leaves a lot to be desired. One bullet tore through his abdomen, but the other barely hit his shoulder. I’ve trained them better than that. There’s no second-guessing a bullet aimed at the head. Always go for the kill shot. 

“Boss, we didn’t do this.”

My head snaps up. “What do you mean?”

I don’t like the look in my sicario’s eyes. It’s one of caution. Like he’s tiptoeing around a hungry lion.

“Most of us were on the east side when the first shot rang out. By the time we got here, he was already down.”

“Did you do a sweep?”

He nods. “Every inch within a hundred-foot radius. The snipers at the front moved position to try and get a visual, but found nothing.”

“My wife?”

“Negative. Sanders was alone when he was hit.”

The relief flooding through me could drown out an ocean. But this is war, so a brief moment of solace is all I allow myself.

“Santiago wouldn’t take out one of his own, Santi.”

Bending down on his haunches, I watch RJ press two fingers against Sanders’s neck. “Well?”

“He’s only got two, maybe three minutes before Santa Muerte comes for him.” He rises to his feet. “Someone’s already fired the first two shots. It’s your call. What do you want to do?”

I glance down as the American starts gurgling incoherent nonsense, blood streaming from the corners of his mouth, and leaving red track marks down the sides of his face. Those smug dark eyes are barely open, but we still lock gazes. Even in his final moments, after all he’s done to my family, he doesn’t look away.

As for me?

I don’t have a damn thing to prove.

Lifting my arm, I aim my gun at his head. “Fire the last,” I say coolly.

As I prepare to pull the trigger and send the East Coast up in flames, Rocco crashes into me from behind, knocking my aim sideways—his hurried movements sending a spray of crimson down the front of my tux.

“Wait!” he hisses.

“For what?” I roar.

“He’s talking!”

“He always talks. Bastard never shuts up.” I aim again, only this time he steps into the line of fire.