Cartel Prince (The Cartel Brotherhood #3)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Pablo

“I swear by all that’s holy, Tío Humberto, if you don’t get your shit together and get me what I came for, this will be la gota que rebosará una copa ya casi llena.” The drop which will cause an already nearly full cup to overflow.

It’s the Spanish version of the straw that broke the camel’s back. My tío abuelo—great-uncle—is pissing me off to a level he never has before. It’s taking everything I can muster not to wrap my hands around his bloated neck and squeeze.

Squeeze until his jowls turn purple.

Squeeze until his eyes bulge.

Squeeze until he’s no longer a pain in all our asses.

“You’ve always been so melodramatic, Pablo.”

I could slap that smirk right off his face. No one—not a single person ever—would describe me as melodramatic. Just the opposite. Most people wonder if I possess any emotions.

“You’ve always been a disappointment.”

The woman sitting at the table with her laptop glances toward me, and I struggle not to shift in my chair.

She does something to me. To my dick. But her expression is a mixture of disdain, shock, and warning.

Her eyes betray her thoughts even if the rest of her face remains neutral. She believes I tread a fine line.

I draw that line.

And it’s Humberto—I only use the honorific Tío when I’m speaking aloud—who’s teetering on it.

She’s supposedly my tío abuelo’s newest assistant, but I get the distinct impression it’s something more.

She doesn’t strike me as the type to let him paw her in exchange for access to his wealth.

Or more often than not, access to Tío Enrique—the jefe de jefes of all the Colombian cartels.

In reality, he’s the jefe de jefes of all the Latin American cartels.

Nothing happens in this hemisphere—Southern or Western—without his approval.

Fuck the bratva, Mafia, and mob at home in NYC.

I can’t see her computer screen, but I don’t think she’s managing his social calendar.

Something about her gives me the feeling she’s far overqualified for this position.

I want to know who she is and why she’d subject herself to his company if she’s not after money or social status.

But what do I know at this point? Maybe she is his mistress, and this is all for appearances to justify the lavish lifestyle she’s enjoying at my family’s largesse.

If she can tolerate fucking him just for nice clothes and jewelry, all the power to her.

“Did my nephew send you here as his little bitch messenger?”

I sit back in my chair and inhale. It broadens my chest and shoulders, showcasing—if you will—the full breadth of my frame. I’m nearly fifty years younger than him and in far better shape than he ever was in his prime.

“If I were, how do you think my tío would respond if I told him you said that?”

Doubt settles in his gaze, and he knows he’s seconds away from pushing me too far. The last thing he needs is for me to actually tell Tío Enrique what a douche he’s being. But I know he’s stalling, hoping to distract me.

“Tío, you have a choice. It’s a simple one. Get me the product before tomorrow night or prove you’re entirely useless and serve no purpose. What happened to Ignacio Kimura will look like a mercy kill.”

Tío Enrique’s always said the moment his tío no longer serves a purpose, he’d be dead.

I’ll happily be the one who swipes the knife across this viejo’s—old man’s—throat.

Tío Enrique’s been looking for a reason to be done with him.

Nearly forty years of house arrest hasn’t dulled Humberto’s arrogance. Now he’s not doing his job.

Ignacio Kimura was a Brazilian regional boss who fucked around and found out.

My tía—Tío Enrique’s wife—has a history that’s one of the world’s best-kept secrets.

Let’s just say she made sure dead men can’t tell tales.

There were eight men at the table that night, and only one walked away. My cousin Alejandro.

Sweat beads across Humberto’s face as the color drains from it.

I notice his left hand trembles before he shifts in his chair.

He doesn’t know who carried out the hit, but he knows it was violent.

Worse than that, it was so fast no one could react.

It was over before Ignacio, his son, or their men knew what was happening.

Alejandro said it was unlike anything he’d ever seen, and he’s been in our Cartel since before his birth, and he’s now in his thirties like me.

We’re legacies—kinda like rich kids who get into an elite college without trying, just because they’re born into a family that’s always gone there. Same thing for our Cartel.

“I told you, sobrino, someone stole the shipment.” Nephew.

“And I told you that’s bullshit, and I know it. Where the fuck is the product?”

He fights the instinct to look toward the woman, and she’s suddenly far more interested in her computer than she was a moment ago when she looked at me.

“It wasn’t the finished product that got stolen.”

Why’s he hedging?

“So, you never got as far as making the shipment you owe us?”

“It’s the new pozolero. They left the lab, and someone broke into it.”

Pozolero—soap maker. It’s the chemist who creates the formula for Colombia’s number one illegal export.

I appear focused on Humberto, but I’m still observing the woman. She doesn’t care for that excuse. Why?

“It’s not like the lab is in some building in the worst part of Bogotá. It’s in the middle of the fucking . It’s difficult to find on purpose. Your security is shit if someone followed your pozolero there or someone stumbled upon it.”

No one fucking stumbles upon our labs. They’re purposely hidden in the most obscure, nearly impossible-to-reach parts of the rainforest. And why the hell did he say “they?” Humberto isn’t a forward-thinking man.

This isn’t gender-neutral language. He doesn’t want me to know the new scientist he hired is a woman.

That only raises my suspicions about the one at the table.

Our enterprise is massive, and we’re the leading suppliers of the world’s third-most-popular substance.

The fine white powder—cocaine? What cocaine?

—is a chemical compound requiring true science to formulate.

There are plenty who think mixing the various parts together will create something worth selling.

If it doesn’t kill the user, it’s such inferior quality that it’s not worth the money spent to make it.

How do I know beyond being a leading purveyor? I have an undergrad degree in chemistry and biology from Harvard. I did a semester abroad at Cambridge. I have a grad degree in chem from MIT. Short of a PhD, there are few better educated than me in the field.

“Excuses, Tío. You know you’re responsible for overseeing our trade deals down here. Alejandro has plenty of proof that this shitstorm is your fault.”

My cousin is the second coming of Houdini.

He slips in and out of places with no one knowing.

He can disappear while you’re practically looking at him.

He’s been like that since we were kids. He was always in the thick of the trouble all of us got in, but he was gone before the adults could catch him.

He escaped punishment until our mutual cousins and I doled out our own. He never feared us as much as his mom.

He’s our leading spy when we need to know what’s really going on. He brought home plenty of intel to support our suspicions that Humberto is falling down on the job.

My tío abuelo’s face reddens. He didn’t know Alejandro’d been down here.

I rest my elbows on the armrests and steeple my fingers. It makes my suit coat’s sleeves strain around my biceps. That gets the woman’s attention. Her gaze is slow to meet mine. Then she smirks.

Fucking smirks.

That doesn’t bruise my male ego at all.

La reina—the queen.

Her self-assuredness.

Her imperious stare.

Her entire bearing screams a woman not easily intimidated and usually in control.

It’s fucking hot.

“What do your records show, senorita? How much did these thieves take? It must be in your notes somewhere.”

My tío abuelo is an utter idiota and actually writes shit down.

Fortunately, it’s in code. But he still keeps records.

No one in my immediate family—we barely acknowledge he’s related to us by blood—can get him to stop because no one lives down here.

We all live in New York or New Jersey. When the cats are away, this mouse will play.

Too bad he’s just found himself in a trap.

“Um…”

The woman peers over at me before shifting her attention to Humberto. She’s waiting for him to intercede on her behalf, but he won’t say shit. He’ll let her take the fall. He’ll blame her crappy record keeping for not knowing how things stand, that somehow, she’s to blame for it happening.

“Senorita, what’s your name?”

Oh!

She definitely doesn’t like that question.

She probably thinks I’m going to find where she lives and have her whacked in the middle of the night. Her eyes are practically shooting fiery arrows at me. I feel scorched at how intense her gaze has become.

It’s fucking hot.

It’s doing way more to my dick than it should, especially if she’s his latest conquest. I cross my legs to make sure she can’t tell.

Thank God for boxer briefs that have little room for my cock to stand out.

I definitely don’t need Humberto to know I’m attracted to her.

He’ll be a prick toward her, and then I’ll really have to kill him.

I cock an eyebrow as I wait for her to respond. I watch her jaw set before our gazes meet, and her defiance is a challenge I’d accept if I thought it was an offer.

“Florencia Aguilar Bautista.”

My gaze flies to my uncle.

What the ever-loving fuck?!

I stand and lean over the coffee table that separates us.

“Forget tonight. You have two hours to fix this before I put a bullet between your eyes. We will never forgive you.”