Chapter 11
YASMINE
Five weeks after Andrés’s birth, Yasmine still woke to the sound of his breathing before she registered her own. Every rise and fall of his tiny chest, every sigh, every twitch of his small fingers against her skin was proof that hope hadn’t yet been strangled out of the world.
And yet tonight, Carlos was determined to poison even that.
The party had been announced the morning before, without consultation, without care for whether she or Dean wanted it.
Of course they didn’t.
Who in their right mind wanted to parade their newborn in front of cartel heads and their jeweled wives? But Carlos insisted, and there were no refusals when Carlos Ramírez sent out a command.
Yasmine swaddled Andrés in the softest blanket she owned, the family colors wrapping around him as she brushed a gentle hand over his dark fuzz of hair.
Dean stood nearby, buttoning a crisp shirt, the twins restless around his legs.
He hated the event as much as she did, his jaw tight as he slid cufflinks into place.
“We should’ve named him after you,” she murmured, looking at their son.
Dean’s mouth curved briefly. “We did.”
Andrés. The name Carlos had expected—Carlos—twisted into defiance.
They’d chosen Carlos’s middle name instead.
It just so happened that it had also been Dean’s grandfather’s name.
It meant, manly and brave. A rebellion Carlos might grin at in public, but they both knew it was a knife beneath the tablecloth.
“Ready?” Dean asked.
Yasmine looked down at the pretty golden dress Dean had managed to get for her and lifted her chin. “As I’ll ever be.”
They walked like a small herd with four guards escorting them. They were a group that Ricco had gathered, loyal to Dean and Yasmine, not to Carlos and his cruelty.
The compound’s ballroom glittered like sin disguised as celebration. Crystal chandeliers scattered light across polished floors, champagne fizzed in tall glasses, and silver trays floated between men in expensive suits and women dripping in jewels. The air reeked of cigar smoke and power.
Carlos stood at the head of a long table, with three women fawning all over him as he smiled and spoke to his guests. Yasmine watched in disgust as he shook hands and kissed cheeks.
When Dean and Yasmine entered, the hum of conversation dimmed. Eyes followed them, curious to see the new baby, hungry for information, assessing the level of threat. Vultures looking for a weakness.
Little Andrés was far from the line if you took in Dean, Tate, and Aiden, but it didn’t matter.
Yasmine clutched Isabella tighter and was happy that Dean carried their new son. He stirred against Dean’s chest, lips parting in a soft sigh, oblivious to the vile people surrounding him. Carlos waited until they reached their seats at the head table, the position of honor.
“My son, Mercurio,” Carlos announced, voice booming with theatrical pride, “has given me another grandson. Proof that the Ramírez bloodline is stronger than ever. Tonight, we drink to strength, to loyalty, to family!”
Glasses raised. A cheer rolled through the room. Despite what came out of the people’s mouths, Yasmine saw the excitement didn’t reach their eyes.
Dean’s expression didn’t flicker, but Yasmine felt the tension in his hand at her back. She pasted on a smile, teeth aching from the pressure. When the applause ebbed, Carlos leaned toward them with a smirk.
“Tell them my boy, what is my new grandson’s name?”
Yasmine’s stomach knotted. Dean raised Andrés slightly into the air and answered. His voice was flat but loud enough for everyone to hear.
“We proudly present, Andrés Ricardo Ramírez.”
Carlos’s eyes narrowed for a fraction of a second before the smile returned, wider this time, as if he were the one who’d chosen it. “Andrés,” he repeated, savoring it as he lifted his glass into the air again. “My father’s name, it screams of legacy and courage. Fitting.”
The guests nodded approval and clapped again. The performance was flawless. But Yasmine saw the truth in Carlos’s eyes—the silent promise that this defiance would not be forgotten.
They all settled at the table and regardless of the reason for being here, Yasmine couldn’t deny that the food was outstanding. Tate and Aiden were incredibly well behaved, and both Isabella and Andrés slept like they were in their cribs and not a noisy ballroom.
Dinner felt like it stretched on forever.
Course after course, wine poured, laughter forced.
Yasmine focused on Andrés, feeding him discreetly, rocking him when he fussed, keeping her children’s world small and safe, even as danger prowled in every corner of the room.
Dean asked Ricco to hold Isabella as he went to speak to one of the generals.
Yasmine watched him walk over to the man she only knew by reputation, and wondered if it would be a conversation to help Carlos, or to bring the man down. She glanced at Carlos who now had a young woman sitting on his lap. Rolling her eyes she looked away.
Then it happened. Yasmine should’ve been expecting it, but somehow it never crossed her mind that it would happen.
Two young women glided across the floor like predators scenting blood. They were beautiful in that cultivated way…hair glossy, dresses cut to draw every eye, lips painted crimson. And they didn’t look at Yasmine once.
Their gazes locked on Dean.
She’d been relegated to the wife, the one that spit out kids for her husband, but who he never touched otherwise. Why? Because that was common among this group. The wives, mistresses, one-time flings were all mashed into one room, and more than one type of deal was made.
Yasmine growled under her breath as one leaned close, her smile perfectly in place. She couldn’t make out every word, but could clearly see her say, Oh…Senor Ramírez. The girl’s hand ran down Dean’s arm, and Yasmine wanted to rush across the room, rip the girl’s arm off, and beat her with it.
The other girl laughed softly, tracing a finger down the lapel of his suit jacket.
Yasmine’s nails bit her palms. She felt Andrés stir against her chest, and she forced herself to relax even as her gaze remained locked on the two women.
She’d never felt jealousy before. Not like this.
It burned her gut and her throat and even though she trusted Dean she couldn’t stop the nagging little voice in the back of her head.
Had they been here too long, would he start to view her like these other men did their wives?
She watched Dean carefully. He didn’t smile or welcome their attention. He looked down at the women, then turned to look straight at Carlos. Yasmine followed his stare. His father sat at the head of the table, watching, lips curled in a knowing smile.
Dean’s glare was answer enough. He removed the women’s hands as if brushing lint from his suit. Yasmine wished she could hear what Dean said that had them bowing their heads and scurrying away.
Carlos raised his glass toward Dean in mock salute.
Yasmine’s blood boiled. How dare he set this in motion. What the hell kind of game was this?
Dean caught her eye, and as soon as her gaze locked with his, his look softened. I love you, and only you, forever, he mouthed and her cheeks warmed as she melted in her seat. She never should’ve doubted him. Not even for a second.
A half hour later, she walked up behind the same two girls at the dessert table. The two women giggled over the dainty treats, whispering behind manicured nails.
She approached with Andrés in her arms and the sweetest smile on her lips. “Ladies,” she said warmly. “Enjoying yourselves?”
They startled, then offered nervous smiles. “Yes, of course. It’s a beautiful party.”
Yasmine leaned in slightly, lowering her voice, though her tone never lost its sugar. “Good. Because it will be the last time you ever lay a finger on my husband.”
Their eyes widened.
“If you do,” she continued, still smiling as if they were discussing recipes, “I will cut off the hand you used to touch what is not yours. Don’t test a wife or mother. We’re a very special breed of determined to protect what is ours.”
Silence stretched. The women gaped at her, horror dawning beneath their painted faces.
Yasmine patted one delicately on the wrist. “Enjoy your desserts.”
She turned, walking away with her head high, Andrés cradled close. Dean glanced at her, and she smirked at his silent inquiry, but didn’t offer anymore of an explanation.
That night, after the children were asleep, Dean stripped off his jacket and loosened his tie. Yasmine sat on the edge of the bed, nursing Andrés one last time before laying him gently in his cradle.
Dean leaned against the dresser, arms folded. “What did you say to them?”
Yasmine arched a brow. “Who are we talking about?”
“You know exactly who I’m talking about,” he replied and Yasmine bit her lip.
“I’ll assume you mean the two skanks that were barely eighteen?”
Dean softly chuckled. “Yes, that’s who I mean. What did you say? You sent them scurrying away like rats.” His lips twitched.
She smiled, slow and satisfied. “Only that if they touched you again, I’d cut off their hands.”
Dean’s laugh rumbled low, softening the hard lines of his face. He crossed the room, cupped her cheek. “You weren’t jealous, were you?”
“And what if I was?”
Dean kissed her softly and then deepened it until she was left breathless. “It turns me on,” he growled against her lips.
Yasmine smirked. “Then I definitely was, and I would’ve cut them.”
Dean smiled against her lips. “Fuck…that’s my good girl.”
Warmth flooded her chest. For weeks she’d been nothing but exhausted, tense, and on guard. But here, in this room, with the children safe and Dean’s eyes burning into hers, she remembered what it was to feel alive.
She rose onto her toes, pressed her lips to his, demanding this time. Her hands fisted his shirt. He groaned into her mouth, surprised, then surrendered, his body pressing hers back toward the bed.