Chapter 15
YASMINE
Laundry wasn’t glamorous, but it was hers. Folding clothes, scrubbing out stains, shaking sand from the twins’ shoes. It was one of the few tasks she insisted on doing herself. A small rebellion in a house where everything was controlled, cataloged, dictated, and done for her.
She liked the rhythm of it. The smell of the soap was calming. The quiet hum of water instead of guards’ boots, eased her tense muscles. Her children were napping, Ava watching them, and for once, Yasmine felt almost invisible. Almost safe in this corner of chaos.
Until she wasn’t.
The door creaked. She turned, heart stalling when she saw Carlos Ramírez step inside, closing the heavy wood behind him.
Her pulse spiked. No guards. No witnesses. Just him.
Fuck.
How did he even know to look here? Cause she was pretty sure he’d never washed a pair of his socks in his entire life.
“Senora Ramírez,” he greeted, rolling the title on his tongue. “Or perhaps I should say, senora mía.” He smirked as he slowly walked closer, like a panther on the hunt.
Her heart rate spiked.
“How convenient that we already share the same last name.” He didn’t waste time stepping into her personal space and she was assaulted by the overpowering scent of cologne and cigars.
Yasmine straightened her spine, clutching the folded shirt in her hands like a shield. “I’m sorry Senor, but I’m busy.”
Carlos’s smile widened. “A wife of Mercurio doing laundry? What a waste of those hands. You should be drinking wine, wearing jewels, and carrying the next Ramírez heir in silk, not soap bubbles.”
Her stomach knotted. “I carry what I choose.”
His gaze slid down her body, making her skin crawl.
“Sí, you breed well. Four children already, and I’m sure you’ve already started trying to make a fifth.
Such strong blood, I have not seen a woman like you…
ever. But Mercurio…” He clucked his tongue.
“He doesn’t honor tradition. Doesn’t show proper respect.
I’ve determined that to make sure he understands how respect and hierarchy work, that the next heir should come from me. ”
Shocked, Yasmine stepped back, but Carlos moved faster than she expected, pinning her back against the stone wall, the folded shirt dropping from her hands to the floor. One palm pressed flat beside her head, the other gripped her waist, his body pressed up against hers.
Panic rose like bile and every one of her instincts screamed. Her eyes darted to the counter. A pair of scissors gleamed in the light. One lunge, one good stab, and she could end him.
“Get off me,” she hissed, voice low and sharp. “I have tolerated your comments and disgusting innuendos, but you have just crossed a very dangerous line. I will never be yours. Not for a single minute. Dean will cut you and watch you bleed out for touching me.”
Carlos leaned close, his breath hot against her cheek. “Your fire is delicious. Mercurio is too much like his mother, always resisting, always ungrateful, and too many morals. But you? You’d make a Ramírez dynasty proud.” His hand slid up and grabbed her breas.
Yasmine growled. “This is your last warning. Let me go, before I make you.”
Carlos chuckled and terror shot through her, hot and electric, followed instantly by rage. Her muscles coiled, ready for his next move.
The alarms suddenly screamed and Yasmine jumped. The shrill, metallic howl tore through the hallway and a red light spun in the laundry room.
“What’s happening?” she asked as Carlos jerked back, eyes narrowing in fury.
The sound of explosions, the crack of automatic gunfire, and the guttural shouts of men, thundering boots, and complete insanity erupted.
“We’re under attack,” he stated, far calmer than she thought he’d be. He straightened his jacket, mask snapping back into place, as if his hands hadn’t just been on her.
“No, the kids.” Yasmine lunged for the door, but Carlos caught her around the waist and hauled her back.
“The children will be fine. Guards will have taken up station outside their door. It is you that is unsafe. Stay in here until the alarms stop sounding.”
She wanted to argue but nodded.
“I guess you’ve been saved by the bell,” he muttered, lips curling. “But remember, you live under my roof and therefore you owe me a debt. I always collect my debts.”
Then he was gone, the door slamming behind him, his footsteps vanishing into the commotion outside.
Yasmine sagged against the wall, knees trembling. She pressed a fist to her mouth, swallowing bile, swallowing fury.
Next time, I’ll be ready. Next time, I’ll put those scissors in his throat.
DEAN
The alarm ripped through the compound. Dean leaped from the desk and was on the run, as instinct took over.
The training never left him, reflexes burned too deep.
He stopped at the weapons room that guards were rushing out of and shrugged out of his suit jacket.
He kicked off the useless dress shoes and yanked on a pair of shitkickers before loading up on weapons.
He grabbed everything from knives, a handgun and an AR-15 from the wall rack, shoving extra mags into his belt.
By the time the second alarm blared, he was in the corridor, boots hammering stone.
Gunfire echoed outside, sharp bursts, and answering volleys. Shouts tangled with screams. The gates had been breached, and the courtyard was under attack.
Dean burst through the doors, into chaos outside, and assessed everything in a single glance.
Two SUVs smoldered near the gates, riddled with holes. Bodies sprawled in the dust, blood seeping dark into the sand. Muzzle flashes, bullets pinging off walls as intruders surged through the gate.
Who the fuck were these guys?
Forty men, maybe more, guns raised, faces masked, rode in the back of pickup trucks and fired at the guards defending the property.
The colors of a cartel he didn’t recognize flew on flags attached to the vehicles. Carlos’s greed had finally backfired. He’d pissed off more than the Alvarez family.
Carlos himself stood high on his balcony, barking orders down like a general too cowardly to taste his own war. Dean didn’t hesitate. He plunged straight into the fight.
The first man came at him with a machete. Dean stepped inside the arc, slammed his elbow into the man’s throat, and shoved a knife under his ribcage before the body hit the dirt. He rolled, pivoted, dropped to one knee and fired a controlled burst that cut down two more rushing his left flank.
“A la izquierda, cover!” he shouted, the Spanish snapping out as a commanding order. The guards nearest him obeyed without thinking, swinging rifles to where Dean pointed. He’d given them order in the chaos.
Another intruder charged. Dean pivoted, sidearm out, two precise shots. Center mass. Down he went.
A truck raced through the far gate, spraying bullets from a mounted gun.
Dean ducked behind a decorative stone half-wall, then sprinted low across the open courtyard.
He slid under the spray, popped up beside the truck, and fired an entire mag into the gunner.
The man toppled. Dean yanked open the driver’s door before he had time to react.
He hauled him out, slammed his head against the frame until he went limp, then used the vehicle itself as a barricade, laying down covering fire.
He was everywhere at once, brutal efficiency cutting a path.
Rifle to pistol, pistol to knife, knife to fists.
Every move was clean, merciless, unstoppable.
He was the walking embodiment of death. And in that moment, he remembered just how formidable he really was.
From the time Carlos took Dean and his family from their home, Dean had been holding back, just as he had when he was a child and Carlos beat him into submission.
Carlos couldn’t do that anymore, not if he didn’t let him.
Dean glanced up at Carlos on the balcony, growled, and shook his head in disgust as bullets rained down and Carlos ran inside for cover.
Men saw it. Guards who had followed Carlos out of fear now glanced at Dean with something different. Respect.
Ricco fought nearby, gun barking. Dean caught him freeze for a fraction of a second over a wounded attacker, his finger hovering over the trigger.
A hesitation that would’ve been deadly if he hadn’t been watching.
Lifting the rifle, Dean took aim, and as the injured man reached for a secondary weapon, Dean shot him in the head. Clean. One bullet and he was done.
Ricco looked over and nodded a thanks before they each took on more intruders.
Dean took a running start and vaulted the truck hood, tackling another man to the ground, and slammed the butt of his rifle into his jaw until bone crunched and he lay limp.
Dean ripped the man’s own knife free and sent it spinning into the next attacker’s thigh.
The scream was short-lived, Dean’s finishing shot silenced the wail.
Minutes stretched into an eternity of loud bangs and smoke. Finally, the surviving attackers broke, dragging their wounded, and retreating into the darkened skies beyond the walls. The courtyard reeked of blood and sweat. Bodies littered the ground.
Dean stood in the wreckage, chest heaving, dirt streaking his destroyed shirt. Two knives in his hands, both coated and dripping with blood. His eyes swept the men still standing…Ricco, Orozco, Matteo and a few others he recognized. They were staring at him, not at the balcony.
Not at Carlos.
Dean pointed to the damaged gates. “We need ten men to man the gate. They could be back. The rest of you gather the dead and lock up the wounded,” he ordered.
Before they could move, Carlos walked out the front doors. He was composed as though he hadn’t been hiding behind stone while others bled. He clapped his hands once, in mock applause.
“My son,” he drawled, voice thick with smugness. “Efficient. Ruthless. Just like I dreamed. A true Ramírez built for battle.”
Dean wiped blood from his knife. “I think you mean that I’m great at cleaning up your messes.”
Carlos smirked, but his eyes flicked to the men and then back to Dean’s face, annoyed that he’d called him out in front of his soldiers.
Dean didn’t wait for the next verbal grenade, he turned his back on his father, addressing the guards. “Go, before they decide to return, we need to be ready for another wave.”
The jumped back into action, cleaning up the mess Carlos had created. Dean didn’t bother to give his father the satisfaction of a backward glance. No, he dismissed Carlos and showed real strength, something these guards were not used to seeing.
Soon…very soon, he was going to strip his father of everything and do the one thing that would crush not just his body but his soul. He was going to hand everything over to Alvarez.
It was hours later when Dean finally returned to his bedroom, with the stink of smoke still in his hair, and blood on his clothes. Yasmine stood inside, Isabella in her arms, the twins pressed against her legs, wide-eyed.
She scanned him, bloodstains, split knuckles, eyes a little wild, and whispered, “You showed them today. They saw who you are.”
“Yes…it may be a real turning point. At least one more step,” he murmured. “That’s all it takes for them to follow me instead of him.”
Dean removed the guns, making them safe, and walked over to the closet to place them on the top shelf away from his children’s reach.
Stripping the ruined clothes, he put on track pants and walked out.
He pressed his forehead to Yasmine’s for one brief second, then ruffled the hair on his boys’ heads.
“What are you two still doing awake?”
“We couldn’t sleep, it was too scary,” Tate answered.
“Nothing to be scared about, you were well protected in here.” Dean crouched and looked them in the eyes.
“Not for us, for you,” Aiden whispered, tears in his eyes.
Dean opened his arms, and they gripped him in a hard hug, their little bodies shaking as they cried.
“You don’t need to worry about me. I will always come back to you.” Taking a few minutes to get them settled in their bed, he kissed their heads goodnight.
Walking back to his room and his amazing wife, he cupped her face and felt the slight tremble in her body.
“You too. I will always come back to you,” Dean whispered.
“I love you,” Yasmine inhaled, taking her first full breath as a large tear slipped free and slid down her cheek.
“I love you, forever. Get some rest, I need to shower and get this grime off me, but I’m taking tomorrow off to spend with you and the kids, fuck Carlos,” he snarled, and Yasmine kissed his lips softly.
He helped get Isabella and Andrés settled, then tucked Yasmine in before he walked into the bathroom and closed the door.
Glancing at the mirror, he realized no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t pretend he wasn’t a killer…
he was a reaper, a bringer of death, and he’d collected a month’s worth of souls tonight.
Maybe he really was what his father had always wanted, what he had dreamed he’d become, but he would never be the tip of the spear for that man again. The next time Dean killed it would be his father’s blood that dripped between his fingers.