Chapter Twenty-Five
Vincente flung his phone.
It bounced, skidded across the glass table, then tumbled onto the plush white carpet. Rain lashed the floor-to-ceiling windows of his Miami Beach penthouse as an evening storm system rolled through southern Florida. Lightning forked from towering gray clouds to meet the churning aqua waves below.
Varella had hung up on him.
Pendejo . The disrespect.
Jaw tight, he leaned forward, forearms braced on his thighs, fingers interlocked to keep from smashing his fists through the table. “Do you think they’re serious?”
Juan stood by the windows, staring out.
He turned with a shrug. “About exchanging your woman for the Indian girl? Does it matter? We’ll bring enough men to make sure you get what you want.”
What Vincente wanted?
So many things.
“I want Gianna returned to me and this cabrón left to rot in the desert, bones picked clean by scavengers,” he snarled.
Varella thought he controlled the situation?
He’ll find out who’s the one in control.
He reached for his cortadito, thick with sugar and steamed milk. It was the wrong drink for the time of day, and with his heart already racing.
What he needed was liquor.
Or to fuck.
The cup clanged against its china saucer. “What about the Aztec Kings. Will they help us?”
Juan hesitated—so briefly it almost passed unnoticed. He dug into his pocket for a cigarette. His third this hour. He always smoked more when stressed.
His cousin disapproved of this business with Gia.
Too bad.
“I think we should leave them out of it until we’ve confirmed their loyalties.” The tip of Juan’s cigarette glowed a fiery orange, his mouth pinched at the corners.
“Then the meeting with them will have to wait until I’ve secured Gianna.” Vincente watched for his cousin’s reaction. “If it turns out they are disloyal, and I need to make an example of them, I will.”
Smoke curled from Juan’s mouth. “We can’t wait too long.” His words simmered with tension. “My father is watching. If it’s more than a rumor and the Aztec Kings have gone behind our backs to Los Coyotes, he will go straight to your father.”
“Tío Ramón.” Vincente spat his uncle’s name like a curse.
He stood, smoothing his hands down his linen trousers. “He’s too ambitious for his own good and has too many rats who report to him.”
Juan took another long drag of his cigarette.
Vincente’s shoulders bunched under the weight of his cousin’s stare.
“He’s clever,” Juan said. “And careful.”
“He’s waiti ng.” Vincente’s laugh lacked humor. “That’s what he does best, isn’t it? Looking for a mistake. Waiting to make his move.”
At least Vincente had Juan at his side to counter Ramón’s deviousness. Juan knew his treacherous father well.
Tequila.
That’s what Vincente needed instead of coffee.
At the bar, he poured a glass of his finest tequila—Don Julio Ultima Reserva, an indulgence from an exclusive, invitation-only tasting during Miami Art Week.
He lifted the crystal tumbler to his lips. Toasted oak, caramel and dried fruit—the flavors teased his tongue as the liquor burned a path down his throat and warmed his chest.
“And if he does? Make a move?” Juan eyed him from the couch.
Vincente poured a glass for his cousin. “He won’t succeed.”
A bright flash lit the sky, followed by a sharp crack and a boom that vibrated the windows.
Juan sipped his tequila. “He thinks your doctor matters more to you than the business.”
His glass halfway to his mouth, Vincente stilled. “I’m focused on what belongs to me.”
“That’s not how he sees it.”
Temper, not tequila, flushed Vincente’s skin and hazed his vision. “And how do you see it?”
Sharp needles of rain splattered violently against the glass.
His cousin’s gaze drifted to the storm outside. “We are in a dangerous business. Enemies are often where we least expect them.”
Vincente tilted his head. Was that a warning? There was an odd inflection in Juan’s voice.
“Is there something you aren’t telling me, primo ?”
“Of course no t.” Juan crushed his cigarette, drained his tequila in one swallow, and stood. “You know everything. It’s a matter of what you do with the information.”
He’d had his liquor. Vincente set down his empty glass.
Fucking would have to wait.
“Pack your things,” he told Juan. “Varella will not be the one to dictate a time for this meeting. We leave tomorrow morning.”
Another flash of lightning cracked like gunfire.
“Once we have Gianna, we return to Mexico—to the family estate.” Vincente turned toward his bedroom. “Then, we remind both of our fathers why I will keep Espina Negra the most powerful cartel in North America.”