Chapter 2
Chapter two
Cortez
Ariel Smith.
The whiskey burns on its way down, but I welcome the fire. It’s nothing compared to the one already raging inside of me. Slamming the glass down, I run my hand through my hair. I can’t believe my body still aches for her.
Damn!
I never touch the girls who work for me; they’re too young, and young girls are clingy. They carry this fantasy called ‘love’ in their dreamy heads. A scoff escapes my lips. Love.
I shut that door eight years ago, and Mallory was the last to walk through it. A tinge of betrayal spikes my chest, and I quickly push my attention back to the present.
Even with the ridiculous gold mask hiding her face, she knew exactly what she was doing.
She knew how to hold my eyes with the sway of those hips and the roll of that curvaceous ass of hers.
It wasn’t just dancing, it was weaponized seduction.
I instantly knew backshots with her would sound like a tornado.
She wasn’t even one of the best dancers, but it didn’t matter.
Especially with how she made it up when her ass clapped as she rode me like she owned me, or how it jiggled beneath my palms each time I smacked it. Or how her perky tits pressed themselves against my chest, her nipples as hard as stone.
A groan escapes my lips. I’ll be needing more of that whiskey if my mind keeps this up. The image of her ass bouncing back against me with every deep thrust assaults my memory. The softness of her thighs when I buried my head in between…oh God!
She felt warm…and tasted delicious. She’s definitely not from New York. No woman in this city has curves like that. She was made somewhere women eat full plates and don’t shrink themselves for Instagram.
I growl and shoot up from the chair, pacing to the window. Throwing it open, letting the cold wind slap my face, but it does nothing to cool the fire under my skin.
The moment I saw Ramirez strike Ariel, something inside me snapped.
I’m not the kind of man who gets riled up over a woman’s tears, but seeing her flinch? I wanted to kill him. Not beat him, not scare him…kill him.
Whatever it was, hitting a lady is something I won’t tolerate. The only reason I didn’t disarrange his teeth with my fists or put a bullet in his brain was that I didn’t want to start a full-fledged mafia war. If I had, his head would have been hanging from a stake right now.
Women may be weaknesses, that’s what my old man drilled into us from the cradle. But weakness doesn’t mean you get to abuse them. I knew I didn’t have to play savior, but now I’m neck-deep in her mess.
Ariel should’ve never dragged me into this, and Ramirez should’ve never crossed my path. Now I’m pissed. At her. At him. At myself.
Plus, I know that fucker will want to get back at me for killing one of his men and supposedly claiming his woman, but I’m not scared of Ramirez.
He’s just one of those small mafia dons from Mexico.
He’s no threat to me whatsoever; what I’m wondering, though, is what someone like Ariel has to do with a don. How she got entang—
What the hell is wrong with me? My teeth grind against each other, and I frown.
Empathy is not a word in my dictionary. I’ve made it this far by being ruthless.
Seven years ago, I didn’t have half of what I have now.
Back then, Elio handed me my first lifeline by linking me with connections he thought I’d need and opportunities to help me soar.
He opened the door by teaching me the ropes, and I built it into something bigger.
I took the scraps and turned them into empires.
Through Elio, I met suppliers, brokers, dirty bankers—people who’d rather bleed than rat me out.
I gained secure connections in the business industries and, from there, I surged.
It wasn’t an easy task, but I’ve become one of the top figures in the entertainment industry, including restaurants, hotels, clubs and casinos.
My name is linked to luxurious establishments in the city, like it was always meant to be there.
I successfully managed to follow in Don Elio’s footsteps.
On my own, I also diversified into real estate, and the returns from there have been pure gold.
As for the mafia, I carried on the legacy, continuing from where Don Elio, my half-brother, stopped. I did more than inherit…I elevated it, basing it on fear and control, never letting up, never backing down.
I flooded the streets with crack and became the number one supplier in all of New York. I walked into the streets and made them mine. My hands might be stained with blood, but they’re full of cash.
No one in this city can challenge me now. My name doesn’t just command respect, it demands worship. I’m not just a player anymore. I’m the fucking board.
A knock breaks through my thoughts. I already know who it is before he enters. Alejandro steps into my office, sharp and calm as always. He’s my second-in-command and my most loyal subject. If there’s one person I trust to walk into hell with me and walk back out alive, it’s him.
“Boss,” he says, shutting the door behind him. “Abbiamo un problema (We’ve got a problem).”
As I watch his tall, bulky figure stride in with urgency, I can already tell what it is.
Two weeks ago, I observed that my supplies had started dwindling at a suspicious rate.
Profits were hardly rolling in from that avenue, and word on the street was that there was someone else doing business better than Cortez Donatelli.
I had Alejandro send boys into the street to find out what was going on, and they reported that someone was pumping drugs at a ridiculously cheap rate, but the same quality as mine into the market, hence my dwindling supply.
“What?” I grit.
“I just got the report that someone is using the old Vasquez pipelines to move crack.”
“Impossible,” my back instantly straightens as I sit up. “The Vasquezes are dead.”
He releases a deep breath, shaking his head. I narrow my eyes at him.
“Capo (Boss), look at this.” Placing his phone on the table, he nudges me to look at it. All I can see are pictures of a mutilated body, taken at several angles.
“Cos’è questo (What’s this)?” I growl, staring at the body. Alejandro clears his throat, posture suddenly stiffening.
“That’s Gabriel. He’s one of our men who keeps their ears down for words on the streets. Last night, he called to say he heard some delivery guys say something about the Vasquez pipeline. Due ore dopo, è finito morto (Two hours later, he wound up dead).”
Antonio Vasquez, the legend who ruled half the southern coast before his empire crumbled…
He was known for moving stuff like a ghost. That was his strength in the mafia world.
He made sure that even if you tried, you wouldn’t get information on his pipelines—routes, networks of officers, and his methods—without an insider.
But the entire family died…and his mafia crumbled. Someone with inside info must be orchestrating this undercutting.
My eyes collide with his, and I fist a palm, “You’re telling me after weeks of no success, you finally find a culprit, but he winds up dead?”
He nods stiffly, face blank. Alejandro has been my right hand since I took my seat as the don. If he hadn’t successfully surmounted obstacles in the past years, my fist would have collided with his jaw.
“Try harder. Find me the real fuckers behind this.” My jaw clenches involuntarily. This has dragged on for too long. My hard work is at stake.
“On it, Boss. I’ve put more men on the street. But something has changed.” I don’t miss the slight hesitation in his eyes. “They no longer use older workers to do deliveries. They now use children.”
My breath hitches, and a cold chill surges down my spine. I blink rapidly to wave off the memory that hits me, but it’s too strong. For a long moment, it feels like I can’t breathe until I drive my fist into a nearby wall. Fuck.
Blood pours from my knuckles, but the only red I see is anger.
“What do you mean?” My lips quiver as I hold Alejandro’s hesitant gaze.
“They’re trying to handicap us. They know we won’t hurt children.” He adjusts his stance, hands behind his back.
“Then follow the kids!” I bark.
He nods. “Our men are disguised on the streets, and I had one follow a seven-year-old, but she led him home, and all she said was a masked man gave her $500 to deliver powder on the street.”
She didn’t even know what she was delivering. Fuck. How low do these bastards want to go?
“Qual è la possibilità che i loro genitori siano coinvolti (What’s the possibility their parents are involved)?”
“Stiamo ancora controllando (We’re still checking). For most of the kids, their parents are poor but decent. They wouldn’t dabble in anything illegal, but they won’t stop it either, especially if it puts food on the table.”
I dig a hand into my hair, many thoughts spinning in my head. This is intentional. Whoever’s doing this clearly wants to get at me…in the worst possible way. The question is, why? I know I have a lot of enemies, but none of them are wealthy enough to pull such a stunt.
“At this rate, the situation is worsening. They’re flooding the streets with crack at prices we can’t afford to sell. Our usual buyers are switching. We’re losing profit, losing loyalty.” Alejandro tenses, and I see the expression in his eyes. He wants us to stop supplies.
“You want us to cut supplies.” The words come out as a grunt. Stopping supplies feels like accepting defeat.
“Sì, Capo,” he breathes. “These bastards seem like they’re sitting on a mountain of inventory.”
“Or they’ve got a supplier who doesn’t care about margins.”
The major problem now is locating the old Vasquez pipelines.
“I want the names of every Vasquez affiliate still breathing. Find out who’s resurfaced, who’s talking, and who has the potential to bear a grudge against me. I want those pipelines located, cut, and burned.”
“Sì, Capo. But there’s more.” His eyes flicker away from mine, then his jaw tightens.
I arch a brow.
“It’s about the dancer. Ariel.”
Something sharp coils in my gut. “What about her?”
“I ran her name like you asked. She doesn’t exist.”
I sit forward, already knowing what’s coming.
“Her real name is Selene Vasquez.”
My breath stills. “Vasquez?”
He nods. “The daughter of Antonio Vasquez.”
Antonio Vasquez—the fallen don. And now his daughter is in my city? Under my nose?
My chest tightens with rage.
She lied. She dragged me into her mess.
It was time she answered for it.