Cartel Devil (The Cartel Brotherhood #6)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Joaquin

“That’s when my cousin wound up with dirt up his nose and down his diaper.”

Alejandro’ll kill me.

But it’s nowhere near as bad as my brothers’ tale about him “trimming” his papá’s prize orchids to “help” him give his abuela—his papá’s mamá—an Easter gift. He will definitely have words for Javier and Jorge.

As I scan the guests at Alejandro and Vittoria’s wedding reception, everyone has tears rolling down their cheeks from laughing so hard. The bratva, mob, and Mafia men are laughing the hardest. Fucking pack of hyenas.

Wedding and baptism receptions are an opportunity for the Four Families to show off their wealth to the world’s who’s who.

If these events weren’t, we’d never let our rivals through the door.

But it’s one of many fucked-up traditions in this world.

It’s like getting your first knife when you turn twelve.

You’re no longer peewee and little league teammates but men ready to defend your family to the death.

My gaze settles on a bridesmaid again. The woman stands out with her blonde hair and green eyes compared to the two other Italian women she’s sitting beside.

Vittoria Trevisan—Alejandro’s bride—and Serafina Mancinelli have the more expected dark hair and darker eyes.

But all three are one hundred percent Italian.

Well, Vittoria is. Serafina is half Sicilian and half Italian, and Patrizia is one hundred percent Sicilian. Only they care about the difference.

Then again, if someone confuses me for anything but Colombian, them there fighting words. Why can’t Americans figure out not every narcotrafficker is Mexican? If I metaphorically roll my eyes any harder, they’ll get stuck in the back of my head.

I focus on Patrizia as she stands while I walk to hand her the mic. Our fingers brush as I pass it to her, and I swear her tits rise and her belly sucks in.

Wishful thinking?

They are the finest pair I’ve ever seen. Her bridesmaid’s gown is respectable, but there’s no hiding what the material covers.

“Thank you.”

I’m not unaffected either as I step away and return to my seat.

I’m curious to hear her toast to the newlyweds since I know next to nothing about the woman.

I’ve been traveling for the past five weeks, spending more time in Europe and Asia than usual.

I had little to do with the wedding plans.

I took care of the couple tasks I was given that I could do online, then showed up barely on time for the rehearsal yesterday. I came straight from the airport.

“Serafina and I might be to blame for all the trouble we caused during college, but don’t be fooled—Vittoria was right there alongside us whenever we were together.

It wasn’t nearly often enough, but then again, I don’t think our fathers’ hearts could take it if we were.

Our fathers called us ‘bambina bandite’—you can guess that one, but we preferred ‘trio trionfante’—triumphant trio. ”

Patrizia garners tamer, but no less genuine, laughs than the ones my brothers and I got. The crowd is laughing with Vittoria while they laughed at Alejandro. Good-naturedly, of course.

That eye roll again.

That expression will stick if someone hits you in the back of the head.

At least, that’s what my abuela—the one I share with Alejandro and our other cousin Pablo—told me.

I wonder how well Patrizia knows Vittoria and Serafina since I’ve never heard them speak about her before.

Then again, it’s not like I hang out with Serafina and her certifiable pedazo de mierda—piece of shit—husband, Carmine.

I’ve spent plenty of time with Vittoria since she and Alejandro met, but only he suffers through dinners with Carmine.

Punishment for a previous life for sure. That or purgatory is on Earth.

Tío Matías, Alejandro’s papá, offers a few kind words about the couple before inviting everyone to dance.

With four cousins but no brothers, Alejandro had no shortage of options for best man.

He’s always been close to our oldest cousin, Pablo, so it was natural for him to choose Pablo.

It also meant neither of my brothers nor I were left out.

When Javier married, Jorge and I both stood as his best men.

When Jorge married, Javier and I stood as his best men.

We’re Tres J’s—you don’t get uno without getting tres.

To walk down the aisle, Pablo and Serafina were paired together while Patrizia and I were since I’m the oldest of the three brothers.

I’ve fought not to stare ever since. Javier escorted his wife, Madeline, and Pablo’s wife, Florencia, while Jorge escorted his wife, Anneliese.

If Juan, Pablo’s younger brother, were still alive, the numbers wouldn’t have been off, but that’s a story for another day.

It was lovely that Vittoria already sees the women as her cousins—not in-laws, just cousins.

“Quino.”

Only my family calls me that, and it’s always in private.

No one outside the family hears. I look up as Javier nudges me.

I turn a blank stare at him. My wandering mind has me clueless about what’s happening beyond couples headed to the dance floor.

Mamá and my tías insisted we all take ballroom dancing—which we all hated—but it made us agile.

Little did we know that all that time in spandex and bow ties from five until ten years old was training.

I dance well, but I’d rather have a root canal. I don’t like to mingle with people, and I don’t like crowds. I don’t get anxious like Jorge, and I don’t hate people in general like Javier. I just prefer to be a wallflower.

“?Cómo?” Come again?

“It’s disculpe?, not cómo?.” Excuse me.

“And you’re not Abuela. I should’ve just said huh.”

Mamá’s mamá was a drill sergeant about manners. She definitely preferred formality. It’s the difference between what and pardon.

“Get up and dance with Patrizia. She’s looking around for someone to partner with. The rest of us have wives.”

“Cabrón.” Asshole.

I say it with a smile since Mamá would wash my mouth out with soap if I meant it. I’d have to bend in half for her to reach, but she’d do it.

I push back my chair and inhale as I glance at my other brother who’s standing with Pablo. They’re both grinning at me, laughing at my discomfort. I brace myself for the small talk. I’m horrible at it. I come across as aloof and the cabrón. I just never know what to say.

“Would you like to dance?”

Please say no. Please say no. Please say no.

“I’d love to.”

I offer Patrizia my hand when she accepts my invitation. I lead her onto the dance floor, and she turns toward me. She rests her hand on my shoulder as mine goes to her waist. It’s crowded, so we stand close.

Please don’t get hard. Please don’t get hard. Please don’t get hard.

She smells divine, and it’s like my hands were made to hold her. She’s short-torsoed, so my hand can’t help but rest on her hip and her ribs. I have to peer down to look her in the eye, which means I have a view of those glorious tits.

“You’re very tall.”

I’m six-feet-four. She’s gotta be at least a foot shorter than me. What do I say to that? I can’t say, “you’re very short.”

“I ate my vegetables.”

Fucking hell, lame ass.

She chuckles, so maybe it wasn’t that bad.

“I did too, but it clearly didn’t do me any good. My pediatrician swore I’d be five-eight. Clearly, I am not.”

She laughs again, and my cock twitches. I twirl her away from me, but I’m careful that she doesn’t brush against me as she twirls back.

“Did you take lessons?”

“Far too many. Mamá required it.”

She sweeps her gaze over the other dancers, and I know her focus hops from one syndicate man to another. We all had to take ballroom dancing. She shoots me an understanding smile before she responds.

“Same for my brothers.”

“How many do you have?”

She hesitates, and I wonder why she doesn’t want to tell me. “One now.”

Oh.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.”

I don’t know if I should ask more. I don’t want to poke a wound that’ll never heal. I also don’t want to disregard something so important.

Fuck my life.

This is why I hate socializing and small talk.

“Do you want another drink?”

Thank the saints. She rescues me.

“Sure.”

Was that too emphatic?

It’s a cash bar for anyone who isn’t part of los Diaz or the bridal party.

It’s not like we’re cheap or can’t afford the thousands of dollars people are swilling.

We might invite the other three families, but it’s a reminder we aren’t friends.

Inviting our major rivals is a weird flex to show off where we host our parties—the most exclusive venues—and all the people who clamor for invitations—the richest of the rich.

Yet, we don’t want our rivals to have fun unless it’s literally at their expense.

Patrizia and I order, and I slip a twenty into the bartender’s jar while Patrizia reaches for her pocket. Vittoria said something about being the best bride ever because the women’s gowns have pockets. I glance down at Patrizia and shake my head. Her brow furrows.

“Next one.”

I shake my head again, my gaze hardening. There’s no way I’m allowing a woman to pay for anything. Though I’m not averse to another drink with her. We don’t have to talk as much while we sip, but I still get to be around her.

“Really, Joaquin. I?—”

“You’re a family guest. There’s no need.”

She appears as though she wants to argue, but instead, she accepts my insistence.

“Thank you. Are you not a fan of Sambuca?”

She watched me turn my nose up at the disgusting drink. I’m not Italian. I have taste. If I’m drinking anything anise-flavored, it’s Colombian aguardiente.

“Not so much. Have you had aguardiente—or guaro—before?”

“No.” Her gaze dips to the liquid in my glass.

“Would you like to try it?”