Chapter Thirteen
“I spotted Zayas in the crowd, but he got away,” Enrique told the detective in Santiago’s office. Gravel thickened his tongue as though he’d swallowed a bucket of rocks. The acrid tang of blood and gunpowder still clung to the air.
Across the room, Detective Patricio Ibarra leaned against the dark-gray wall with a grunt and scribbled in his notepad. His calloused, sausage fingers strangled his pencil.
With his long memory and his conveniently short list of priorities when it came to who got arrested and who didn’t, he’d helped the Lozano Cartel out of more than a few jams.
Ibarra sighed so heavily his double chin wagged. “First, you show up here with Senorita Villegas, then Zayas walks in with a fucking machine gun. That’s no coincidence. You moving in on his woman gave him motive.”
Enrique’s nostrils flared as he stared down the older man. “She was never his. He made a deal with her father. Lourdes didn’t agree to it.”
“Maybe not.” Ibarra shrugged, unrepentant. “But this isn’t a courtroom. It’s the street. To a man like Zayas, she was his bride.”
Jaw tight, Enrique faced the window and bent down a few rungs of the plastic blinds.
The man was right. Not that he cared. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling wall of bulletproof glass, a parade of uniformed officers scoured the wreckage with evidence bags and flashing cameras—the last thing he had ever wanted to see at La Paradoja.
A headache pulsed in his temples, reminiscent of the club music from an hour earlier.
Only the sounds of the officers’ muffled voices and beeping equipment now penetrated his ears, the soundproofed office a godsend.
“I’m handling this in-house,” Rubén announced, drawing Enrique’s attention.
He released the blinds, letting the rungs snap back into place.
Behind Santiago’s sleek black desk, Rubén scowled at the computer and clutched the mouse so hard that his knuckles blanched against his bronzed skin. He likely replayed the silent surveillance footage for the umpteenth time.
Enrique had already watched it from the flashing lights and gyrating bodies to Zayas unleashing his fury on the unsuspecting crowd. The black-and-white images cycled through his mind on an endless reel.
“In-house? That might prove tricky,” Ibarra replied and slid his notepad into the breast pocket of his jacket.
“Eight dead. Fifteen wounded. Over fifty eyewitnesses. Even more who fled the scene before we arrived. Someone filmed the shooting and already posted it online. My guys are busting their asses doing damage control with the press. Doesn’t matter who fired the shots.
This place is closed until I say otherwise. ”
“I don’t give a shit,” Rubén snapped. “My pregnant wife was here. One of my capos turned traitor. Zayas is done. I’ll bury him myself.”
Santiago paced in front of the black leather sofa along the far wall. “This is my operation, Rubén.” He stopped and spun around to face the jefe. “Even though this place is legally yours, it’s my crew. My reputation. My club. And now it’s a crime scene with national attention.”
“Which is why I’m stepping in.” Rubén cracked his knuckles, still staring at the screen. “This isn’t just bad press. It’s a fucking crack in the dam. We cannot afford for public opinion to waver again.”
Snorting, Enrique adjusted his shirtsleeves and grazed his silver cufflinks.
The war with the now-defunct Tronco de la Muerte Cartel had left several brothels, forced labor camps, and drug distribution factories across two states burned to the ground, and the federales nipping at the heels of both cartels.
Only bribes, blackmail, and the opening of a women’s rehabilitation clinic had tempered the waves.
Ibarra lifted his chin. “You had better find Zayas before we do. If he’s arrested and tried, that courtroom is going to unravel threads. And those threads? They lead straight back to you three.” He jabbed his thumb toward Enrique. “And your princess fiancée.”
Enrique stepped forward, but Rubén’s raised hand stopped him cold.
The detective smirked at Enrique. “I’m not threatening you. Just stating facts.”
“You’re on our payroll.” Rubén’s icy, quiet voice jolted the detective upright. “If I’m not mistaken, your grandson still needs weekly dialysis, doesn’t he?”
Ibarra coughed, then wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. “I never said I wouldn’t help, but this scene is radioactive, Rubén. You’re not sweeping it in a night.”
“When can I clean up?” Santiago flicked his metal lighter, igniting the flame before snapping the lid shut. Then he reopened it to flick the tab again. “This place looks like a war zone.”
“A few days. Tops. Until then, nobody moves a table, paints a wall, or wipes blood off the floor unless they’re wearing a badge.”
Santiago grimaced. “I’ll need a full reconstruction crew on standby.”
“Have them ready, but keep them offsite. I’ll need all three of you to come by the station tomorrow. Formal statements.” Ibarra scratched his thick neck. “The day after, I mean. Congratulations on the wedding, Enrique. If Zayas is smart, he’s long gone.”
Enrique shook his head. “No. He’s unhinged. His actions tonight were emotional. Not strategic. Rage like that doesn’t go away. He’ll strike again, and he’ll keep escalating.”
Rubén stood and extended his hand. “Thank you for coming, Patricio.”
The detective shook it. “You know where to find me.” He hurried out and barked at the forensic team. “Wrap it up!”
Crime scene techs darted back and forth to pack equipment and tag the last bits of evidence. Uniformed officers trailed out behind them.
Once they left, Enrique shut the door with a sharp, defiant click.
Rubén exhaled through his nose, then turned to Enrique. “We find Zayas before anyone else does. No arrests. No interrogations. We take him off the board.”
“Sounds good to me,” Enrique stated. “Regardless, the police are going to talk to his ex-wives, his associates, and anyone directly or indirectly involved with him. They might as well be banging down our own doors.” He ran his fingers through his stiff, gelled hair.
The anger burning in his gut flamed hotter.
“If he’s caught, he will talk. He’ll burn every one of us and cripple our operations. ”
Santiago plopped down in the chair in front of his desk. “What about his second-in-command—Lieutenant Gimenez? Can we trust him, Ricky?”
“I think so. When I called him earlier, he claimed he hadn’t seen or heard from Zayas since yesterday.
Gimenez and I served together a while back.
He has a strong sense of loyalty, but he doesn’t give second chances to fuck-ups.
His men are on red alert in the Nogales plaza.
If Zayas returns there, Gimenez will reach out. ”
“What a fucking mess?” Rubén rubbed his hand down his drawn face. “Santi, whatever you need to get this place back on its feet, do it.” He flashed Enrique a tight smile. “Some bachelor party. Let’s go home. We’ve got a wedding tomorrow.”
The sooner that was over with, the better.
As much as he wanted to take Lourdes as his wife, he needed to wipe Zayas off the face of the planet.
His memory of her ducking behind that table, terrified, with a stranger’s blood splattered across her skin, burned a hole in his skull.
He was supposed to protect her. Shield her. Not put her in the line of danger.
Zayas was already dead. He just didn’t know it yet.
****
An hour later, Enrique guided his half-asleep woman through his penthouse suite.
With a flick of the dial, the recessed lighting in his spacious bedroom cast a soft white glow across his dark-wood furnishings and deepened the corner shadows.
No, not his bedroom. Theirs. How many times had he imagined this?
Lourdes sleeping in his bed, sharing the same air as him?
He coughed to clear his throat. “I’ll give you the tour later. Right now, get to bed.”
“Bossy, bossy.” Lourdes yawned behind her hand and crawled onto the mattress. A moan escaped her lips as she curled up on the blanket and hugged a pillow. “Hmm, smells like you. Citrusy, fresh, decadent. Intoxicating.”
He grinned and removed her sexy shoes. “You’re the intoxicated one.”
“On one drink? Please.” She swatted at the air and rolled to face him. Her sleepy eyes blinked open. “I always talk crazy when exhausted. We’ve been awake for almost twenty hours. Just yesterday, we were in your cabin, a world away. I wish we were still there.”
“Me, too.” He placed his holstered knife and gun on the dresser, then leaned against the wall to untie his shoes. As he shucked off his clothes, the heat of Lourdes’s gaze swept down his chest and legs. Gooseflesh followed the trail of her perusal.
“You’re too handsome for your own good.”
Her murmured words puffed his chest. Clad only in his boxers, he rested his hands on his waist and winked at her. “All this hotness is for you, princess.”
She laughed, then choked on a sob. “It’s our fault. Everyone at the club—their lives will never be the same. Those who died, if not for us, they—”
“Stop right there, Lourdes. Zayas acted of his own free will. We are not responsible.”
“I’m so angry.” She sat up and rubbed her flushed cheeks. “I want him dead. All the pain he caused tonight, Diego deserves to feel it himself. He deserves to suffer.”
“Oh, he will. After I get my hands on him, he will beg for mercy.”
Lourdes hugged a pillow to her chest and hunched her shoulders. “Tell me about your alias. Why do your enforcers call you El Tajador?”
He braced his hip against the edge of his footboard. “I’m good with knives. That’s all you need to know.”
“Enrique, no. Do not shut me out over something as simple as a name.”
“There’s nothing simple about it.” He pinched the bridge of his nose.
Maybe she was right on this one. Even though he had to keep certain secrets to ensure their mutual safety, what was the harm in telling her about his alias?
She already knew he was a criminal. A killer.
Swallowing hard, he forced his words through his tight throat.
“I’m comfortable with blades. Knives. I know how to inflict pain and injury without pushing my victim too close to Death’s door until I want him there. Use your imagination, Lourdes.”
“I have. I want to know if the truth is worse than my imaginings.”
“The truth. Always.” He knelt on the mattress and clasped her hand. “You know I would never hurt you, right?”
She nodded and stroked her fingers down his whiskered cheek. “Open up to me. Share your past. Tell me about your life. Whatever you have to say, I can handle it.”
He stilled, not even daring to breathe. Her gentle plea wrapped around him in innocence. Naiveté. She didn’t know what she was asking. It was impossible. He couldn’t—no, wouldn’t—do as she wanted. Why couldn’t she understand that?
Sighing, she dropped her gaze. Then she blinked up at him. “Make love to me. We could’ve died tonight. I could’ve lost you when we had only just found each other.”
He clasped her face with his palms and kissed her hard, as though he would die that very second if he didn’t have her taste on his lips.
Chocolate. Dios mío. She tasted of chocolate.
He moaned, desperate to eat her up. She clutched his arms and kissed him with the passion of a woman in need—a woman taking her due.
Just as she should. Nearly breathless, he stripped off her dress and underwear with shaky jerks and exposed her luscious curves to his hungry gaze.
“Do you know what you do to me?” He brushed his lips down the slope of her neck. A light sheen of salt already slicked her skin.
Her breathing sharpened. “Maybe.”
She lay back against the mound of pillows like a temptress, so beautiful and ripe for the taking. He palmed her breasts and hips before he slid his fingers to the dampness between her thighs. She gasped the sweetest sound and rotated her hips. Her musky arousal ripped a groan from his mouth.
Enrique tore off his boxers and climbed between her legs.
His throbbing cock stood at attention. He drank in the sight of her, the way her pussy glistened with anticipation, how her belly quivered, and the mesmerizing rise and fall of her chest as she panted for air.
She was his. Tomorrow, he would make it official.
His bride. His wife. His woman. All his.
Mine.
He slid into paradise. Her tightness enveloped him in searing heat.
“Ahh!” Lourdes arched her back and took him all in. Her eyes widened.
“Fuck, you feel good.” Enrique groaned the words against her mouth and shifted his hips to the rhythm of his thrashing heart.
The sound of her cries filled his ears and shot his ego through the roof.
He moved faster, stroking her deeper. Declaring his desire, his ownership, his unending need for her with every powerful thrust.
“Más,” Lourdes panted for more and gripped him harder.
Her nails bit his skin in pleasurable pain, marking him as hers. And damn it, he was hers. All hers. He reached between their bodies and rubbed her clit in slow, calculated circles.
“Dios mío.” Her eyes fluttered shut. “Please, don’t stop. Never stop.”
“Look at me.” He clasped her face as her eyelids snapped open. “Shatter.” As if she needed his permission, her sweet pussy convulsed around him in waves of bliss.
She cried out. Her body trembled with the force of her orgasm.
He thrust twice more and joined her in ecstasy. His seed spread like wildfire in the depths of her core. Her inner muscles contracted and claimed every drop.
Let it be tonight, he prayed. Let us make a baby.
Enrique pulled free and rolled to the side, taking her with him, so she was nestled against his chest. Cool air caressed his burning cock.
He rubbed himself and soothed the prickling sensations.
She wrapped her leg around his and drew closer as if she longed to crawl inside him.
She already had—in his heart, as black as it was. She owned him, body and soul.
“You’re mine.” Possessiveness swept through him.
He brushed the sweat-damp hair from her forehead and pulled the twisted sheet up their entwined bodies.
Once she drifted off to sleep, he blew out a deep breath.
The ceiling pressed down on him as the weight of his problems crept back in.
With Zayas out there somewhere, plotting only the saints knew what, he had to stay one step ahead. Whatever it took.
Or he would lose everything he held dear.