Devil’s Bride (Devil’s Syndicate #1)

Chapter 1

G enevieve

I blamed Krispy Kreme donuts for every decision I’d made in the last three years.

Both good and bad.

If the company hadn’t put up a store, albeit a tiny one near my apartment that was blocks away from Columbia University, then I likely wouldn’t be sitting here in this plush chair.

If my bodyguard, a brute of a man who scared almost everyone because of the jagged scar that ran all the way from his jaw to just under his left eye, hadn’t indulged me all hours of the night by purchasing crullers and tall black coffees, then maybe I would have snagged that sweet condo on the upper East side.

And lost it based on decisions made after a sugar rush.

If my best girlfriend hadn’t unknowingly entered me into a contest whereby the winner received a dozen glazed donuts every week for a year, then I wouldn’t have aced my finals.

Or passed the bar in one attempt.

At this moment, I wasn’t certain whether to love or hate the sweet treats.

Because of a sugary high mixed with red wine, a dangerous combination, I’d accepted my father’s third attempt at luring me back home.

Not just for a visit.

Oh, no.

For a position within his company.

He’d even baited a lure with promises of a huge salary, tremendous benefits, an apartment in the city, and perks to die for.

The last one might be literal given my father’s profession.

Although his pledge hadn’t included my beloved donuts.

I’d likely be the first in line when a brand-new store in Madrid opened later in the year.

The gangly girl with sheer determination and crazy defiance who’d left Barcelona for the bright lights of the big city of New York wasn’t the somewhat sophisticated woman who’d returned.

Maybe sophisticated was pushing it. I’d flown home in torn jeans, flip-flops, and sporting a New York Knicks sweatshirt.

My father had been horrified.

After a whirlwind decision, here I sat in front of floor-to-ceiling glass peering at the strangest artwork I’d ever seen in my life, wishing I was back in my apartment watching Miami Vice reruns with a bowl full of buttery popcorn. Those were the good ole days.

There was a beautiful teak desk with a matching credenza. Two leather chairs in front with a stunning display of artwork off to the side in the hues I preferred. Reds and purples with black as the background. Bold. Daring.

Dangerous.

There were sweeping views of Barcelona from windows aligning two walls, a fully stocked bar and refrigerator offering several libations if I deemed my guests’ visits worthy.

I had a car and a strangely attractive but scary new driver, my former bodyguard returned to his old status as the family commander.

I knew what that meant and Emiliano should finally be happy he was able to slice and dice just like he used to.

I could envision the trail of blood he’d leave throughout the city.

Groaning, I leaned back in my seat, folding my arms behind my head, keeping the practiced smile on my face. I wanted to be happy. I really did.

It was too bad my stomach hadn’t accepted the invitation to the party. Even my intestines were doing somersaults with Metallica music in the background.

My father had outdone himself in bribing me to return home. After some arm twisting, I’d agreed to take over as the family corporation’s attorney after the previous one had been fired for insubordination.

The truth was much uglier, the stupid man found embezzling funds from the family coffers. If I knew my father, that meant the man had been left to rot on the front lawn of his mistress’ classic estate, bleeding all over her velvety yellow begonias.

My father was a powerful man and not one who should ever be crossed. Unless you had a death wish.

So far, my day had been shit. The alarm had decided to welcome me by not sounding off. That had left me with five minutes to take a shower and even less time to dress. I should have gone back to bed when I’d dumped a full cup of coffee on my white blouse.

At least the burn marks had been kept to a minimum.

I’d also made the mistake of leaving my clothes in my suitcases and the suit I’d planned on wearing looked as if I’d been involved in cage fighting. I had no idea how I’d managed to rip the jacket when jerking it from the container, but my eyes had still been lost in a fog.

However, somehow I’d raced out the door with my heels in my hand, looking somewhat like a corporate mogul. If there was one thing my father had never tolerated, it was being late. I’d seen his temper when that happened.

While I’d been the starry-eyed girl who’d dreamt of being an attorney as long as I could remember and had been determined to shove the bad guys in the slammer, the job I’d accepted was entirely different.

Now I’d be juggling what few contracts my father had in place since his clients were less than scrutable and keeping the thugs he’d employed out of the very slammer I’d once dreamed of filling.

Oh, the irony was lost in an Alanis Morrissette song.

At least I’d gotten here on time thanks to the bodyguard’s lead foot. I guess I was still able to look at the bright side of things.

After that, the day had been a crapshoot. The paperwork was in shambles, not a single signed contract to be found.

There was no alphabetization.

There was no copy paper.

The printer was out of ink if it even worked.

There was no music to drown out the laughter from outside my door.

But at least there was a fully stocked bar and at this point, the bottle of whiskey I’d been eyeing for a couple of hours was looking better and better.

I’d done my best to go through the few files on the computer, becoming grouchier the more time I’d spent. There were employees sitting right outside the door, none of whom appeared busy. I’d gotten up more than once to check I hadn’t been hallucinating. I had no idea what they were working on.

All I’d witnessed was them walking back and forth to the breakroom where there were jugs of juice, vats of coffee, and very sad examples of Spanish donuts.

Yet they were all happy, busy bees. Their behavior made me wonder if they didn’t keep flasks of booze in their desks.

Did they even work for their paycheck or was their appearance simply designed to keep the police off their tails?

What had happened to good old-fashioned bribery?

Great. I’d been sitting in the office for less than eight hours and I was already thinking like a gangster. Why, oh, why had I agreed to this?

The light knocks on the door wiped the smile from my face. Without waiting for me to answer, the door was swung open, my new assistant walking in with a group of papers in his hand.

“Ms. Morales. I have a few contracts for you to sign.”

Contracts? Really? Maybe the day was looking up. Why was it my father had a penchant for hiring men with huge necks?

His English was flawless, a requirement of my father’s. I’d only been in the United States for five years. It wasn’t as if I’d forgotten my native language. However, I’d determined I’d do anything to appease my father upon my return.

“You do realize I’m not actually on the clock yet.” I’d been set to start the next day, but again, Papa had convinced me to pop into the office.

On time.

He looked at his watch, thoroughly confused as to use of the American slang and my attempt to make a bad joke. He’d even scowled when I’d walked in. “I…”

“It’s nothing. Just drop them on my desk.”

“Your father called. He asked me to remind you of your party.” Rodolpho stepped forward, his training evident when he scanned the perimeter of my new office.

Did he honestly think assassins would risk being seen, their lives likely cut short by scaling a twenty-five-story building?

Even if they did, the bulletproof glass would shatter their dreams of glory.

I groaned. The fabulous party my father had orchestrated, not requesting but commanding me to be there.

He’d invited everyone who was anyone important in town, determined to announce my hiring in fashion.

At least he’d accepted my suggestion of having the illustrious event at a restaurant instead of filling the house with hundreds of people sizing up the art and betting on how much money my father made.

“Yes, I know. I’ll get changed.”

I’d barely talked to the hitman covering as a qualified assistant. I’d only given his resume a brief onceover. His hire hadn’t been my decision to make. God, it would take me weeks to remember the Spanish slang. My father would say I’d become far too Americanized.

A hitman, the Spanish Cartel’s moniker for soldiers within my father’s army. They were tough, highly skilled, and willing to die for the cause.

He placed the folders on my desk, daring to look me directly in the eyes. If I were a man, that would be considered a sign of disrespect, even punishable by death in certain cases.

I decided to let it slide.

There was no sense in getting blood all over me before my big coming-out party. That wouldn’t add to the supposedly festive mood.

When he remained right where he was, I rose to my full height. Fortunately, I was tall enough that in my chunky-heeled boots, I was able to look him square in the eyes.

“ Puedes irte ahora .”

You can go now.

I’d purposely decided to use Spanish so he’d realize from day one he couldn’t talk behind my back. While I also knew Catalan, the second language used by Barcelonans, I’d rarely spoken it over the last five years. Besides, almost everyone in Barcelona considered themselves bilingual.

His eyes opened appropriately wide. He nodded and headed out of the office. The slight slam of the door was a clear indication he wasn’t thrilled at being forced to wait hand and foot on the firstborn child and princess of the Morales Cartel.

To hell with him. As a teenager, I’d been forced to deal with the snide remarks and lewd comments. No longer.

I was an accomplished woman who’d returned on one condition.

I’d handle my father’s business affairs my way.

Period.

How I missed my beloved donuts.