Cold
CARLOS
I keep looking out the window overlooking the garden and driveway, waiting for the car to pull up like a love-struck idiot. Someone knocks on my door.
Grayson walks in, his features sterner than usual. I turn to give him my full attention.
“It’s confirmed,” he says gravely. “The shooters were from the Fuente de la Muerte Cartel.”
Fuckers.
They knew what they were doing when they pulled up in front of the bodega and shot at me.
They knew what would happen if they failed.
This is war.
“I need to meet with all my allies in the city tonight. If we are going to war, then they need to know.”
He nods tightly. “You want them to meet here?”
“Yes.”
His expression becomes even graver.
“That’s a lot of mobsters under your roof. We need to double security. They are going to want to come with their own muscles.” He pauses, his jaw clenching. “And there’s the chef.”
He doesn’t have to elaborate. Do I really want Estelle in a house with twenty crime bosses?
“Ross will stand guard.” She is under my protection. No one will dare touch her. “I will be there.”
Grayson’s expression and demeanor slacken. He knows my allies won’t bring bloodshed inside my home.
“Remind them that no guns will be allowed inside the residence. Non-negotiable.”
He nods and turns to walk out. “Got it.”
“Grayson.” He turns back to look at me. “How’s the shoulder?”
“Stiff, but better,” he says.
I can’t afford not to have him at his best, not just for my sake, but also his. “I want you to put two of your best men on your own detail, to watch your back.”
I see the ego making his shoulders stiffen. “Boss, that’s not—”
“No arguments,” I say, holding his gaze.
He expels a long breath and nods. He knows this is for his own good.
I can count on one hand the number of people who are truly loyal and—dare I say—friends. And Grayson is the middle finger, mostly because he’s in charge of fucking up my enemies.
Francesca used to be one of those fingers. Something tightens in my gut.
“Okay, boss,” he says, and walks out.
I hear the car pull up in the driveway and force my feet to stay in one spot.
Give her space.
Don’t be an obsessive ass.
At least not yet.
I watch her get out of the car, her eyes downcast and shoulders slack. Something’s up. I open the door to the study just as she’s walking by.
Estelle looks up, eyes wide, and her whole body tenses.
Something’s very wrong.
“Join me in my office, Estelle,” I say, trying to sound gentle and not at all like I’m on edge.
I don’t like the way she’s looking at me.
Like she wasn’t coming on my dick just last night and screaming loud enough to cause a security concern.
Like we weren’t laughing in each other’s arms.
Like we’re not lovers.
Like she’s not mine.
Once she’s sitting in the armchair, I sit opposite her, ignoring the sting of pain from the bruising in my abdomen, and wait.
Estelle crosses her arms over her chest, keeping me out or shutting herself in. I let her think whatever she wants for now, but the truth is, there’s nothing she can do to reverse the simple fact that she is already mine.
We sit there for minutes in silence. She mostly looks down, avoiding my gaze.
I’m not going to be the one to break the silence first.
She has to trust me enough to speak up about what’s bothering her. If it’s regret about last night—
“Two detectives showed up at my place this morning,” she says finally, her voice heavy.
I feel the hairs stand up at the nape of my neck. Her hand goes to her trouser pocket, and she pulls out a small card that she hands to me.
I read the name printed on the card: Detective Derek Sullivan. LAPD Homicide Department.
He's not one of ours.
“What did they want?” I ask.
Estelle finally meets my eyes, and I see the raging storm in them. I want to take her in my arms, but I wait.
“Did you kill Karl?”
The question is not what I expected. “He’s dead?”
She nods, biting the inside of her cheek. “They said his body was found in a dumpster two days ago.”
My shoulders slack. Obviously, Big Jimmy didn’t want to be responsible for Karl. I can’t blame him.
“I didn’t kill him,” I say. “Is that why you’re like this?”
She looks down at her hands. “We can’t be together, Carlos, or whatever it is we’re doing.”
I lean forward. “Look at me, little dove.”
She does, reluctantly.
“You knew my hands aren’t clean,” I remind her, looking intently into her eyes. “So what’s really bothering you?”
Estelle’s breath hisses past her clenched teeth. “Us, Carlos. I can’t deal with everything else in your world. I can only control my own role, which is as your chef. And I don’t know what we’re doing here. Where could this possibly go?”
She doesn’t see it yet.
Fuck, I barely realized what I want her to be last night.
I nod once and lean back against the leather armchair. “Okay.”
She becomes as still as a statue. A beautiful porcelain statue meant only for me to touch. Yet not fragile—only she doesn’t know that about herself yet.
“Okay?”
“Okay,” I repeat.
Her eyebrows furrow. “Alright, then.” She clears her throat. “Glad we could clear things up. I should go.”
I nod, my eyes running covertly over her lithe body in those pants she loves so much.
“Estelle,” I say as she stands up. “I have about twenty guests coming tonight. Three-course meal. You are not to leave the kitchen without Ross. Understood?”
I see the gears shifting in her mind, immediately switching to work mode. “Of course. Understood. Anything else?”
I stand up, too, and lock eyes with her. “Yes, one more thing,” I say, low. “You are still mine.”
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