by Cora Kenborn
“Why not? It’s your name.” He resumed circling me like a lion. “Muñoz blood doesn’t run through your veins. You’re the enemy.”
“Stop!” It was the only word I could voice.
Truth was like a splinter piercing the surface of your skin. The initial bite was painful but bearable. However, if left long enough—if accepted without a fight—it dug its way so deeply into your flesh, it became a part of you. Never-ending pain masked as masochistic pleasure.
Self-destruction was a family trait. Raised to hate and taught to avenge, obsession seeped its way into my blood from a young age, addicting me to power like the very drug our kingdom was built on.
Having it. Keeping it. Taking it.
Every spare moment I had, I ate, slept, and breathed one name. Believed one name lived to destroy us.
Carrera.
After all, that was the law of the jungle. Take or be taken. Eat or be eaten. Kill or be killed. But then three brutal words ripped away my identity and a lifetime of respect, turning survival into a goal instead of a game.
You’re the enemy.
My entire existence had been a lie. I wasn’t a queen. I was a pawn. I’d been robbed of the only life I’d ever known and denied the life I should’ve never lost.
Marisol Muñoz was dead, and it was all because of one man.
Forcing myself to focus, I met his smug gaze with one of brazen steel. Stripped of weapons, strength, dignity, and identity, psychological manipulation was all I had left. Hopefully, it’d be enough, because I’d be damned if I’d die in a decrepit warehouse in the middle of nowhere.
“Then why bother keeping me alive?” Even in the darkness, I saw the empty gaze in his eyes, and an unwelcome shiver ran down my spine.
“To determine if my instincts are correct.”
A sound rumbled low in my throat—one I intended to be apathetic but ended up as apprehensive. “I’ll save you the trouble. Your instincts are shit.”
It wasn’t smart to antagonize the man holding your life in his hands, but showing fear was even more dangerous. I might as well have held a gun to my own head.
With a low chuckle, he leaned forward and ran the rough pad of his thumb across my bottom lip. Disgusted, I pulled away, but undeniable rage simmered beneath his thin layer of amusement, and he clamped down on the tender flesh until I cried out in pain. “Your insolence is exactly why I know my instincts are not, in fact, shit. You’re a survivor. Most of my men would’ve long been dead by now.”
Satisfied with my physical response to his show of dominance, he released his grip and shoved me backward. He wasn’t wrong, and the backhanded compliment should’ve silenced me.
It didn’t.
“Maybe you need better men.”
“Maybe you need to hold your fucking tongue before I cut it off.” He paused, waiting for another challenge. When I just glared at him, he sealed his victory with an emphatic smirk. “As I was saying, putting a bullet in your brain would be such a waste. Especially when your talents could be put to better use.”
I froze, each word cramming itself down my throat until I thought I’d choke. “I’d rather die.”
His distant gaze lasted only moments before understanding twisted his lips in disgust. “Don’t insult me. I’d rather chop off my own dick than fuck a Carrera. I’m referring to your powers of persuasion.”
“Against who? According to you, I’m public enemy number one.”
My taunt didn’t faze him. Cocking his chin, he scratched his beard with the tip of his knife. “There’s no truer revenge than an eye for an eye. . .is there, Adriana?”
“I told you not to call me that!” Consumed with blind rage, I lunged with my last burst of strength. A pathetic show he easily deflected with the back of his hand. I hit the ground with a thud, blood trickling from the corner of my mouth.
The man stood, and although instinct warned me to shut my eyes, I refused to give him the satisfaction. If he wanted to kill me, he had to look me in the face.
Instead of ramming the knife into my flesh, he tapped his heavy boot on the concrete next to my forehead. “I’m losing patience, so I’ll say this once. Give me what I want, and I’ll give you what you want.”
“Freedom?”
“Revenge. Your poisoned bloodline already murdered one brother. You can die at my feet or use it to destroy the other.” Lowering onto his haunches again, he grabbed my chin and twisted it until we were eye to eye. “Help me bring down Valentin Carrera, and I’ll hand you Brody Harcourt. With what I have on that gringo, even you couldn’t fuck this up.”
I scowled. “If you think you can touch Houston’s political pinup boy, you’re delusional.”
“You did it once before.”
Memories washed over me in an unwelcome wave, but I forced a bored expression. “Tapping the same vein twice isn’t my style.”
“He ruined your life. It’s only fair that you return the favor.”
“Or I could bring you down.”
“Vengeance or death,” he demanded, ignoring my threat. Then I saw it. My bag. The one I never went anywhere without. He held it up like a prize, swinging it from the tip of his finger. “Let me rephrase. Vengeance, death, or more death. Lady’s choice.”
I had to get my hands on that bag, but negotiation was out of the question. “I’m not your fucking puppet.”
“No? Then what are you?”
My swollen lip split as I smirked. “A phoenix."
He stepped back, putting more than a few inches between us. Not that I blamed him. It was a bizarre answer to give with my last few breaths resting in the palm of his hand.
The phoenix didn’t wait for death to come. It took control of its own destiny and built its own funeral pyre. Igniting it with a single clap of its wings, it self-destructed in a blaze of glory only to rise from the ashes.
When one life extinguished, another one began.
The man’s face twisted, deep horizontal lines slicing through the weathered skin on his forehead. “You’re a crazy bitch.” As soon as the words fell from his lips, his mask dropped back into place, and his tolerance faded. “You’re either with me or against me. If you turn your back, I promise there are measures in place to ensure your destruction. So, do we have a deal?”
I faced him, keeping my scattered thoughts hidden. Like a prison inmate carving a deadly weapon, it was better to sharpen the mind when the guards weren’t watching. Coherence held power, and power wasn’t given or earned. It was stolen.
And I’d steal everything.
An eye for an eye.
I’d make a deal with the devil just to send another one to hell. The time had come to even the score, and I drew strength from the chaos.
Now, I was chaos.
I was confidence and craving and covetous power. They may have erased my past, but they had given me far more than they took away. A new day had come, and with it a rebirth. They burned Marisol Muñoz at the stake, but Adriana Carrera rose from the ashes. It was time to reclaim my birthright and take what was mine.
“No.” I rasped, forcing a smirk. “A queen bows to no one.”
They were my final words before succumbing to darkness.
Chapter One
Brody
Chicago, Illinois
Present Day
Not everyone had a price tag. If they did, my life would be a lot easier. I sure as hell wouldn’t be sitting inside a strip club, sweating through three layers of Armani and questioning my sanity.
Not that the place was a dive. The Blue Moon was one of the most elite clubs in Chicago, but at two o’clock in the afternoon, even the most elite bar looked like a shithole. Which is precisely why it was the perfect place to meet. It matched my mood—dark, dubious, and desperate. Just like my reason for being here. Even being eleven hundred miles away from prying eyes meant nothing in my world.
Someone was always watching.
But I got cocky, and arrogance blinded even the most cautious of men. Up until n
ow, I’d managed to keep my dealings with the Irish mob quiet. The fewer questions on fewer lips, the less likely it was I’d get trapped in my own web. Not that I would’ve bothered explaining myself to anyone.
Despite being the head of stateside operations for the most powerful cartel in the world, I was still an outsider amongst my own men. I couldn’t blame them. They were born into this life. They lived and breathed it, working their way up the ranks in hopes of one day reaching a position of power. To them, I was a gringo. A traitor to both sides of the law who made a deal with the devil and shit all over their sacrifices in order to secure himself a seat at the top.
They weren’t wrong.
The line I walked with that devil these days was thin at best. Valentin Carrera didn’t have friends; he had strategic alliances. When the kingpin gave an order, he expected it to be followed and dared anyone to defy him. Especially a man who had put half his men behind bars.
But here I sat with a noose tied around my neck, waiting to hang on my own ego. Since I wasn’t looking to die today, I made sure to scan the perimeter again, rolling my phone around in my hands as I memorized faces.
“You know this place has state-of-the art cameras, right?” Slouching back into my chair, I looked up to see an explosion of blonde hair falling in a halo around two strips of sequins I assumed was supposed to be a dress. Suspicion came second nature to me, so when I narrowed my eyes, she placed her palm on the table and leaned in close. “With audio so clear, you can hear the stroke of a dick under a table.”
“That’s…” Shaking my head, I raised my beer mug to my lips. “That’s too much information.”
She slid into the chair across from me with a sultry wink. “Looking for a little pleasure before business, handsome?”
“No. I never mix the two.”
Especially in Chicago.
“A shame,” she mused, drumming her blood red nails on the table. “You look like you could stand to loosen up.”
I wondered how hard I’d have to kick her chair to send her sailing to the other side of the club. It wasn’t very gentlemanly, but social etiquette and conformity weren’t high on my priority list.
Plus, being kept waiting had worn my patience paper thin.
“Lady, it’s been a long day, and with all due respect, I don’t have time for this shit. Is your boss even here, or does he plan on dicking me around all night?”
As the dollar signs faded from her eyes, her façade dropped. Her flirty smile curled into a snarl, but before she could hurl out the insults waiting on her tongue, she glanced over my head, her eyes widening.
On instinct, I twisted around. “It’s about fucking time.”
However, instead of the smoky Irish brogue accent I expected to hear, a gravelly Spanish one surrounded me like rusty nails on a bullet-ridden chalkboard. “That impatient to see me, Harcourt?”
Carlos Cabello stood behind me, his gray goatee framing a smirk I wanted to punch off his face. Turning back, I shot an accusatory glare at the traitorous woman just in time to see her sequined ass disappear into the shadows.
Even rolling my eyes took too much effort.
“Fuck you.” Tossing my phone across the table, I let out another slew of curses. “I’m supposed to be meeting with Ronan.”
I thought I was meeting with Ronan Kelly, head of the Northside Sinners, the Irish mob in charge of every piss Chicago took. I didn’t like surprises, and I sure as hell didn’t like them being hand delivered by a middleman who had no direct contact with the Sinners.
“Well, now you’re meeting with me.”
“Oh, well, that explains everything.” I tracked his every move as he slid into the chair opposite of me. “By all means,” I said, motioning across the table. “Have a seat.”
I expected a smartass retort, or at least a thinly veiled threat. Instead, Carlos offered an obligatory nod then lifted a finger and motioned to a passing cocktail waitress. I suppose the meaning was unspoken because her response was a simple nod.
Carlos let out a loud laugh. “That’s what I always liked about you, Harcourt. You don’t waste time with pointless small talk.”
We were wasting time. This ridiculous civility dance only postponed the inevitable. “Cut the shit. What the—”
I paused as the waitress appeared by our table, placing a shot glass filled with clear liquid in front of him. As soon as the woman came, she was gone, her presence so fleeting, if she hadn’t left the drink as evidence, I’d question if she was ever really there.
“Vodka?” I asked, nodding toward the shot glass.
Carlos snorted. “Americans.” Picking up the shot, he tipped it back and slammed it. “It’s aguardiente. In English it translates to firewater.” He glanced at my half-empty beer and smirked. “Want one, gringo?”
“I’ll pass.” Time was money, and this small-talk bullshit had gone on long enough. “It seems I’ve wasted my time. However, I’m also not driving another eleven hundred miles, so unfortunately, you’ll have to do.”
“Lucky me.”
“My Chicago shipment never arrived.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.” His dismissive tone grated on my nerves as he held his empty glass in the air and raised an eyebrow at the flustered waitress. Again, the woman bowed her head in swift acknowledgment. “By the way, you owe me my eight-hundred and fifty thousand dollars.” When my jaw dropped, his lips twitched at the corners. “Five percent supplier fee. Did you think I was going to forget?”
I slammed my palm onto the table. “You greedy fuck. Did you have something to do with this?”
He rolled his eyes. “Think with your brain instead of your dick for once. That’s my product coming into your port. Why would I fuck with my own blow?”
Damn. He had a point.
“Besides, if you hadn’t spent the last week working your way through a bottle of scotch and paid more attention to your business, maybe you wouldn’t be so fucked right now.”
Because of the seventeen-million-dollar shipment that never arrived in Chicago’s port. A deal I signed with my own blood.
I was in such deep shit it would take a forklift to haul my ass out of it.
“You’ve got Ronan Kelly and Valentin Carrera on your ass, so the way I see it, you only have two options.” Holding up two thick, calloused fingers, he ticked them off. “One, pull my eight hundred and fifty K out of your ass, or two, come up with an alternative.”
“What kind of alternative?”
“Find the man who stole it.”
I laughed. I had no idea what the hell was in aguardiente, but after the crazy shit he just said, I suspected LSD. “And how do you suggest I do that?”
His eyes flashed dark with irritation. “It’s pretty crystal fucking clear. Pay me my money or find the pendejo who intercepted your shipment, take back what he stole, and end him.”
“What’s in it for you?”
He shrugged. “This is a lucrative arrangement for me, so I prefer Ronan not kill you. Plus, I don’t take well to being threatened.”
“Threatened?” An uncomfortable silence hung in the air. “You know who this asshole is.”
It wasn’t a question.
A knowing smirk crept along his face. “Possibly. And I’m feeling particularly generous, so I’ll make you a deal.”
“Is that right?”
“I’ll replace the eight hundred kilos and give you a name, but I want ten percent.”
“You want double?” I laughed. “Thanks, but no thanks. I can cover it.” Which was a complete lie. I didn’t have seventeen thousand, much less seventeen million. If I did, I wouldn’t have come crawling to this dickhead instead of the main Carrera supplier.
I crossed my arms over my chest. “You don’t know anything we don’t know.”
“You know what? I’m done fucking with you,” Carlos shouted, the corners of his eyes pulled tight with annoyance. “If you’d get your head out of your ass for five seconds, I’d tell you I had a run in with
the Muñoz Cartel two weeks ago.”
My blood ran cold. “What did you say?”
“I thought that’d get your attention.”
Muñoz was a name I hadn’t heard in a very long time, and quite honestly, didn’t think I’d ever hear again.
A year and a half ago, the Muñoz Cartel blackmailed me by threatening my sister. It was why I enjoyed watching a bullet tear through their leader’s heart and seeing them crumble. Afterward, they were reduced to shambles while we consumed more and more power. If they’d somehow resurfaced and reorganized enough to push me out of Chicago, I needed to know everything.
However, I also wasn’t stupid. I’d walked into too many traps to watch someone bait a hook, toss their line right at me, and then just swim straight to it.
Instead of reacting, I tilted my palms up and offered a smug smile. “The name sounds familiar.”
“Cut the bullshit, Harcourt. You think I don’t know you were there with Valentin Carrera when his wife shot Manuel Muñoz?” he hissed, slamming a palm against the wood. “The Carreras might have crippled them for a while, but they’re under a new command and stronger than ever.” Downing his shot, he slammed the empty glass on the table and cut a hard stare at me.
“Who’s calling the shots?”
He balanced his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Don’t know. They sent one of their lieutenants to try to strong arm me into canceling all my Carrera shipments and selling to them, but I don’t take orders from anybody, much less a group of cabrones who don’t know their dicks from their assholes.”
“So, I’ll ask again. Who’s calling the shots?”
“Information has a price tag, amigo.”
“Give me a name, and I’ll think about it.”
“Fuck your mother.”
I shrugged. “Freudian shit isn’t my thing. However, if that’s what lifts your sails…”
“Do I look like an idiot to you, Harcourt? I’m calling the shots here, not you. I have what you need. All you have is a missing shipment and an eight-hundred and fifty thousand-dollar debt.”