Drawn Blue Lines
A Carrera Cartel Novel
Cora Kenborn
Copyright © 2019 by Cora Kenborn
Cover design by Cover Me Darling, LLC
Editing by Mitzi Pummer Carroll
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
The following story contains mature themes, strong language, and sexual situations. It is intended for adult readers.
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No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in the work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owner.
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Contents
Playlist
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Epilogue
The Carrera Cartel Trilogy
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Author Links
Also By Cora Kenborn
“You have to take a leap of faith in yourself. No matter what it is, take that leap of faith and know you can do whatever you want to do.”
I miss you, Shanann.
Playlist
Royal Blood - Krigarè
Play With Fire - Sam Tinnesz (feat. Yacht Money)
Bad Bitch - Bebe Rexha (feat. Ty Dolla $ign)
Natural - Imagine Dragons
Sorry Not Sorry - Demi Lovato
Señorita - Shawn Mendes, Camila Cabello
Come & Get It - Selena Gomez
Safari - BIA, J Balvin, Pharrell Williams, Sky
Bad Guy - Billie Eilish
A Little Wicked - Valerie Broussard
Horns - Bryce Fox
Queen - Loren Gray
Fuck Feelings - Olivia O’Brien
Heaven - Julia Michaels
Revolution - The Score
White Flag - Bishop Briggs
I Feel Like I’m Drowning - Two Feet
Born For This - Royal Deluxe
Hold On - Chord Overstreet
This is Me (From the Greatest Showman) - Kesha
Listen to the Drawn Blue Lines playlist.
Prologue
Adriana
Guadalajara, Jalisco, Mexico
Two Weeks Ago
No one chooses fate. It chooses us.
I knew because I came into this world cursed, my veins poisoned with a depraved and corrupt bloodline. However, after months of running, foolish unrest drew me out of hiding and into the jaws of anarchy. War was a living, breathing thing. Nurtured and cultivated, it bloomed into an unstoppable force of nature. Left in the wild, its branches twisted into a monstrosity that eventually devoured itself.
My family’s legacy had become a treacherous beast feasting on its one remaining root.
Me.
Warm blood flowed around me like an unholy baptism, soaking my hair and coating my skin. Rolling onto my side, I concentrated on breathing even though the smallest inhale shredded my lungs. The beating had been brutal, but not fatal. Not because they wanted to spare my life, but because death was more satisfying when capped off by days of torture.
I’d taught them that.
Now, here he sat in the shadows.
Watching.
The one in charge. The one whose footsteps caused all the traitors to scatter like startled cockroaches.
The muscles in his throat tightened as a dark cloud passed over his face. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched his fingers twitch against the dark denim covering his thigh. I knew nothing about the man except that he was a killer, and he wanted nothing more than to pull the blade from its holster and drive it straight through my heart.
But he wouldn’t.
He could easily take my life, but it wouldn’t be without consequence. Even in chaos, there was order.
I swallowed, forcing my native language from my raw throat. “Who are you?”
“A prophet without honor.” He spat the words out like they were rancid, his gravelly Spanish raking over my thin nerves like fresh sandpaper.
Arrogance, a familiar yet foolish friend, filled my chest. “If you touch me, I’ll kill you.”
Shaking his head, he pulled a cigar from his pocket. “I don’t have to touch you. I have something you need. You’ll do whatever I say, when I say it.” He bit off the tip and spat it at my feet, his gaze never leaving mine as he lit the end. The glowing tip sparked to life, his cheeks sinking in as he sucked a few deep puffs.
I let out a silent breath. “I am Marisol Muñoz.”
The low laugh that followed nearly broke my composure. Men had underestimated me all my life. However, the one on the other side of the cold, damp room wasn’t just amused by my obstinance. It thrilled him. He got off on it.
My heart free fell into my stomach, and with my ear pressed against the concrete floor, I heard him get up, each step he took sounded like thunder. Bending down on his haunches, he bore stained yellow teeth in a smirk I wanted to carve off his face.
“You’re no Muñoz, and you know it. I’m the one resurrecting a power you almost ruined,” he snarled. “Bringing honor back to Guadalajara. Spilling enemy blood to fortify our own.”
“I am Marisol Muñoz.” In repeating the declaration, I couldn’t help but wonder which one of us I was trying to convince. “The
daughter of your former king, and the sister of your fallen leader.”
He leaned down with eyes harder than stone. “You are a Carrera whore.”
Before I could respond, he wrapped his hand around my blood-soaked hair and dragged me toward him. White hot pain shot through my skull, but my stumble was momentary. As soon as I found my balance, I swung.
It was just what he wanted. Easily catching my wrist in one hand, he pulled his knife with the other. Instinctively, I lunged for it, but he released my hair and shifted, causing me to slam face-first onto the floor.
I turned my cheek just before my nose made contact with the unforgiving concrete. The pain was almost unbearable, but I never screamed. This was a power struggle. Blood meant nothing to a vigilante drug runner. Fuck if I’d let it mean any more to me.
I glared as I turned, ignoring the blood dripping down my chin. “Don’t call me that.”
“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.
Enemy of my blood. Enemy of my family. Enemy of the only name I’d ever known.
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.
I had nothing. I was nothing.
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, a trickle of 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 fell 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 A
driana 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 now, 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.
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