Salsa (Sultry Nights Book 1)

by Melanie Munton

  I still don’t know the story behind Papá’s debt, either. I can only recall bits and pieces of their conversation that night while I was hiding in the closet, and Diego would never tell me specifics. All he ever says is that Papá was a thief. Which I don’t believe. I don’t exactly know what his position was with Diego’s organization, but I know beyond a doubt that he was an honorable man. So, if he did steal Diego’s money, I’m sure he had a damn good reason for doing so. I just wish I knew what it was.

  Not that it would help us either way.

  Right after Papá “went missing”—his body was never found—Diego visited our house with a warning, masked as a proposition, for Mamá. She could either work for him until Papá’s debt is paid off, or he killed all of us right then and there.

  She went with door number one.

  She worked for him for years cleaning all of his dirty money in the back of a laundry mat, ironically. All while holding down a day job at a greasy spoon in order to provide for Manny and me. Unsurprisingly, it changed her. Still grieving from the loss of Papá, and also being wracked with guilt over working for such an evil man—willingly or not—she became a shell of her former self. In the beginning, she often spoke about sneaking us away back to our family’s farm in Colombia, but those pipe dreams were eventually flushed right down the toilet.

  Diego would find us anywhere.

  So, when I became of proper age, I went to Diego and took my mother’s place. Not at the laundry mat, though. No. Diego thought my “talents” could be of better use elsewhere.

  Now, I use my body and seductive wiles to help run drugs through this den of sin and deliver them into the hands of Miami’s most notorious and skeezy skumbags.

  Hey, nobody’s job is perfect.

  And there’s no way in hell I’d be doing any of this if it wasn’t a matter of life and death.

  I’ll do anything to protect my family.

  Which is why I have to put off this Queen of the Hussies vibe whenever I work at the club. It’s part of Diego’s master plan of selling drugs right under everyone’s noses. He thinks he’s so goddamn smart for coming up with it.

  I stride up to the bar and catch the bartender’s eye. Juan doesn’t even have to ask what I want. It’s my usual, the same drink I order right before every shift.

  A shot of Aguardiente.

  And nothing else.

  Diego has this shit imported from Colombia because it’s some of the best, strongest stuff on the market. It’s twenty-nine percent alcohol in volume, and the name roughly translates to “fire water.” The first time you taste it, it feels like you’re swallowing lava. It’s pretty lethal. But my family all grew up on it, so for me, it’s like the equivalent of an American sipping on some damn good Kentucky bourbon.

  I slam the glass down and rise to my feet. It’s the only drink I allow myself to have all night because I have to keep my wits about me in this place.

  When I turn back around to the rest of the club, I’ve got my game face on.

  The Queen of Calor is in the building.

  Most of the patrons are either associates of Diego’s in one way or another, or they’re familiar enough with the club’s and Diego’s reputation to know not to mess with me. For the most part. There are always those super lit idiots that take the flirtation too far. Those are the worst nights.

  I shimmy my way around the tables on the ground floor, heading toward my usual spot to receive clients.

  Receive clients.

  Dios, I sound like the madam at a whore house.

  The ground floor of Calor features a raised stage for the live music Diego hires, a sprawling dance floor that sees varying levels of debauchery every night, and a wooden bar that runs the length of the back wall. Tables are scattered around the floor, with mahogany armchairs placed at each one. Diego wants his customers to feel like they’re paying for upscale entertainment, rather than the cheap skin tickets of your average Miami strip bar. Not that any stripping takes place in here. At least not officially.

  He can put as much mahogany in this place as he wants. Hell, he can wallpaper the place with pure gold.

  It will still feel seedy.

  Upstairs consists of roped-off VIP areas for Diego’s most honored guests. And himself, of course. He rarely comes down to the ground level unless there’s sensitive business that requires his immediate attention.

  Otherwise, he stays up there watching the action below.

  Like a king looking down on his subjects.

  Or in my case, a puppeteer pulling the strings of his marionette.

  The club is packed tonight so I expect a lot of customers. It doesn’t take long to spot my first one approaching me.

  My skin begins to crawl as I get a good look.

  He’s not much taller than my five foot six, and looks to be in his late forties. There’s a noticeable paunch in his mid-section, and his shirt is far too tight. His dark hair is slicked back, which only looks worse with his Zorro-inspired mustache. And he’s sporting an ugly smirk as his gaze zones in on me. Or more specifically, on my ample chest. Really anywhere but my face.

  I swear I’m never sent any hot men. Or even marginally good-looking ones.

  And if they are even the slightest bit attractive, their involvement with Diego and his enterprises disgusts me to the point that I’m immediately turned off by their presence.

  Slick holds out his hand as instructed, and my gaze lowers to search for my sign.

  There it is.

  A smudged stain on his hand that’s only illuminated under the particular kinds of fluorescent lights in this section of the club.

  Each customer who wants to purchase a little baggie for the evening knows to go to the bar and order a cocktail called a Snowflake. Subtle, right? The customer hands over the exact cash amount to the bartender, who then marks each Snowflake glass with a special kind of ink that is invisible to the naked eye but shows up clearly under these lights. Kind of like how a black light works.

  Then they come find me for their product.

  For the first half of my shift, I only deal out bags of Ecstasy and PCP. The second half of the evening is strictly for cocaine. A different cartel faction has a handle on the pot trade, so Diego doesn’t even touch it. Plus, it’s typically not as lucrative as the hardcore drugs. He’s been trying to squeeze his way into the heroin game lately, but hasn’t made much progress.

  It’s unbelievable how much is made off of these transactions alone.

  Everyone who buys knows my schedule and the rules. Period.

  According to Diego, my involvement is like a misdirection. Between my looks and my dancing, I’m distracting enough for anyone watching for nefarious activities to completely miss what’s staring them right in the face. I’m basically the Trojan horse.

  Don’t judge me.

  I know this blackens my soul. I know I’m going to Hell. I visit my priest and say my Hail Mary’s as often as I can to avoid eternal damnation.

  My only solace is the fact that these are small quantities of drugs. The customers can’t exactly take these little bags and distribute them to the masses. Diego runs his bigger deals from secured locations that the cops don’t even know exist. And every guy who buys from me is a lowlife bastardo, so I don’t really feel that bad for giving them poison.

  I do this because I have to.

  They do this because they want to.

  Therefore, I’d feel no sympathy if one of them turns up in a ditch somewhere. The fewer men out there like Diego Suarez, the better.

  I focus back on my newest customer.

  “Good evening, Miss,” he says as he continues to leer at me. “Would you care to dance?”

  Having seen the mark on his hand, I know he’s paid his money, which gives me the green light. I turn down any man who doesn’t have that mark because I always look first.

  “Certainly,” I purr. “I hope you can salsa.”

  He smirks. “I’m sure the steps will come back to me. You’r
e no doubt an easy partner to have.”

  Ew.

  I take his hand, which is disturbingly moist, and allow him to lead me onto the dance floor. While I do my best impression of someone who’s not about to puke all over the place.

  You’d think I’d be used to it after all this time.

  But it never gets easier.

  I fear the day it ever does.

  The live band starts playing a new salsa number and Slick spins me into him. Clumsily. Yeah right, the steps will come back to him. I don’t think he ever learned the steps in the first place.

  But he’s right.

  I can make any partner of mine look good because I’m pretty damn good myself.

  I’ve been dancing since I was four years old, and my dream has always been to become a professional ballroom dancer. Of course, Latin dances are my créme de la crème. I even work at a dance studio during the day, teaching all the Latin styles to people of all ages.

  Despite Slick’s obvious inexperience, I lose myself to the beat of the song and the flow of my movements. If I have to work for the Anti-Christ, at least I get to dance while doing it. His foot fumbles and rigid technique make it difficult to completely distract myself from the situation, but it’s all for the best.

  In the blink of an eye, as I’m doing some fancy footwork and fast spins, I slip my fingers into the cleavage of my dress and quickly tuck the little baggie into the inner pocket of his suit jacket.

  No one watching us would have been able to spot the exchange.

  And if they did, they would just assume it was part of the dance.

  I’ve been honing my skills since my pre-teen days, when I developed a nasty little pickpocketing habit because money around our house was tight. Mamá found out and gave me a good scolding for it, but nevertheless, my fingers are like magic. If I’m ever desperate enough for money, I could probably do fairly well by performing slight-of-hand tricks on the street. Or robbing people blind.

  It’s one of my many skills that Diego uses to his advantage.

  “You dance like a dream, bonita,” Slick says into my ear, speaking loudly over the music.

  “Well, you picked it up pretty quickly.” Not.

  “Might I have the pleasure of buying you a drink after the dance?”

  “I’m sorry, but I’m not allowed to fraternize with the guests while I’m working.”

  He pulls me into him, way too close for my liking. His putrid breath reeks of alcohol, and the fumes coming off him from his cologne set my nostrils on fire.

  “Well, when do you get off work?”

  “I’ll be working all night,” I say a little more forcefully.

  I disguise my desperation to get away from him with a quick twirl and side-step move. He’s not as eager to let go of me, though.

  “Playing hard to get? Because I like games.”

  When his hand travels toward my ass, I pull back and shoot him a chiding look, while playfully shaking my finger at him.

  He just chuckles.

  Diego never likes his customers pissed off, so part of my job is to also keep them happy.

  From the outside, I probably do look like a prostitute. Dancing with man after man all night, perhaps lining up my johns for the evening. I don’t sit and have drinks with my partners. I don’t have any girlfriends here with me to shoot the shit with.

  It’s just me, a sexy dress, and drugs stuffed into my cleavage. Or in the garter on my thigh.

  I try not to be disgusted with myself, but it’s hard sometimes.

  Thankfully, the song ends and I extract myself from Slick’s grabby hands.

  “Thank you for the lovely dance,” I say with an easy smile.

  He takes my hand and lays a lingering kiss on it. Gross. “The pleasure was all mine, bonita. Perhaps I might get another later?”

  Just my luck. He’s a repeater.

  “In that case, I’d say another Snowflake would be in order.”

  Because he sure isn’t getting anything for free.

  His upper lip curls over his crooked teeth. “I am feeling rather thirsty. I’ll find you later.”

  With a final wink that sends bile rising up my throat, he walks off.

  The rest of the evening passes without much excitement. My other customers are much less talkative than Slick. Half of them are more interested in getting the product and being done with it. And the other half forego talking altogether and settle for groping me instead. But that’s nothing new.

  At one o’clock in the morning, I discreetly meet with Ivan, one of Diego’s closest consiglieres to switch out my product. I can only carry so much with me at a time, so I have to meet with him a couple of times every night. I disguise the trips as bathroom breaks or drink refills if we’re at the bar. You never know who could be watching.

  Undercover cops.

  Diego’s enemies.

  Or dumbass cokeheads who just want to rob me.

  Then there are moments like right now when I actually do have to use the bathroom.

  I catch Ivan’s eye across the room—it’s usually him or another guy named Kai keeping an eye on all club operations—and give him the signal for the bathroom. Because he or Diego always has to know where I am at all times. In case I decide to cut and run.

  I’m not that stupid.

  He replies with a curt nod, and I dash off to take care of business. I check my appearance in the mirror after I’m finished. I inherited my mamá’s thick chocolate locks, so my curls aren’t going anywhere anytime soon. I don’t need a ton of eye makeup thanks to my heavy dark lashes and big brown eyes. And of course, my olive skin never requires bronzer. My one indulgence at Sephora is lipstick, in every shade available. I apply another layer of bright red, and I’m ready to face my life again.

  The second I open the bathroom door, I come face-to-face with Slick.

  Mierda.

  It’s much later in the evening and he’s clearly drunk and high off whatever pills were in that baggie I gave him. Never a good combination.

  “Hello again, bonita,” he slurs. “I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want another dance. I think I want something a little more private.”

  Before I can process his words, he’s pulling me down the hallway with my arm in his tight grip. I desperately glance behind me, but we’re already shrouded so far in the shadows, Ivan wouldn’t see me from so far away.

  Well, damn.

  This is not good.

  Chapter 2

  Max

  As I step inside the darkened, smoke-filled club, a mix of alertness and adrenaline streamlines through my system.

  I am no longer Max Romano, undercover DEA agent.

  I am now Maximus Ramirez, leader of a powerful LA drug syndicate who wants to partner up with Miami’s most infamous cartel overlord, Diego Suarez.

  Countless sources have informed me that Calor is where I can find Diego most nights out of the week, unless he’s dealing with other business elsewhere. Thanks to my tech department at the DEA, I now have a full background profile as Max Ramirez. I have an extensive arrest record and no personal connections whatsoever to any law enforcement agency in the country. Not to mention zero personal connections. As far as Diego is concerned, I don’t have a family to speak of.

  I also know he can’t even ask around about me because it’s a well-known fact that Diego doesn’t have any affiliation with the LA drug trade. Therefore, he has no avenues through which to seek intel on me. He’s tried for years to get his foot in the door out there, but to no avail.

  I’m here to change all of that.

  Or at least pretend that I am.

  It’s a perfect cover for my investigation. It’s relatively simple. Infiltrate Suarez’s organization, establish a relationship of trust with him, gather enough evidence to lock him up for the rest of his miserable life, and then take the son of a bitch down.

  I’ve met some nasty characters in my six years with the DEA.

  But Diego Suarez is quite possibly the worst of th
em all.

  The Drug Enforcement Agency, along with every other agency in the country, has been at him for years. But it was the rumor of Suarez’s recent dabbling into the human trafficking business that finally allowed this undercover operation to be approved by the higher ups.

  I straighten the cuff links on my suit and walk toward the bar with an air of authority. I have to look like I belong here. I’ve spread the word around the city for the past week that a new player is in town and wants to meet with Suarez. I had to get him on the hook first and let him dangle a bit, build up his curiosity and anticipation before making my appearance.

  With his eagerness to expand his reach into LA, he’ll already have his guard down.

  The bartender approaches me with an expectant look.

  “Jameson, neat,” I tell him.

  Seconds later, he passes the glass over to me and I slap down a bill. Adjusting the gold pinkie ring on my right hand before lifting the glass to my lips, I savor the damn fine whiskey. I like my liquor any way but clear.

  I probably look like a douchebag standing here leaning against the bar, sipping my drink and appearing like I don’t give a fuck about anything or anyone around me. The all-black suit sans tie and gold jewelry don’t help.

  But it’s quite the opposite. I actually give a huge fuck, and I’ve got my eye on everything around me.

  My gaze is searching for one thing in particular. More accurately, a person. A woman to be exact.

  One of my informants told me that if I want to get any information on the kinds of drugs being filtered in and out of Calor, I need to talk to a woman who works here. He didn’t know her name, but the whispers around the city refer to her as Miss X or the Queen of Calor. He couldn’t even give me a fucking description of her, so that was helpful.

  But I have to play this delicately.

  I can’t come in here and start asking a bunch of questions because so many suspicions would be raised, I wouldn’t get within fifty feet of Suarez.

  Twirling hair on the dance floor catches my eye, breaking my concentration on my task.

  Jesus.