After I've showered and dressed, I go downstairs. Gabriel, along with some of my men, sit at the breakfast bar drinking beers, a soccer game blaring from the TV.
"Boys," I say with a smirk as I grab the remote and switch the TV off. Groaning, their attention swings to me and a new guy lets out a slow whistle. Gabriel sucker punches him in the gut. I lift a brow and eye each one of them. "The Los Zetas are taking a shit on our territory and you want to watch a game?"
Gabriel glares at me.
"You've let them fuck us long enough. This ends now. I have a plan."
"I'm more concerned about whether the other pasty Russians are going to avenge their pale lord. The Los Zetas aren't a threat. The Russians are," Gabe says.
I shrug one shoulder. "They'll know it was me that slit his throat. Who knows if they will come or not. But we need get this shit with Don out of the way. I can't wage a war on two fronts." I grab Gabe's beer and take a swig. He snatches it back and wipes the top with his shirt.
"Just think you can come back and throw fucking orders around, Jesus..." Gabe says.
"I can't? I built this cartel—"
"We built this cartel," Gabe says, glaring at me.
"Well, that little deal you made with the Russian to acquire all the extra territory—I paid for it. And now I am the one who has to make moves to ensure we keep it. Everything you see here," I spread my arms wide, gesturing to the room, "I made it happen while you were still crying over our dead fucking parents." I jab my finger into his chest. "Do not forget it." I turn away, heading for the office door.
"Fucking PMS..." Gabe grumbles under his breath before I slam the door to the office.
The room is quiet. I inhale the familiar scent of cheap cigarettes as I trail my fingers over the cherry wood desk, my muscles instantly relaxing when I take a seat behind it. Various bits of paperwork lay strewn across the desk, most of it written in code that I need no help deciphering. After all, this is the inner workings of my business. I'd forgotten how much I missed it. That sense of power and independence rises in my chest, somewhat filling the empty void that has taken up residence there. I have more territory thanks to Ronan, and now I'm going to use it to expand my business.
I pick up the phone and dial Don's number. "Hola," he greets.
"Don," I say, dropping my voice an octave, "I hear you've been causing trouble for me."
"Camilla." There's a pause. "There are rumors going around that you're dead."
"Don't be ridiculous." I snort. "I was away, but I'm back now so you get to deal with me instead of my brother."
"Good." I hear the smile in his voice. "About time I spoke to the one with the balls."
"Let's meet, shall we?"
"Yes. Lets."
Don is going to regret crossing the Juarez cartel...in time.
Let this be my first lesson from Ronan I implement. Rage is weakness, a mere lack of control, and power is rooted in control. I will fight back the urge to kill him and everyone he knows. I will manipulate him and play him to my advantage before I end him.
______
The dry desert heat instantly embraces me when I step out of the car. Don Cala, leader of the Los Zetas cartel, is leaned against the hood of a Range Rover. Several of his heavily armed men linger around him.
A small trail of dust whips up in front of me as I approach. A few more men step out from behind another car with rifles clutched in front of them.
I narrow my eyes and glance at Don. "Well, this isn't a very friendly reception."
"What did you expect?” He spreads his arms wide while pushing away from the car. “Your brother has proved difficult of late."
"My brother is only protecting the interests of the Juarez cartel. Our territory is just that. Ours. You try and take it and there are going to be repercussions. This is the cartel after all, Don." I smirk.
His jaw clenches. "He worked with filthy Russians to take out Jésus."
"No," I snap, "he was smart enough to broker an alliance that you could not, because you are too set in your ways. In this world, we must evolve or die."
"You do not have the man power to hold all of Juarez."
I smooth a hand down the front of my dress and paint a smile over my lips as I move closer to him. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. Either way, war is not good for business. You and I have always worked together. I think we can come to an agreement."
He smiles wide, his eyes sweeping over my body in a way that makes me want to roll my eyes. "I have an agreement for you," he says as he lifts his hand. All hell breaks loose. I duck, yanking up the skirt of my dress and taking my gun from the holster strapped to my thigh as bullets fly around me. The second my finger lands on the trigger, I feel the cold touch of metal to my temple. Fuck. I'm completely outnumbered.
"You shady shit, Don." I huff a laugh. "This is either brave or stupid."
He snorts. "You place too much value upon yourself, Camilla."
One of his men snatches my gun from my hand. Don grips my jaw, dragging me to my feet as a twisted grin pulls at his lips. "Though you certainly have your benefits." He turns to one of his men. "Bind her wrists."
Great. This is just what I need today. Fuck knows what he thinks he's doing. He can try to pick off territory all he likes, but the Los Zetas are a small cartel. They're no match for Gabriel. They're going to die.
______
After miles of driving, we stop in front of a villa nestled in the desert hillside. Two men drag me from the car, pushing and shoving me toward the front door of the house. I'm marched through the open foyer and down the hall into what looks like an office. I’m thrown into a chair with my hands still firmly bound behind my back. I yank against the cable ties until they cut into my wrists, sending a pain shooting up my arm. Don paces in front of me with his chin dropped to his chest and his brow furrowed.
"What's wrong, Don?" I say through gritted teeth. "Are you just now realizing how fucking stupid this was?" He whirls around to face me, back handing me across the cheek so hard my head snaps to the side. With a smile, I spit a mouthful of blood on his wooden floor. "Well now, you know how to treat a girl."
Snarling, he grips my jaw and shoves my head back. "You don't know when to stop, do you?"
"You're not man enough to make me stop though,” my smile widens, “are you?"
Don takes a knife from his pocket, then moves behind me. With one swift movement, he cuts me loose before yanking me up by my hair and throwing me to the floor. I glance up just as the other men take a few steps back.
"Film this," he says. "I want her brother to see exactly what I'm doing to his sister." A sadistic laugh rumbles up his throat before his weight falls on top of me.
My instinct is to fight him off, to get away from him, but I force it back. This isn't the first time I've been kidnapped. This isn't the first time a man has thought to break me in the most basic of ways. And I know, just like everyone who has come before him, Don will fail. Instead of fighting like he wants, I spread my legs and smile. I remember the first time I tried to kill Ronan. How I threw a knife and missed so he pinned me to his dining room table. He wanted to scare me, to make me believe that he would rape me—I spread my legs and pull Don closer just like I did with Ronan. As much as I hated Ronan, even then, there was a purely sexual part of me that wanted him. I want nothing from Don.
He slams his palm against my cheek and smashes my face into the worn rug. His hot breath blows across my throat as he brings his face close to mine. "I'm going to enjoy fucking you, Camilla. I've thought about it so many times." Laughing, he pulls away and I stare straight at him as he shreds my dress. There’s an almost manic need evident in his eyes, and I fight a smile because he's weak. Ronan would have never given in to such base desires, but then Ronan would never have resorted to anything so vulgar as rape. It's beneath a man as powerful as him. I used to think that men like Don were powerful, but oh how times change.
There’s the clink of his belt buckle and then, like an over eager teenag
er, he thrusts into me. A wave of disgust rises in the back of my throat, but I don't react. Grinning, he swipes his tongue up my cheek. "Oh, come on, Camilla. Aren't you going to scream for me? At least pretend you enjoy it."
"Oh, I'm sorry." I laugh. "Is it in? I didn't realize."
He snarls and slams into me. I smile at him for a few seconds, watching the way his face contorts and his teeth mash together.
"You know, I'm almost impressed. I thought you'd be a two-strokes and a squirt kind of guy."
"Shut the fuck up!" I laugh, and he grabs my throat, slamming my head back against the floor. My vision swims for a second. Black dots dance in front of me. Don's dick softens and he pulls away with a snarl. "Fucking bitch," he spits, and I smile.
In a flash, he has a knife at my throat. There's a sudden wildness in his eyes that has me on edge. His hand trembles as he presses the blade into my skin. I clench my teeth against the bite, aware of the warm blood rolling down the side of my neck. Him fucking me means nothing, but him cutting me feels like a betrayal, as though I'm giving him something that belongs only to Ronan. I'm sure that at any moment he's going to drag the knife across my neck and end it all. Right here. Right now.
His expression tightens before he slowly inches away from me. "I'm sure your brother will appreciate the show."
When I sit up, I make no effort to cover myself. If he seeks to humiliate me then I will have no shame. "You think sending my brother a video of you failing to keep it up will make him hand over Juarez?" I laugh, and his jaw ticks.
“Take her,” he says, and his men drag me from the floor, leading me into the hall and up a set of stairs before shoving me inside a room with a dirty, single mattress and a bucket in the corner. Lovely.
22
Ronan
I lazily trail my fingertip along the blade of the letter opener, fondly remembering how I plunged it into Camilla's thigh. She wouldn't scream for me, not even under such sudden pain. Closing my eyes, I swallow the empty feeling that creeps inside whenever I think of her.
Sirens wail, the shrill noise causing my eardrums to thrum. A slow smile slinks over my mouth as I push up from the desk and go to the window. Possible air raid. How thrilling. The new president has delivered on his promise...
People rush about the house, shouting. Men storm the front gate armed with rifles. So, it seems, a war is born... and I just take it all in, lighting a cigar as I wait for calls to be placed. It's not even ten minutes after the alarms sound that Igor is in my office. “The Americans want the missile, as do the Chinese,” he says.
"Of course they do," I smile. "Three billion dollars should suffice, and for the time being allow them both only one." Nodding, he rushes out.
Within a matter of hours, six missiles have been ordered. Six missiles have been shipped. Six countries are now pitted against one another.
I stand in front of the window with my hands clasped behind my back, and as pleased as I am with how the plan is carrying out, I'm distracted because she's gone. My phone vibrates on the desk several times before falling silent. The door to my office creaks. "Boss," Igor says, "it's time to leave."
And so it is.
______
The engine of the plane hums in the background as I stare out over the cold Atlantic, almost numb. Years of planning, of putting the right players on the board and finally—checkmate.
The strings I've pulled to ensure each world power was chosen by me, the amount of blood on my hands by proxy, it will all be worth it in the end, because in the end it will all be mine. Actually, I smile, it already is, isn't it? He who holds the power owns the world, and I own the missiles and every single ruler there is. I own everything... except her.
Closing my eyes, the memory of her bubbles to the surface. Her lethal curves, the anger that churned around her like a tumultuous tide. The depravity. Life seems so dull without her, without the challenge. Without her kiss, her volatile touch. The blissful high I had plummets to the depths of hell because I realize, without her, it is truly meaningless. No matter how powerful the man, how mighty his kingdom, it is all in vain if he has no queen with which to share his riches. That's ridiculous. Insane even. But is it? Love may drive you mad, but so will loneliness...longing. It seems I may be in no better position than I was when she was with me. Dead or alive, Camilla Estrada will always be a distraction.
My phone pings with an email, pulling me from my thoughts. When I glance down to the screen, I see it's from one of the men who manages IT. The subject reads: Sent to Gabriel Estrada from Don Cala. The body of the message holds only an attachment. I tap over it. The plane jolts, my brandy sloshing over the side of the glass as I wait for the attachment to load.
A grainy image of a man's face comes into view. His tan skin and slicked-back hair are all too familiar. The cartel. My heart holds back a beat when the camera swings around, zooming in and focusing on Camilla's face. Her jaw is clenched. Her nostrils flaring. Disbelief, shock, elation rush through me like an avalanche, gaining speed and momentum with each passing second. She's alive. She's alive! The momentary thrill that courses through me is quickly snuffed when the camera pans out to show a man thrusting on top of her as she flashes him a mocking grin. He places a knife to her throat and cuts her. Anger rises like a molten lake at the sight of the red blood trickling down her throat. For a moment, I can't catch a good breath. I grip the phone in my hand so hard there's a crack, and the glass from the screen cuts into my palm.
"Turn the plane around," I say through gritted teeth.
Igor glances at me from the front of the plane. "We can't—"
"Turn the fucking plane around!" I shout, pushing to my feet. Igor's eyes go wide as his brow wrinkles with confusion. Growling, I throw open the door to the cockpit, startling the pilot. "Turn it around. Now!" I say.
"Sir," he says, his hands gripping the steering wheel, "I can't just—"
I hold up a knife, the blade glinting in the sun shining through the windshield. "Do it. Now. Take me to Mexico." I thought I had handled these Los Zetas, a shitty little cartel worth even less then Camilla's. Apparently not.
Swallowing, the pilot slowly nods his head and radios into air traffic control before making a sharp turn.
______
Twelve hours later, I stand in the suffocating heat and dust riddled streets of Juarez. Before me stands a shack owned by Desi Soto the leader of the less the desirable Del Rio cartel. "Deplorable," I say, brushing dirt from my suit jacket.
Desi steps out from the ramshackle building. Snarling, I glance over his wrinkled slacks and plaid dress shirt. His choice in business attire is utterly offensive. He motions for me to follow him around the side of the building.
Igor and Donovan move first, and I follow them. A few yards back stands a large, metal building covered in graffiti. Desi stops in front of the aluminum doors, pressing a garage opener clasped in his hand. A motor whirs to life and the door slowly raises, dust flying into the desert air. When the door lifts all the way up, I'm staring at a desert brown tank. The hull has a smattering of dents, the word "puta" has been spray painted along the side in a vibrant green.
"How lovely," I grumble.
"So..." he says, spitting a wad of chewing tobacco to the sand. "You did not get this from me. No one likes the Russians." He smiles.
I walk into the bay, inspecting the tank. Wooden crates filled with ammunition are stacked to the ceiling on the far wall. On the side of each crate is the emblem of a lion—my emblem—and yet, we do not have a deal with this man. Interesting. I tap my hand over the side and a hollow thud rings out. "I do hope it's loaded with ammunition."
"Si."
I walk to the crates, running my finger along the rough wood. "You know, I supply ammunition, Desi. I could cut you a much better deal than your current dealer..." I prod.
"Oh," he takes a wary step back, rubbing his hand over his neck. "I already have deal. Good deal."
"But you haven't heard my offer yet."
His
cheeks flush red. He swallows while taking another unsteady step back.
"Who do you deal with?"
When he goes to turn around, Igor's behind him. With one swift movement, Igor's arm is around the man's throat and ramming the blade of a knife beneath his chin.
"Tell me, and I won't have your family slaughtered."
"The..." His lips tremble and urine soaks the front of his slacks. "...The Horseman."
A flash of anger scorches through me. "Very well," I say. I glance at Igor, adjusting my cufflinks as I nod. There's a swift crack and within two seconds Desi lies motionless on the floor, his neck at a rather precarious angle.
This Horseman has more than overstepped his bounds, and as soon as I have Camilla back, I will take great joy in watching him burn.
23
Camilla
There’s not much to do here but lie around on the thin mattress. I have no concept of time. I’d say I’ve only been here a few days, but shit, Gabriel needs to hurry up. Shitting in a bucket is not my idea of fun. I need a shower and a decent bed, and far away from Don's intermittent bullshit he spews every time he decides to stop in. On the bright side, he hasn't tried to fuck me again, and the thought makes me laugh. I stand, stretching my arms above my head. The over-sized t-shirt I'm wearing lifts slightly, reminding me that I’m without underwear. Even by my standards this is uncivilized. God, Ronan would be horrified. My gaze drops to the healed spot where Ronan stabbed me with a letter opener. Absentmindedly, I touch the base of my throat, feeling over the thin line of damaged skin that's hardly distinguishable now. His cuts are fading, and once they do, what will I have to remember him by, what will I—Bang!
The loud noise is followed by the rapid pop of gunfire. Explosives rumble somewhere outside the house accompanied by the harmonious screams of men dying. Gabriel! I pace the room, waiting for Gabriel to free me from this shithole. Finally, the lock clicks. I take a step back when the door opens and two of Don's men walk in, one pointing a rifle at my head.
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