Carrera Cartel: The Collection

by Kenborn, Cora

  No surprise there, considering the last time we spoke, he put up so much resistance to my request, I had to threaten him. To be fair, he did end up betraying his own country.

  “Yeah, well, I have a problem—which means you have a problem.”

  “Vete a la mierda,” he grumbled. Not that I expected a warm greeting, after all this time, but telling me to fuck off was a bit over the top. “I can’t be involved with you anymore. It’s too risky.”

  “It’s riskier for you to ignore me.” On edge, I tossed the picture frame onto the floor. “I already made one widow today. Don’t force me to make another.”

  Silence filled the line while I assumed he weighed his options. He really didn’t have any, but I humored him and spun a full two revolutions in my chair before he came to his senses.

  “Tell me what you want,” Leo hissed through clenched teeth, his broken English slipping as his anger grew. “But this has to…” The rest of what I presumed to be a futile demand trailed off as a muffled voice laced with huskiness and an edge of insolence filtered through the line.

  Son of a bitch.

  I had enough on my plate without having to worry about some jerkoff in the Mexican Embassy hearing me spell out the details of someone’s murder.

  I closed my eyes and cursed. “Is someone there?”

  “Just my puta secretary who doesn’t know how to fucking knock,” he yelled, the two words punctuated by the sound of a slamming door. “As I was saying, this has to be it. The Harcourt name isn’t too popular around here and unsealing Adriana Carrera’s birth records for you turned too many eyes my way.”

  I winced at hearing her name again. It had been months since I’d thought about her, and now she was the ghost who wouldn’t go away. An unwelcome pang of guilt settled deep in my stomach. The woman nearly assassinated my boss then walked out of a Houston safe house like a fucking queen. She made my life hell for months. A Muñoz creation whose mind ticked with only one emotion—hate.

  Until I blew her life apart by revealing her entire existence had been a lie. Marisol Muñoz was Adriana Carrera, Val’s not-so-dead sister.

  After she disappeared off the face of the earth, I assumed she was buried in a shallow grave somewhere. It was inevitable. She never would’ve stood for her family’s legacy to be dismantled, and they never would’ve accepted a Carrera.

  I assumed wrong.

  Dragging myself out of that lethal rabbit hole, I changed the subject. “Unfortunately, you don’t call the shots, Leo. However, I’ve had a bitch of a day, so I’ll make this brief. The Muñoz Cartel has restructured. I’ve already had a chat with a man named José Rojas. I’m sure you’ve heard of him.” I didn’t wait for a confirmation. I didn’t need one. “He’s given me some interesting new information on Adriana Carrera. I need you to do some recon on her last known whereabouts.”

  “Why don’t you just blackmail it out of him?”

  Smartass.

  “He’s missing.”

  “Shouldn’t you be trying to locate him?”

  “No.”

  That was all that needed to be said. Leo Pinellas was an arrogant bastard, but he wasn’t stupid. Reading between the lines wasn’t a hard skill to master. Especially when his fat ass would be next.

  “I’ll see what I can find out.”

  “You have twenty-four hours.”

  Probably even less for me if Adriana was motivated enough.

  “You’d better know what you’re doing, Brody. Every time you try to fuck over a cartel boss, a woman pays the price. First, your sister, then Carrera’s girl, then Carrera’s sister.”

  My hand tore through my hair, ripping the strands at the root. “She wasn’t his girl!” I let out a dry laugh. “But he sure as hell made sure she didn’t have any other option.”

  “That’s a little hypocritical, don’t you think?”

  The coil that had wound tighter and tighter in my chest since returning from Chicago snapped. “Twenty-four hours, Pinellas.” Grinding my teeth, I jerked the phone away to disconnect the call, but at the last minute lifted it back to my ear. “Make that twenty-two just for being an asshole.”

  “You used to protect the law, Brody. You were a good guy.” He paused, his breath uneven. “What happened to you?”

  My fingers clenched around my phone, my earlier smugness brittle and hollow. “I opened my eyes.”

  I didn’t wait for a response. Ending the call, I slammed my phone onto my desk, not giving a shit if I cracked the screen. This wasn’t supposed to turn into such a clusterfuck. Of course, I shouldn’t be surprised. Life had delivered one giant middle finger after another since I sank into cartel quicksand. No matter how hard I tried to claw my way out, it kept pulling me under, deeper and deeper each time. Eventually, I gave up the fight and sank to the bottom.

  Now, here I sat, completely submerged, trying to fight more than one invisible enemy. How long would it be until I just stopped breathing?

  “It won’t be today.” With fire in my chest, I spun around, ready to fire bar bitch just to make myself feel better when a glint of silver caught my eye.

  Without thinking, I crouched next to the picture frame I’d tossed like a grenade and picked it up. My white-knuckled grip on it tightened. I’d be damned if I’d go down like this. Straightening my shoulders, I stood and placed the frame back on my desk.

  Tugging my tie loose, I shrugged off my jacket and unbuttoned my soiled shirt, reaching for the spare I kept in the tiny closet in the corner of the office. As I rolled the sleeves of the freshly laundered shirt up to my elbows, I heard the back door slam and what sounded like a bulldozer tear through the kitchen.

  I glanced at the clock and threw my head back with a groan. “For fuck’s sake, Kiki, this is the third time this week. Your shift started three hours ago. Do you not own a goddamn clock?”

  Tearing out of my office, I punched the wall on my way out, more than ready to hand a certain brunette waitress her ass and then toss it out the door.

  It was bar bitch’s lucky day.

  Chapter Five

  Adriana

  How the mighty have fallen.

  The phrase sat on the tip of my tongue as I rounded the building and opened the door to a pathetically empty Caliente Cantina. The symbolism wasn’t lost on me, and if I had more time, I might have relished in how things had come full circle. However, I didn’t come here to bask in others’ misfortune.

  I came to rectify my own.

  Although I did my best to blend in, my high heels clicked against the cheap floor, announcing my arrival like a grenade. Stopping mid-stride, I winced and waited for the collective gasp. Surprisingly, the handful of patrons scattered in the worn booths never bothered to look up, much less acknowledge me. Returning the favor, I ignored them, focusing all my attention toward the bar.

  It didn’t take long to find him. Slumped in a stool at the farthest end, Brody Harcourt scowled into his beer, gripping the glass mug as if he were squeezing out its last breath. The move might have intimidated a normal woman, but I wasn’t most women.

  Besides, I knew more about him in a glance than I suspected most of his “so-called” friends did in a lifetime. The simple key to reading someone was to study their body language. Yeah, he looked ready to kill someone, but his hands were his tell. The glass he held took a level of unsurmountable punishment clearly meant for someone else.

  Of course, there was also the obvious alcohol he downed like water. Men tended to use liquid therapy as a crutch rather than dealing with their problems. I’d seen it all my life. Not that it was a bad temporary fix for a highly publicized fall from grace, but killing brain cells just stalled the climb back to the top.

  And through all this analysis, here I stood in the middle of this god-awful piece of shit cantina like a flashing siren. Only, like the other customers, Brody found my existence irrelevant. Not that it mattered to me. I wasn’t here to have my ego stroked. There was only one thing I wanted, and I’d traveled too long an
d too far to hinge it on an obstinate male mood swing. Still, observation was a useful skill, so I continued appraising him from a distance.

  The way a man dressed said a lot about him—who they were; what they did; where they’d been. According to Brody’s clothes, I deduced the answers were: a burden on society, two lines up the nose, and saddled up at the twenty-four-hour stripper emporium. The wrinkled white button-up shirt he wore was half tucked in toward the front and wild and chaotic in the back. The sleeves were uncuffed and rolled up to his elbows, exposing ridiculously toned arms.

  At some point, he’d undone the first button at his collar, got frustrated, then ripped the next four clean off. The evidence was scattered across the floor with one resting against the soiled toe of my high heel. I kicked it to the side, continuing to study him. With a grunt, one hand flew from his mug and yanked off the tie draped around his neck. The muscles in his forearm tensed as he balled it up and pitched it across the bar railing.

  Nice throw.

  This version of Brody Harcourt looked nothing like the man I remembered. Then again, I doubted he gave a damn if he lived up to dress code since his mother tried to murder his entire family.

  I should know.

  Bits and pieces of the last year flashed through my head. The confusion. The loneliness. The pain. Refusing to lose control, I closed my eyes and blocked the darkness from rolling in.

  No emotion. Not today.

  With renewed determination, I made my way to the bar, my sleek dark hair dusting over my shoulder as I slid into the chair beside him. Before I could say a word, a bleach blonde bartender in a skimpy uniform rolled her eyes as she walked toward me with a cell phone suctioned to her ear and a groan on her lips.

  “I guess I’ll have to call you back.” Cocking a hip, she braced one hand against the bar while shoving the phone in the back pocket of her cut-off jean shorts with the other. From the way she glared at me and then Brody, I could tell her crush on him was just as big as her attitude. “So, do you know what you want or what?”

  A year ago, I would’ve had her choking on her own tongue for that.

  “Añejo tequila in a stem glass. Room temp, only.”

  I met her stare just in time to catch her raised eyebrow and quick glance to my right. When it went unacknowledged, she swallowed a few times and turned away. I sat in comfortable silence, refusing to blink. Even missing a second of this was too much.

  It wasn’t long before the bartender returned with my drink and a brand-new attitude. With eyes downcast, she carefully placed it in front of me and disappeared.

  Maybe she wasn’t so stupid after all.

  “Bad day?” I pushed the tequila to the side, holding a perfect smile while nodding toward the discarded tie.

  Brody didn’t bother to look up, still gripping the hell out of his mug. “Something like that.”

  “Want to talk about it?” I urged, placing a hand across his forearm. My bold move captured his attention, snapping his eyes toward our connection.

  Take the bait.

  Whatever fire had lit in his eyes quickly extinguished. Turning away, he stared blankly across the bar before lifting the mug to his mouth. “Not particularly.”

  Okay, time to change tactics. “Well, then, can I buy you a drink?”

  “I own the bar, sweetheart.”

  I’d learned patience. I was stellar at waiting my turn. But I’d also learned that leading a horse to water wouldn’t make him drink.

  Unless you shoved his face in it.

  “I get it.” Shifting toward him, I leaned my elbow onto the bar and dialed up the sarcasm to an eleven. “I’m just a stranger. What do I know, right? But you’ve got a chip on your shoulder the size of Texas. You obviously need to unload. If not me, there’s got to be someone you can talk to.”

  Silence.

  “Girlfriend?”

  Silence.

  I assumed that particular brand of quiet dismissal worked on bar blondie, but unfortunately for him, petulance was my specialty.

  “Boyfriend?”

  “The fuck? I’m not—” His widened eyes slowly narrowed as he took in the smirk plastered across my face. Rolling a heated gaze over me, he held up his palm. “Lady, if I need to unload, this does the job just fine.”

  Stop thinking of that hand. Focus. Stick to the plan.

  “I’m told family is always there for you if you need them,” I offered, clearing my throat.

  The corners of Brody’s mouth curled up in a cold smile. “Hard to do when they’re dead.”

  “All of them?”

  He shrugged, and I held back a smile as his fingers swiped a cocktail napkin back and forth beside his beer. He wanted to react. How could he not? The tension in the air was so thick, it could’ve choked us both.

  “Might as well be,” he bit out finally, sending the cocktail napkin skidding across the bar. “Family is just a bullshit lie anyway.”

  “Well, look at that—something we can agree on.”

  Glancing over his shoulder, Brody arched an eyebrow and gave me a slow appraisal. “You ask a lot of questions, you know that?”

  “Sorry, force of habit in my line of work.”

  He let out a low chuckle and took another drink, a dangerous mix of intrigue and irritation flickering in his eyes. “Since you obviously can’t take a hint, I’ll bite. What do you do?”

  A wide smile parted my lips. “I guess you could say I’m an international trade specialist.”

  “Sounds vague.”

  “Mm-hmm,” I agreed, taking a small but lethal sip from my glass. Although I somewhat enjoyed our banter, I’d grown bored with small talk. Propping my elbow on the bar, I rested my chin in my hand and leaned in. “So, is this what you do since getting fired from the district attorney’s office, Brody?”

  Twisting around, he slammed his glass onto the wood, his disinterest shifting to suspicion. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”

  “No, but I know you. Your Harcourt family scandal made national news, and your face is hardly forgettable, Brody.” I had no purpose in saying his name twice, other than watching the instability flicker behind his eyes. He didn’t anticipate being confronted with the fall of Houston’s own version of Camelot. Maybe he thought his mask was just that good, but dark-rimmed eyes and nervous twitches betrayed even the most well-crafted façade. It was obvious he’d been balancing on the edge of a breakdown for some time now.

  “My last name doesn’t define me.”

  “Well said.”

  “It seems you have me at a disadvantage,” he accused, eyeing me cautiously. “You know my name, but I don’t know yours. You plan on telling me?”

  I cocked my head. “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  “Well, my last name didn’t define me either, so I got myself a brand new one. Thanks to you, of course.”

  That was the moment the pieces fell into place and the puzzle clicked. Beads of sweat traced the seam of his upper lip as he stopped looking at me and finally saw me.

  “No, it can’t be.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, where are my manners?” Sliding off the stool, I stood barely a breath away and extended my hand. “My name’s Adriana.” I waited until all the color drained from his face before driving in the final nail. “Adriana Carrera.”

  Chapter Six

  Brody

  All I could do was stare at her outstretched hand as if it had fangs just waiting to sink into an exposed vein and inject retribution and penance.

  It couldn’t be.

  But it was.

  Adriana fucking Carrera.

  Speak of the devil, and she walks in your bar.

  I remembered seeing the blurry college photos of her Leo managed to scrounge up when I first contacted him, but the woman in front of me looked completely different. Her hair was shorter, and the way she was dressed made it damn hard for a man to look her in the eye.

  Back then, I had no idea the shitstorm I was about to unleash.

 
After the dust settled, Val sent men looking for her, but no one could find her. Not a damn thing. That’s what made her so dangerous. It was hard to fight an invisible enemy.

  But here she stood, dressed in a tight pencil-thin black skirt, a white blouse a few sizes too small, and the highest fuck-me-heels I’d ever seen, claiming to be the missing heiress to the Carrera empire.

  I didn’t have to know what Marisol—or Adriana—or whatever the hell she wanted to be called, looked like to realize my past had caught up with me. Paybacks were a bitch.

  And so was the woman standing in front of me.

  Curling my lip at her offered hand, I turned my back to her. “You’ve got a lot of fucking nerve showing your face here.”

  I felt Adriana’s eyes boring into me as I drained the piss warm beer left in my mug. I knew she still had her arm extended, seething as she waited for me to kiss her ass, so instead, I lifted an eyebrow and waved the glass at bar bitch. Like the dutiful half-wit she was, my employee raced around the bar like her ass was on fire, sorting through chilled glasses until she found the perfect one then busied herself at the tap.

  “Neat trick, Pavlov.” Adriana’s sultry voice trailed over my shoulder. “You might want to think about spaying her, so she’ll stop humping your leg.”

  As much shit as she’d caused, an unwelcome smile still tugged at the corners of my mouth as bar bitch shot Adriana a glare, muttering a slew of curses as my beer overflowed onto her shoes. Wiping the sides down, she slammed the mug in front of me and stomped off to the corner, huffing as she tapped away on her ever-present phone.

  Lifting the new mug, I took a slow drink and shot her a look out of the corner of my eye. She glared back, with eyes identical to my boss’s. A dark chocolate color with gold flecks that burned like fire when he was pissed.

  Kind of like she was now.

  “Something wrong?”

  “How anyone didn’t realize you were a damn Carrera before I blew the whistle is beyond me,” I muttered around another huge drink. “You have the same condescending stare as your brother.”