Carrera Cartel: The Collection

by Kenborn, Cora

His dismissive tone twisted something inside me. Nothing was ever guaranteed in cartel life. Too much could change in the pull of a trigger or a knife in the back. But even then, as the saying went… all’s fair in love and war.

  Santiago may have won the battle, but the war had just begun.

  “Make a call to Giovanni Marchesi.”

  The shock on Mateo’s face invigorated me with the first spark of life I’d felt since my world imploded. “The New Jersey Syndicate?”

  I turned back toward the window, smirking as the nurse’s hand shook causing her to drop half the blankets she’d just folded. “What’s with all the questions, Cortes?”

  “Val, it’s over. Can’t we just focus on Chicago and forget New York? Haven’t we lost enough?”

  “We haven’t lost anything,” I said in a low, controlled tone. “That’s my wife lying in a hospital bed upstairs, not yours. If Santiago’s bitch boy, Peters, hadn’t involved him in my port deal none of this would have happened.

  “You can’t be serious.”

  I turned toward him with a slow and steady smile. The chilling kind that brought grown men to their knees. “Oh, I’m serious. Let him gloat. Let him think he’s won. We’ll use his arrogance against him.”

  “Meaning?”

  Meaning I’d put into play the contingency plan I’d pieced together between cups of bitter hospital coffee and careful calculation. Dante Santiago was a volatile man. Quick with both comeback and action, his impulses drove him to level and raze. We weren’t much different in that regard. However, having everything taken away left a man with something more dangerous than violence.

  It offered him time.

  Time to think. Time to plan. Time to separate personal vendetta from business gain until the time they could converge and slaughter. Time had become Dante Santiago’s worst enemy.

  “Fuck New York,” I clipped. “We’re investing in the Garden State. Muscle and gunfire make a lot of noise, Mateo, but the easiest way into man’s home is right through his backyard.”

  I glanced over to find Mateo rubbing his forehead, and my blood pressure skyrocketed. I didn’t expect a fucking ticker-tape parade, but his hesitation infuriated me.

  Dropping his hand, he tipped his head back. “Val, you have to listen to me as your second and your friend. You can’t blame Dante Santiago for this. For God’s sake, his wife was hurt too. She could’ve easily died.”

  “But she didn’t, did she?”

  “Neither has Eden, goddamn it! Dios mío, Val! It’s like you’ve already buried her!”

  I shrugged. “It’s only a matter of time.”

  For the first time since the Bell Ranger touched down at Hospital Médica Sur, Mateo’s reserved demeanor broke. Shoving a rough hand through his long hair, he slammed the other against the glass, causing the nurse to scream. “Do you hear yourself? Val, she had a brain hemorrhage in the fucking chopper! You’re damn lucky Vidal was there and started CPR. He kept her heart pumping, and your wife alive until we landed for the surgeons to take over. For all that got him,” he muttered.

  I didn’t appreciate his tone. He knew the Carreras gave no reprieves. Vidal sealed his fate by hiding like a little bitch in the middle of an attack. Regardless of the end result, I never made threats I didn’t keep.

  “Fucking hell, Val,” he yelled, snapping his chin toward me. “Eden’s not dead; she’s in a coma.” An uncharacteristic challenge burned from his eyes into the side of my face, and for the sake of what was left of my cartel and our so-called brotherhood, I tried to curb the instinct to put his head through the glass.

  Luckily for him, Mateo sensed the impending explosion and let out a rough sigh, turning his eyes back to the window. Good. Of all the blood I craved spilling, his was last on my list. I preferred to keep it that way.

  We stood in silence, but inside my head, his words had already taken root and sprouted into something poisonous and coated in thorns.

  Coma.

  I barely listened when the surgeon found us six hours after they took Eden away from me, fragments of medical jargon filtering through the protective wall I’d already constructed.

  Intracerebral brain hemorrhage.

  Blood clot.

  Stroke.

  Improbable chance of regaining consciousness.

  Those pinche cabrónes shoved a DNR in my face. A goddamn do not resuscitate form that gave them the right to let my wife die if one of their precious machines malfunctioned—the ones keeping her heart beating and her lungs full of air.

  I shoved it back. Then I shot it. That was what I fucking thought of their DNR.

  For a man who didn’t make promises, I’d now made three: to be a fireman and risk everything for my family; to stand by my wife in joys and sorrows, in health and sickness; and now... to wait.

  For as long as it took.

  Even if I refused to say the words out loud, I had to believe somewhere in a dark, locked place in the back of my mind, Eden was still in there. That she would keep her promise. That she, too, would wait for as long as it took.

  To heal.

  To strengthen.

  And then to come back to me.

  Because I’d never let her go. Not in this lifetime or the next.

  Breaking the silence, Mateo dipped his chin at the tiny yawning infant still reaching toward me. “What’s her name?”

  “Lola.”

  “It’s cute.”

  “It’s prophetic.” For the first time in nearly eight hours, a sadistic hint of a smile pulled at the corner of my mouth. “Eden picked it. It means sorrows.” I didn’t wait for a response. Turning my back to him, I walked out of the hospital and into a nightmare.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Eden

  Six months later

  Just when I was positive my lungs were about to pop, my head sliced above the surface, my arms flapping like an injured bird. Beneath the surface, my legs whirled in opposite, disorganized circles like the broken blades of two rusty helicopters. The harder I fought to scream, the more I choked.

  Crap, I’m gonna die. I’m gonna die right here in front of God and all of Magnolia Garden Park.

  Just as another mouthful of dirty water filled my cheeks, a strong hand grabbed my arm, lifting me up while an amused chuckle rumbled above my head. “If you were that thirsty, I could’ve brought you a bottle of water. You didn’t have to drink the whole lake.”

  Once the fear of imminent death had passed, I blinked the water out of my eyes and glared up at the mop of platinum blond hair and mouthful of white teeth.

  Ugh. He was disgustingly perfect.

  Holding his stare, I lifted my chin, calculated my aim, and shot a steady stream of water from my mouth right into his eye.

  “Brat!” he yelled, dropping his hold to swipe at his face.

  Too late, I realized my mistake, and back under I went, panicking while pinging above and below the surface like a fishing bobber. “Help!” I sputtered. “Nash!”

  Two muscular arms grabbed me this time, jerking me halfway out of the water. “For God’s sake, Edie, stand up. It’s barely five feet deep.”

  “I’m only five-three.”

  “Which keeps your nose above the surface and water out of your lungs, provided you can keep that mouth of yours shut. However, knowing you, I seriously have my doubts.”

  “Funny.” If I didn’t love him so much, I’d kick him in the nuts. My stomach flopped at the thought of stopping my legs from spinning and standing as he instructed—and if he were anyone else, that would be a big hell no. But there wasn’t another soul on Earth I trusted more than my big brother. Nash never lied.

  So, I dropped my legs.

  My toes hit dirt.

  And I stood.

  I hated when he was right. “You’re a shitty swim instructor, you know that?”

  “Maybe you’re just a shitty student?” He grinned, flicking water in my face.

  Flipping him the finger, I nodded toward the beach where a herd of girls al
most wearing bikinis stood pretending not to drool. “Don’t you have a fan club waiting to worship the ground your crusty feet walk on?”

  “Ouch. What’s wrong, did the red tide roll in last night?”

  I scrunched my face. “Ew, gross, Nash. Jesus, would you shelve that shit already? A woman can get mad without having her period, thank you.”

  “Woman, huh?” His grin widened as he flipped onto his back and floated like it was so damn easy. Fucker. “You’re fifteen, Edie. I’m not sure that constitutes being a woman.”

  “Well, you’re eighteen and considered a man, yet your balls still haven’t dropped.”

  Lifting his head, he made a claw with his fingers and scratched the air while hissing like a cat.

  “Just forget it,” I growled, giving his chest a good shove, and of course, the idiot didn’t even go under the water. “Who says I need to know how to swim anyway? I’m more of a dock kind of girl.”

  “And what if you’re walking along that dock, trip on a loose board, and fall headfirst into deep water?” he said, standing and running a hand through his drenched hair. “I won’t always be around to save you, Edie. The water won’t always be five feet. You won’t always be able to stand, and no matter how hard you spin those skinny legs of yours, it won’t always be enough. Eventually, you’re gonna have to learn how to swim on your own. Otherwise, you’re gonna sink like a rock.”

  “Well, this has been fun. Thanks, Debbie Downer.”

  “Not tryin’ to be.” His face got really serious all of a sudden, and it twisted something inside me. “Just protecting my baby sister. Us Lacheys are made of strong stuff, but sooner or later, life throws us all off the dock and we have to choose.”

  “Sink or swim,” I murmured.

  “No matter what, you always swim, Edie. You always fucking swim.”

  “Swim…” The word tasted like ash on my tongue. My whole mouth felt thick and sticky as if it were stuffed with wet sand and rubber cement. I tried swallowing, but the burn from the sand coating my throat choked me so badly, I felt tears roll down each temple. “Swim…” I managed again, the word barely a whisper.

  It’s too dark. I need to see. I need to kick.

  I tried opening my eyes underwater, but they were too heavy. I was too deep, and the water was too black. It held me immobile, dragging me farther down into its depths to a watery grave.

  I sank.

  I’m sorry, Nash.

  I tried to embrace what was coming—accept the end with peace—but I couldn’t. It wasn’t in my nature. I didn’t just give up. This wasn’t how it all ended for me.

  “No matter what, you always swim, Edie. You always fucking swim.”

  So, I swam. I kicked. Harder and harder, until my lungs burned and my heart weakened. I swam until my head broke the surface.

  And then all hell broke loose.

  Sirens wailed so loudly, I winced. The shrill, ear-piercing sound pounded inside my head, but my arms were useless to block it.

  “Swim…” I rasped. “Swim…”

  “Señora!” a female voice shouted above me. “Dr. De León! Dr. De León! Señora Carrera! ¡Ella está despierta! ¡Ella está despierta!”

  Stop shouting and help me out of this lake, you crazy bitch!

  Wait. Why was she yelling that I was awake in Spanish?

  And when the fuck did I learn Spanish?

  Before I could figure it out, hands descended upon me, poking and prodding and thank Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, silencing that damn siren. I wanted them off me, but I still couldn’t make my limbs work. However, I swore to shit, when I got them loose, if I didn’t have every stitch of clothing on my body, I knew of two men who would gladly introduce these assholes to a Louisville Slugger.

  With a shuffle of feet, a new voice leaned over me. “Sí, Señora! Abre tus ojos.”

  If this motherfucker doesn’t stop ordering me around…

  Did he not notice I was trying to open my damn eyes?

  Drawing as much strength as I could, I fought against the lake, the hands, and whatever rope held my arms from throwing a punch. Just when the strain dropped a cement block on my chest… Just when it felt like my heart would burst if I pushed myself any harder, I saw it.

  Light.

  I could’ve cried.

  But I didn’t. Instead, I crawled on my bound hands and knees, dragging that damn cement block behind me by its chain. I grunted. I growled. I cursed.

  But son of a bitch, I did it.

  I reached the light. I touched it. And when I did, my eyes opened, and it blinded me with the brightest flash of white I’d ever seen. It fucking hurt, and I let out a scream.

  Well, more like a whimper.

  I still had wet sand in my throat.

  A collective sigh filled the room. “Alerta al señor.”

  They could alert the Pope for all I cared. I just wanted to bask in my victory for a few seconds and then demand they take me to the one man who could always make everything right.

  My safe place. My forever hero.

  “Nash,” I whispered, the dry skin on my lips splitting along with his name.

  More hands. More Spanish.

  I kept blinking until the excruciatingly bright light dimmed, and the outline of a room started to take shape. It was white as well, but smeared with designated splashes of color. A bright blue chair. Red, white, and black window moldings, almost reminiscent of stained-glass. A mural painted on one solitary wall depicted a beautiful sunset. Once my eyes settled on it, I couldn’t look away. It was haunting. It was as if the sun had permanently set, trapped by the sea.

  Sea.

  Water.

  Where the hell was I?

  The pressure on my chest returned, and I tried once more to move my hand. This time, it twitched, and I reached for the concrete block still pressing down on me.

  “No, Señora Carrera—”

  My eyes shot up to where an older man wearing a white lab coat and a worried look held my hand still. “Who are you—”

  As if charged by a herd of elephants, the door to the room swung open, slamming against the wall so hard it stuck. The man in the white coat and I both swung our heads around to find another man standing just inside the room, his hands fisted by his side, his chest heaving.

  Shit, he looked almost as bad as I felt.

  Dark hair, as black as midnight hung in disarray. Chunks fell over his forehead, and a few pieces stood straight up, while the others stuck flat to his head. It looked like he’d spent hours, if not days, tugging at the roots. Although a heavy beard covered the lower half of his face, there was no mistaking the chiseled jawline—one sharp enough to carve out a heart or a soul, depending on his mood.

  But it was his eyes that captured my attention—as dark as his hair, but bottomless as the ocean. A depth only known by those who never spoke of it again. Even from five feet away, I saw the gold flakes glitter in them, and I couldn’t decide if they were seductive glints or the leftover embers of a return from Hell.

  “Cereza…” The word whispered from his lips like a prayer. There was no time to speak before he crossed the room and dropped to his knees by my side. “Dios mío, gracias. Gracias, Santa Muerte.”

  I cleared my throat. “Um, I don’t—”

  Nothing could’ve prepared me for the moment his hand cupped my cheek and his lips crashed down on mine. I froze, the concrete block doubling in size.

  Cue the siren.

  “Señor Carrera, por favor. The señora, she is still weak. We must keep her calm.”

  Yeah. What he said.

  “Forgive me, mi amor. It’s just been so long since I’ve seen your eyes. I never thought this day would… I hoped… I even prayed, but I never dared to let myself believe you’d come back to me. But, fuck, Cereza, you did it. You’re here. You kept your promise.”

  I had so many questions. Where was here? Why was I here?What happened? Why was that man in the white coat still poking at me? But the one on my tongue—the one that
rushed ahead of all the others and tumbled out first—was the one I couldn’t hold back.

  “Who are you?”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Eden

  It was the wrong thing to say.

  Silence filled the room like carbon monoxide. Odorless, colorless, tasteless.

  But deadly and fatal.

  The softness that had just smoothed the handsome man’s face tightened. It sank into hardened lines that splintered out from the corners of his eyes and settled into the deep horizontal ones that shot across his forehead. It disappeared into the intimidating parentheses framing his mouth and pulsed in the rigid muscles in his neck.

  And right away I knew…

  This man was dangerous.

  “What did you just say?” He punctuated each word with a deliberate pause.

  I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to repeat the question, but I was scared not to. Something bad had happened, and until I knew what, the less I upset this man, the better. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  “I asked you a question.”

  “I, uh, I asked who you were,” I repeated, my mind spinning into overdrive as panic flared in my chest.

  Instead of answering me, he shot a lethal look at the man in white. “What the fuck’s wrong with her?”

  “I am not sure, señor. With cases like these, there are many variables. We never know what to expect when the patient wakes. I won’t have a definitive answer until I examine her, but for now, my best guess is some sort of memory loss.”

  What the hell was he talking about? My memory was fine.

  Well, mostly. If I could just remember how I ended up in this bed.

  The dark-haired man spun back around. I only had seconds to brace myself before he launched himself on top of me, his hands taking a brutal hold on my shoulders. We were nose to nose, and I couldn’t draw in breath fast enough. Sirens wailed again, and if he heard them, he didn’t care. The gold in his eyes glittered like fire as his voice dropped to a low growl. “What is your name?”

  “Eden Lachey.”

  “Where do you live?”