Which, to be fair, I suppose in a way, I was.
Semantics.
It didn’t matter. I’d never give up on her. Even if it took the rest of my life, I’d find a way to break the walls inside her mind. A man never stopped fighting for what was his.
However, I didn’t forget the promise I made to her. It was only the fourth promise I’d ever made, and like the third, I’d keep it or die trying.
Revenge for her tears.
Revenge for our suffering.
Revenge for being denied the life she promised me.
In seven days, I’d determined revenge wasn’t a raid of a border and simple execution. That was too simple. Too quick. Too painless. If there was one thing I’d learned from my bastard of a father and the sadistic fuck who raised my sister, it was that true revenge was a disease that infected an entire bloodline, ripping it apart at the seams.
The sins of the father are to be laid upon the children.
With Eden out for the day with Leighton, I made my way into Santi’s room, where, as usual, I found him playing with his firetruck. The moment he saw me, his eyes lit up.
“Hi, papá.”
I didn’t answer. Instead, I just smiled and sat in the white rocking chair tucked away in the corner of his room. With a simple pat on my knee, Santi dropped what he was doing and dutifully crawled into my lap.
Obedience was a strong trait. He’d learn quickly.
I stroked his dark hair as he tugged at the buttons on my shirt. “Remember everything I told you nine months ago, Santi?” I didn’t wait for a response. “I was wrong. Not about the empire. I’m still building that for you and your sister. But your hands are going to be stained. We aren’t good men, son, and we’re not made to be fair. We’re not descendants of the devil; we are the devil.”
“Debil,” he repeated with a toothy grin.
“Carrera men don’t rely on fate,” I continued. “No one in this world is innocent. We punish everyone. You are a Carrera, Santiago. I build for you. I kill for you. I steal for you. And I will die for you. One day, you will be El Muerte, and you will claim revenge in the name of your family. You will spill blood. And you, my son, will avenge what Dante Santiago did to your mother.”
Epilogue
Santiago Carrera
Sixteen years later
“Please don’t fucking sing.”
I didn’t even get the words out of my mouth before I was pelted with a very off-key rendition of Feliz Cumpleaños. I didn’t know why I bothered. This family did whatever the hell it wanted. It always had. Case in point, the triple-layer chocolate cake headed my way with an inferno of fire blazing on top of it.
I stopped caring about birthdays years ago. Sixteen years ago, to be exact. Having your nanny write your birthday on the calendar just so your mother knew when it was kind of did that to a kid. Not that she didn’t try. Mamá busted her ass to ensure Lola and I didn’t feel the trickle-down effect of what happened to her.
But it was inevitable. No family went through that kind of battle without some major scars. Birthdays just happened to be a big fat, jagged one of mine.
“Blow out the candles, fuckface.”
“Lola!” Mamá scolded her from behind the flames, but I heard the laughter in her voice. Typical. My little shit of a sister got away with everything. Contrary to what she thought, being born thirty-five thousand feet in the air didn’t give her ego a free pass to hang out on a damn pedestal.
Of course, I guess I couldn’t blame her. She was a product of her environment. Another manifestation of Carrera guilt. Mamá almost died having her, so she got to be a mouthy bitch.
Sure. Made perfect sense to me.
I flipped a middle finger at her, and in return, she flipped her long dark hair over her shoulder and smiled.
Yep, bitch.
A bitch I’d murder a motherfucker over, but still a bitch, nonetheless. One who looked more like our mother every day. Besides identical features, they shared the same pale blue eyes, a rare sight in Mexico. A trophy. One that a handful of assholes coveted, thinking a smile and a fast car would win them an all-access pass into her pants.
What it got them were broken noses, broken legs, and a warning shot to the foot.
Mamá tossed her head back and laughed, the cake wobbling in her hands. “She’s right, mijo. Blow out the candles and make a wish.”
I groaned. “Mamá, please don’t call me that. I’m eighteen, not eight.”
She smiled, and a pang of guilt hit me. I knew what she was doing, and as a kid, it meant a lot. But I was a man now. Calling me cute names wasn’t necessary anymore. I understood what she went through. She didn’t have to try so hard to make up for the years she didn’t know me.
“I know. But you’re my son, Santi. It doesn’t matter how old you are. You’ll always be my little mijo.”
Fuck, I wish I hated that more than I did. But I didn’t. Truthfully, I loved it. Not that I’d ever admit it.
Having my mother back was a gift I’d never take for granted. It didn’t happen overnight. It would’ve been so much easier if it had. But like Tía Adriana always said, “Anything worth having is worth waiting for.”
Five years.
It took five years for her full memory to return. Little by little. Piece by piece it came back. Every day more and more. Watching papá live through it was something I’d never wish on my worst enemy.
Actually, that wasn’t true. I’d wish it on one.
“Goddamn it, Santi, you’re letting wax drip all over the icing!”
“Cuida tu boca, Lola.” A stern voice said behind Mamá. It wasn’t loud, but it was enough to send my sister’s ass back into her chair and clamp her mouth shut. “Watch your mouth,” he repeated, this time in English. “You’re sixteen years old. Have some respect.”
Valentin Carrera. My father and the man Mexico—hell most of the world—bowed down to. He hid more of himself from Lola than me. Daddy’s little girl hadn’t watched from the shadows as blood stained the sink where he washed his hands. She hadn’t snuck across the estate and hid outside Senado, listening as her father and Tío Mateo and Tío Brody planned men’s murders.
She turned a blind eye. But me, I sought it out.
Lola stomped her foot like a toddler. “Santi cursed!”
Papá raised an eyebrow as he wrapped his arms around mamá from behind. “Santi is a man.”
“That’s sexist! Mamá, do something!”
Mamá didn’t miss a beat. “I am. I’m waiting for your brother to blow out his fucking candles.”
Lola flopped back in her chair like she was in a damn telenovela. “Ay, Dios mío…”
A rare smile floated across my father’s face. He reserved them for my mother. I was okay with that. They’d earned the right. They went through hell to be where they were, and today, as a man leaving the home I grew up in, I could appreciate that for what it was.
Undiluted fortitude.
They never gave up. Every year they got stronger and stronger. Even through a child’s eye, I saw it. The hugs got more frequent, and the kisses got longer. The stolen glances held something, at the time, I didn’t understand. Going through what they did wasn’t a good thing. Fuck that. But they were okay. No, they were better than okay. They were fucking unstoppable.
One day, I’d have a love like that.
Maybe.
Eh, probably not.
“This party sucks balls,” Lola grumbled.
Despite my disdain for everything that was happening, I couldn’t help but smile. My family was so fucked up, we’d make Shakespeare's most tragic characters go, “Yeah, maybe we don’t have it so bad.” But I wouldn’t have it any other way. I liked who we were.
I loved the power the Carrera name held. I loved the fear and respect in my classmates’ eyes. My name shook the foundation of every step I took, and now that I was eighteen, that power would take on a new meaning. A prophecy. A destiny promised to me before I knew the meaning of the word.
Make a wish?
No problem.
Drawing my lungs full of air, I blew it out with the force of what this day meant, and every flame extinguished on my command.
See? Respect.
Everyone clapped and words finally stopped coming out of my sister’s mouth long enough for her to shove cake in it. On edge, I turned to leave when a plate was shoved in my face.
“Eat,” mamá ordered, refusing to move until I relented and took the damn plate. I loved her, but she could be as ruthless as papá when she wanted something. Begrudgingly, I took a bite and stifled a moan. Fucking hell, the woman could bake a cake.
“Thanks,” I mumbled, crumbs flying out of my mouth.
“I know what you wished for.”
“That’s kind of gross, mamá.”
A knowing smirk pasted across her lips. “Oh, trust me, mijo, I know it wasn’t that. You are your father’s son.” I let out an audible sigh as she ruffled her fingers through my slicked-back dark hair, dislodging it into a chaotic mess. “With those devil gold eyes, I’m sure you wouldn’t have to waste a wish on getting that.”
And there went my appetite.
Groaning, I tossed the rest of my cake onto a side table. “Ah, fuck, mamá. Can we please not—”
“You want in.”
I stilled. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t know what to say. She was right. Full entrance into the family and a seat at Senado was my birthright. It was what I’d been waiting for. I felt the stirring in my bones. The itching for blood on my hands. The torch was passing, and the flame still burned as hot today as it did sixteen years ago.
But I said none of that. Besides, knowing my mother as well as I did, she’d tell me anyway.
“Santi, I’ve lived with your father long enough to know this day was coming.” She pinned me with those icy blue eyes. “You’re a man. You’ve grown up amongst men who live this life. It was inevitable.”
Well, damn. I didn’t expect this.
“Just promise me you’ll be smart. Promise me you’ll always think before you act. Consider the consequences. Carreras are made of strong stuff, but sooner or later, life throws us all off the dock and we either sink or swim.” Her eyes glistened, and a sad smile painted her face as she squeezed my hand. “No matter what, you always swim, Santi. You always fucking swim.”
* * *
Six Months Later
“We’ve arrived at Teterboro, Señor Carrera.”
Nodding to the pilot, I slipped on my sunglasses and stepped off my father’s private jet, inhaling the familiar stench of burning rubber and rotten eggs. “Ah, home sweet home.” Chuckling to myself, I climbed down the remaining few steps to the tarmac and made my way toward the waiting car.
I didn’t have to ask. I knew it was for me.
For six months this had been my routine. Fly to New Jersey, land at Teterboro Private Airport, take a car over to Elizabeth Marine Terminal in Newark where I verified shipments, greased a few palms, and reminded dirty politicians and dock hands exactly what the Carreras were capable of if crossed.
I’d never had a problem. My father had New Jersey running like a well-oiled machine for years long before he passed ownership to me. As far as everyone here was concerned, I was El Muerte.
My driver, whose sole purpose in life was to see me safely from Teterboro to Newark and back again, nodded as he opened the rear driver’s side door. “To Newark, Mr. Carrera?”
I waited until he shut the door and took his seat in front of me to answer him. “Not today, Ricardo.”
“Sir?”
“I’m headed to Red Hook Terminal.”
“But that’s in Brooklyn, sir.” His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, his eyes finding mine in the rearview mirror. “That’s Santiago territory.”
“I know.” Leaning forward, I pressed my mouth close to his ear. I could feel the fear vibrating off him, and I soaked it in. I fucking inhaled it. And moments before I slit his throat, I added with a smile, “I have a date with destiny.”
The End
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Bad Blood
Corrupt Gods Duet
Want more?
Introducing the Corrupt Gods Duet
Two Trilogies.
Two Authors.
One Unholy War.
Carrera vs. Santiago.
The legacy continues in…
BAD BLOOD
Book 1 of the Corrupt Gods Duet
by Cora Kenborn and Catherine Wiltcher
Coming April 2021
Preorder Bad Blood on Amazon now!
TAINTED BLOOD
Book 2 of the Corrupt Gods Duet
by Cora Kenborn and Catherine Wiltcher
Coming May 2021
Preorder Tainted Blood on Amazon now!
Darkest Deeds
You met Bratva queen, Ava, and assassin, Niko, in Stained White Lines. Want to know how their shocking story began? Keep reading for a sample of Darkest Deeds, a dark mafia standalone.
Darkest Deeds
No one is innocent in the eyes of the Cavalieri Della Morte. If your name is on my list, your time is up.
No regrets. No mercy. No conscience.
Until the enemy becomes my twisted obsession.
Two days ago, I paid a price to fulfill a vendetta. Twenty minutes ago, I threw it all away.
Stolen in the night. Held against her will.
Bound to a monster.
I came to take her life but claimed it instead.
I warn her not to trust men with sin on their lips and ice in their veins. She cautions me not to be deceived by my own eyes. Neither of us listens.
What started out as a quest for retribution has become a game of survival. They say three can keep a secret if two of them are dead.
Challenge accepted.
Prologue
Ava
Quantico, Virginia
Present Day
The minutes keep ticking. I know because I’ve counted all one hundred and twenty of them.
They’re trying to rattle me with one of their basic ploys: always keep your opponent off guard. It’s law enforcement’s initial interrogation tactic.
Well, technically, the first tactic is to establish a rapport and roll out the “kill ’em with kindness” act. However, since federal agents had me in cuffs as soon as my plane landed, I’m pretty sure they skipped it and went straight for psychological manipulation.
Their white-washed concept of torture is to keep me locked in an office for two hours. I want to laugh, but it isn’t even worth the effort. Two hours is nothing. I’m full clothed, and I’m wearing shoes. My hands aren’t bound to this chair, and I can see the sky right outside the window overlooking Quantico.
Yeah, they can wipe their asses with their two hours.
The door behind me opens then slams, but I don’t flinch. Keeping my eyes forward, I ignore the intrusion until FBI Section Chief Dunning stomps around the oversized desk in a storm of heated fury and arrogance.
Throwing a stack of files on his desk, he takes his seat and glares at me. “I don’t suppose you understand what kind of shit you’re in.”
“And all this time, I thought I was the victim. Thanks for clearing that up.” Folding my hands, I interlace my fingers and sit back. My eyes wander, landing on an American flag encased in glass hanging on the wall behind his head. The way it’s situated, he looks like he’s wearing it as a crown.
Like the prince of freedom.
The irony isn’t lost on me, and as nauseating as the red and white stripes are, at least they give me something to focus on other than the arrogant smirk tugging at the corner of his. mouth.
He slams his palms against his desk and cocks his chin, the dark skin pulled tight across
his jaw. I know his game right away. Intimidation. He wants me to break first. Good in theory, but if he’s been debriefed on anything that’s happened in the last week, he should know better.
I have nothing left to break. A conscience can’t fracture if it doesn’t exist, and if you bargain with the devil, sometimes you pay with your soul.
With his tactics failing, Dunning’s demeanor changes, and he digs his nails into the wood. “You’re part of a Russian crime syndicate.”
I don’t hear a question in there, so I hold his stare while brushing my thumb over his nameplate. “Well, that may be true, Carl, but I also took out one of this country’s most prolific assassins who, I might add, your agency has failed to identify, much less apprehend. Shouldn’t that count for something?”
A faint flush stains his coffee-colored cheeks as his fist comes down hard on his desk. “You will address me as sir! Your actions were unprecedented, not to mention stupid. You walked into an undercover FBI investigation completely unarmed.”
He watches me for a reaction, and I recognize something familiar in his eyes. Controlled chaos. He desperately needs to assure himself of his own authority, so I sit motionless.
“Oh, I was definitely armed. I was just relieved of it shortly after my capture.”
“That’s what you choose to focus on, Miss Chernova?” What’s left of the chief’s composure snaps. Unclenching his hand, he sweeps it across the polished wood, sending stacks of papers scattering to the floor. He’s pissed and with good reason. Every word I say exposes something ugly he doesn’t want to face.
Carrera Cartel: The Collection Page 110