Even though Anita warned me what was going on, I was still frozen in shock to find my father on his knees with two men standing over him. Both are holding pistols.
I don’t remember screaming, but the strangers turn to face me as if surprised, so I must have.
My father moans and hangs his head. “Elena … run … get out of here.”
The urge to do what he says is strong. My heart beats a mile a minute, sending blood rushing to my limbs. Fight or flight. It’s insane for me to stay, but I can’t just leave him here to die. I don’t think the drawn guns are an indication of an idle threat. They mean to kill him.
“What’s going on?” I demand, stepping into the room.
The man standing at my father’s back looks me up and down with interested eyes, his mouth half-cocked in a smirk. He’s tall and broad-shouldered, thin but with an athletic physique. He has dark brown hair with lighter strands here and there. A pair of full lips are almost too much for his angular face but are balanced out by large blue eyes and a nose that looks as if it’s been broken once or twice. If it weren’t for that nose and the gun in his hand, he would look more like an Armani model than a criminal.
He’s wearing a navy-blue suit with a violet shirt and blue tie in a Windsor knot. I don’t know why I’m fixated on his clothes—the designer in me can’t seem to help it. The thought of clothes reminds me that I’m hardly wearing any, so I snatch my wrap closed and glare at him. This seems to amuse the thug, who gives me a grin that’s both charming and menacing at the same time.
“Nothing that concerns you,” says the second man, drawing my attention to him. “But since you decided to intrude on our business, close the door behind you.”
Every hair on my body stands on end as our eyes connect. I can’t believe I zeroed in on the other guy first, when this one seems to be sucking all the oxygen out of the room. He isn’t as tall as his partner, but he has presence. He’s broadly built, and even through the opening of his suit jacket, I can see how his shirt is tailored to fit a powerful, bulky frame. He’s wearing black on black—his suit, shirt, tie, and shoes all in that deathly shade. Inky hair is swept back from his face, except for a few strands falling into his eyes. Those eyes look like chips of onyx from here—black and shuttered, mysterious. He has a chiseled face and a chin dimple showing through the days’ worth of stubble shadowing his jaw. When he spoke, his voice was low and gravelly. A deep bass with the slightest accent threaded through it. Black coffee with just a drop of cream.
I swallow past the lump in my throat and stare at his pistol—which is now aimed directly at me. His fingers are tattooed, but I can’t make out what the black letters say from this distance. They may as well spell ‘death’ considering he looks about two seconds away from pulling that trigger.
“Now!” he roars, reminding me he gave an order.
I back toward the door, reaching with an unsteady hand to push it shut.
My father is sobbing like a child now, bent at the waist with this forehead pressed into the rug. “I’m so sorry, Elena. You were never supposed to get dragged into this.”
Staring at his lowered head, I take a step in his direction. The frightening man in black shakes his head, freezing me in my tracks. Funny, his partner doesn’t scare me as much as he does. The man in blue seems more laid-back, still looking as if this is all a game to him. But the guy in black … he looks like the grim reaper—judge, jury, and executioner. I’m surprised I haven’t pissed myself yet.
“What happened?” I ask my father. “What did you do now?”
“He borrowed money from me and has tried to get out of paying it back one too many times,” the one in black says. “And now he’ll answer for it.”
So, he’s a loan shark. Not surprising given most of Miami’s elite turn to such men from time to time. Lavish lifestyles must be maintained at all costs.
What does shock me is that there’s a single shylock left on the entire East coast still willing to lend my father money.
“How much?” I ask with a sigh.
A muscle in his cheek twitches, but his expression remains hard and unreadable. “Five million plus interest.”
My eyes almost pop out of my head. “Five million!”
It’s more than Dad could afford to borrow, and he had to have known that at the time.
My father looks up at me, his face reddened and streaked with tears. “The South Beach condo project going under ruined me. I thought if I could put the money into something else—”
“When are you going to learn that your schemes never work out like you planned?” I can’t believe we’re both about to die over his stupidity. He’s always been a shitty businessman, and it’s a wonder his real-estate development firm hasn’t gone under by now.
“I’m sorry, Elena. I’m so sorry!”
“Shut up!” the man in black snaps. “Miss … Elena? I suggest you turn your back unless you want to watch Papi’s brains splatter the rug.”
Everything within me screams that I should run, fight—anything other than what I’m about to do.
“Wait!”
The man in black stops just short of putting his finger on the trigger. He looks at me like I’m crazy, lips slightly parted.
I step closer while working up my nerve. Some of my courage has withered under the man’s dark glare. “Let me work off the debt. I own a boutique in the Design District, and our profits are good. I have about twenty-thousand in savings I can sign over to you right now. I’ll pay it all back, with interest, if you let him live.”
Part of me knows my father’s life isn’t the only one that hangs in the balance. These men won’t leave any loose ends. I’ve seen their faces and will witness their crime. I’m next on the chopping block.
The man in black scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Your pitiful boutique earnings won’t be nearly enough. You couldn’t pay it all back in your lifetime.”
“I’ll work it off some other way,” I blurt without thinking, desperation pushing the words out of my mouth. “I’ll do whatever you want.”
The cocky partner raises an eyebrow. “She’s hot, jefe … nice tits. She could dance at Calentar.”
Bile stings my throat at the mention of one of Miami’s hottest nightclubs. I’ve never been, but everyone knows about the three-story hotspot with a DJ spinning different genres of music on each level. Stripper poles encircle each of the dance floors, and the strippers are one of Calentar’s main attractions.
It isn’t the idea of gyrating on a pole in a G-string that makes me feel physically sick. The rumors about the owner of the club and his hidden activities are as legendary as Calentar itself. Blinking a stunned look at the man in black, I realize I’m standing in the presence of Diego Pérez himself—rumored mafia thug. The other man did refer to him as ‘jefe.’
A deranged giggle bubbles up my throat as I realize how screwed I am. If the stories can be believed, Diego Pérez is one of the most feared men in the seedy underworld operating in plain sight throughout Miami and other big cities around the United States. The Pérez cartel is old and established, with roots in Colombia.
“Calentar doesn’t need another dancer,” Pérez says with a sneer. “And her tits are nothing special.”
I can’t decide if I’m insulted or devastated that a suggested avenue of indentured servitude has been snatched from under me.
“Please,” I beg, eyes widening as I hold his gaze.
He looks positively soulless—his eyes dark and hard, gleaming with ruthlessness. His index finger twitches but still hasn’t curled around the trigger, leaving me with a small glimmer of hope. I don’t want to die. I’m pushing twenty-seven and only just hitting my stride in a fashion career I’ve been dreaming of since I was a girl playing with my mama’s sewing machine. I put off settling down with a husband and kids until I had achieved the goals I’d set for myself, and I’m nearly ready to begin the rest of my life.
Pérez purses his lips, looking from me to my father. His expressi
on doesn’t change, but I can feel his wheels turning. Is he considering my offer?
“Jefe?” the other man prompts, his forehead wrinkled.
Pérez holds up one hand and looks back to me. A shiver runs down my spine at the resolve I see in his eyes, and I realize it probably would have been better to accept death. Whatever he has in store is definitely worse than a bullet to the head.
“Very well,” he says with a chilling smile. “I’ll allow your father an extension of thirty days to come up with half of what he owes.”
My shoulders sag with relief, even as I realize there’s no way we can come up with $2.5 million in so short a time. But then, a month will give me a chance to plot my way out of this. There has to be some country I can escape to where the Pérez cartel can’t reach.
“In the meantime,” Pérez continues, “I’ll need collateral. You understand … there’s a flight risk to consider.”
Damn it, he’s on to me.
“What collateral?” I ask. “The only thing of enough value my father owns is this house. You can take my boutique, too, if it will help.”
Pérez lowers his pistol and takes a slow step in my direction. “Your material possessions mean nothing to me, Miss Aguilar. What I intend to take with me is far more valuable than that.”
Faster than I can blink, his empty hand closes around my upper arm. With a yelp, I stumble as he spins me and then yanks me into his chest, his arm wrapping around my throat.
A protest dies on my tongue when the barrel of his gun presses beneath my jaw. My father remains on his knees, shaking his head and watching the scene with open-mouthed horror.
“Mr. Aguilar, your daughter will be a guest in my home for thirty days. If you haven’t produced half of what you owe me by the end of that time, I’ll put a bullet in her skull.”
I grip Pérez’s forearm with shaking hands. Surely my father won’t let them take me from this house. He must realize once I’m out of his sight, we lose control of this situation.
“Dad,” I beg, shaking my head and blinking back tears. “There has to be another way.”
“There is no other way,” Pérez contradictions me. “Either she leaves with me now, or you both die.”
The tears begin to fall as I realize I’m fucked no matter what. Either decision places me firmly in the hands of this dangerous man.
“Elena,” my father croaks, giving his head a slow shake. “What else can I do?”
Rage overcomes my grief, and I lunge toward my dad, forgetting about the man holding me back. My feet come off the floor as Pérez’s other arm snakes around my waist.
“Man up and do something!” I scream, kicking and flailing against Pérez’s unyielding hold. “You can’t force me to pay for your mistakes! It isn’t right! It isn’t fair!”
Wrestling me to my knees, Pérez wrangles both my hands and captures them behind my back. Pressing my wrists together, he puts weight on my lower back, forcing my forehead against the rug. My face heats up as I snort and huff into the carpet like a trapped animal.
“Promise you won’t hurt her,” my father pleads, his voice low and helpless.
“You have my word, no one will hurt her unless you fail to hold up your end of the bargain. If she tries to escape, she’ll be restrained with a necessary amount of force.”
I crane my neck to see my father, who won’t even look at me now. He’s wringing his hands and staring at the ceiling as if wrestling with his decision. The motherfucker. He’s already decided and we both know it.
“Take her.”
His words are like a physical blow. Only, instead of deflating me, they only ramp me up more. I buck and kick as Pérez pushes me flat on my belly and straddles my hips. His thighs are hard and impossibly strong, pinning me.
“Jovan!” he calls out.
The footsteps of Pérez’s partner thud on the carpet, and then he’s crouched beside me. A pitiful whine is all I can muster before the swift prick of a needle stings the side of my neck.
My limbs become heavy and useless within seconds, and the room starts to tilt and sway.
“What was that?” I hear my father ask in a startled, faraway voice. “You said you wouldn’t hurt her!”
“It’s just a little something to keep her from making a nuisance of herself during transport,” Jovan says.
Pérez’s weight leaves my back, but I can’t even twitch my little finger, let alone get to my feet. I flop like a rag doll as he lifts me effortlessly, throwing me over his shoulder.
The thick muscle bites into my stomach, making me feel like I’ll puke any second. There’s nothing I can do but stare at his pant leg, each of his strides making me dizzy.
“Thirty days, Santiago,” Jovan warns, his footsteps trailing behind us. “No excuses, no exceptions.”
The world around me starts to fade away, as if I’m sinking into a dark hole. The hallway lights are like pinpoints hundreds of miles away, and my mind feels detached from my body.
The two men are silent as they exit the house, and before long I register the humidity of the outside air. Stone and then pavement pass beneath me, and I whimper as I’m lifted and hauled into the backseat of the car. I can’t keep my eyes open, and my neck can no longer hold up my head. It lolls to the side as my body is cradled by soft, buttery leather, and the car sways from the slamming of doors.
And just like that, I’m riding away from life as I know it and a future that just slipped through my fingers like water.
A warm hand grips my chin and tilts my head up. I feel eyes on me and assume they belong to Pérez. He doesn’t strike me as one to drive himself around in what feels like a luxury vehicle.
I’m proven right when he speaks, his voice close and vibrating through me along with the rumble of the engine. “Drive.”
The car begins to move, and Jovan’s voice comes at me as if from far away. He must be driving. “What are you going to do with her? You know Aguilar won’t have the money in time.”
“Don’t worry about what I’ll do with her. All you need to know is what will happen if Santiago doesn’t pay up.”
“And you think you can do it so easily?” Jovan asks, sounding dubious. “You’re going to kill this girl to punish her father when she hasn’t done anything wrong?”
Right before I fall unconscious, Pérez’s voice washes over me, filling me with dread.
“Absolutely.”
3
Diego
What the hell did I just do?
I ask myself the question over and over during the ride home. It’s a long haul from High Pines to Indian Creek—a private, exclusive neighborhood on a small island in Biscayne Bay. Its small size and a total of less than twenty houses makes it the perfect place for the center of my operations. Several of my men live under my roof, along with my staff, security team, and my little sister. Apparently, it’s also going to be the home of Elena Aguilar for the next thirty days.
Ignoring Jovan’s probing glances in the rear-view window, I study Elena up close. She’s a tall woman, a mere inch shorter than me, with legs that go on forever. Her skin is smooth and sun-kissed, a shade of bronzed olive just a bit lighter than my own. Her hair was dripping wet when she invaded her father’s office, but it’s starting to dry in silky waves. A few strands are plastered to her face and neck, so I push them back.
When open, her eyes were large and chocolate brown. Dark amber flecks jumped out at me when I stood close. Her eyebrows are plucked and neat, full but not bushy, arching toward a smooth forehead. Her nose is slightly, adorably upturned at the tip, and a tiny beauty spot shows just above her upper lip. Her mouth is a fucking wet dream, plump and slightly open, naturally tinted a pale pink. It doesn’t take much imagination to picture those pouty lips wrapped around my cock.
No. I can’t think about her that way. She isn’t some piece of ass I can help myself to whenever I want. She’s a valuable prisoner—one that will, hopefully, be worth millions by the time I’m finished with her father.
It’ll be a shame have to kill her. Aside from being a knockout, she seems to be nothing like Santiago. She was clearly pissed about the debt and her father’s lack of business acumen. Really, the only sin she committed was being in the wrong place at the wrong time. In my world, that’s all it can take to seal your fate.
Jovan clears his throat, drawing my attention away from Elena. I should be embarrassed to be caught ogling her, but shame isn’t something I give into. Ever. I own everyone and everything around me, which means I can do whatever the fuck I want.
“What?” I snap when Jovan gives me a loaded look through the rearview mirror.
He shakes his head and lets out a snort. “Why didn’t you just kill the bastard? Taking his daughter when you know he can’t pay up only complicates the situation.”
He’s right, and we both know it. But I can’t go back on the decision now—not that I particularly want to. Killing Santiago in front of Elena means we would have had to kill her, too. It’s the cardinal rule of carrying out a hit job: never leave witnesses. If she had stayed in the pool, things might have been different. But there’s no use crying over spilled milk.
“Five mil plus interest is nothing to sneeze at,” I remind him. “If the money can be recovered, I’d rather have it than Santiago’s blood on my hands.”
Jovan gives me a dubious look but doesn’t argue. He knows better than anyone how much I dislike having to kill. It doesn’t matter how long ago I first learned just how much pressure it takes to pull a trigger, or how many bodies I’ve left in my wake. Jovan will assume that’s the only reason I took Elena, and it’s all he needs to know. The specifics of my conversation with Father Moya are none of his business.
Marrying the Mobster: American Gangsters 1 (Leave Me Breathless) Page 2