Twisted (A Zeta Cartel Novel Book 5)

by AJ Adams

  There was fervent swearing.

  "With milk?"

  He marched in, grumpier than bears. "Who are you to give me orders?"

  "Unchain me and I'll put the kettle on." He didn't deign to reply. I sat on the floor, watching him strip. His collection of grazes and contusions would have daunted a boxer. The bruise from the bullet was turning purple and yellow at the edges. "Want me to look at that arm?"

  Jorge looked at me suspiciously. "No."

  "Okay. I was just being civilised."

  "Impossible."

  He filled the bath with steaming water and got into it. From his expression, it was doing him a lot of good.

  Having been alone all day made me chatty. "Your book's really interesting."

  "Aha."

  "You're at war, right? Well, Kowalczyk is using disinformation. I'm not your enemy."

  "Hmm." He closed his eyes, but I knew he was listening. I leaned against the tub and made an effort to get to him. "I did laugh at you but I really didn't post those tweets."

  "Aha."

  "He loathes me. He threatened to throw acid in my face more than once."

  "Sure."

  He wasn't listening. "I hate Kowalczyk. Honest, I do!"

  "It doesn't matter." The steaming hot bath turned him lobster red. "He wants you, so you stay."

  It was just like the book said: I wasn't a person in this. I was just a pawn.

  Maybe an appeal to his honour would work. "You're at war but I'm a civilian."

  The water surged. "Don't lie," he snapped. "You're part of Kowalczyk's organisation."

  "I'm not. I was pretending to be his girl. Because of a debt."

  "Don't give me that," he growled. "You're in, like it or not."

  Crap. This man would not let me walk. I was still stuck. But if Jorge wanted to hurt Kowalczyk, I might curry favour by helping. "By the amazing bruises, I guess you're at the receiving end of a lot of shit?"

  "I could gag you."

  Still better than being belted. "Come now, don't be like that. I'm not dissing you. I'm just saying that our mutual enemy is a pain in the arse."

  The water settled again. "First thing tomorrow, I'm buying a gag."

  I recognised an empty threat. He was just cross. I continued proving my worth as an ally. "You know Kowalczyk's got that Jackson Pollock in his living room?"

  The dark eyes were locked on mine. "The what?"

  "The painting, bozo. That red and blue monstrosity."

  He blinked. "Yeah? So?"

  "He thinks it's the real deal."

  The Zetas' attention sharpened. "Oh?"

  "It's the same with Athena, the sexy goddess statue in the garden. Kowalczyk bought it from a dealer who assured him it's from the Parthenon."

  "Is that so?"

  Yes, definitely interested. "The Parthenon is in Greece," I explained. "It's a famous old temple."

  He sighed. "Yes, bozo," sarcastically, "I know."

  "Well, how was I to know you've got an education?" I got back on track. "Look, if you want to piss Kowalczyk off, prove they're fakes and spread it around town."

  "Hmmm. And why are you telling me this?"

  "I told you, he and I are not friends."

  Jorge just shrugged. He was determined not to listen.

  I gave up. "Also, I want a cup of tea and a drawing pad and pencil."

  Jorge blinked. "What? Why?"

  "Because I like a cuppa and I have to get a portfolio together."

  "Portfolio?"

  "A varied set of designs intended to be shown to a potential employer."

  Snarkily, "I know what a portfolio is."

  "You are clever," I complimented him. "So, Jorge Santos, do we have a deal or what?"

  He smiled nastily. "I don't need to trade. I already have the information."

  "Because I'm playing nice," I reminded him. "Also," I posed, hand behind my head, shaking my tits. "I play much better when I'm happy."

  Another smug evil grin. "You will anyway. I hold the whip hand."

  I shrugged. "Suit yourself. But I have lots of other info."

  "I don't need it."

  He reared up and stepped out of the bath, water dripping down the rippling muscles. He really was built for pleasure: long powerful legs, kissable abs, and a cock to die for.

  I handed him a towel and got down to making him like me properly. "How about a lap dance?"

  "Boring."

  "Not the way I do it. And do think, Jorge, you're bashed to hell and back. Why not sit back and let me do all the work?"

  "I'm fine!"

  God, the slightest thing got him on the raw. "Of course, you are," I assured him. "I was just offering you an executive position."

  He grunted, flashed off and returned with the cuff key. I saw him wince when he bent over but pretended I didn't. "We'll try it," he said reluctantly.

  "You won't regret it." And to make him smile, "Boss." The growl and swift way his eyes narrowed signalled I'd mis-stepped. That deadly anger was back as well. "A dirty secretary game?" I suggested hastily.

  His hand was on my shoulder but the fulminating dialled down again. "How about you just do it - and in silence?"

  Pretty, but more volatile than oxygen tanks. "Anything you want."

  "Then get dancing."

  Chapter Nine

  Jorge

  I've never liked lap dances much. I don't want some stripper rubbing her pucha all over me. And even if she's half dressed, I know where she's been, on top of twenty guys if not more, and it gives me the icks.

  Yeah, laugh if you like but when you see the trash that's regular at a strip club, you'd feel the same. Plus, strippers usually smell bad. It's not their fault. Dancing eight hours under hot lights makes it inevitable. I understand but I do notice; and I don't like it.

  So, when the fresa suggested a lap dance, I wasn't enthused. What I wanted to do was spread her out and ride her till she wailed. Face down, preferably. There was something about her being helpless that really appealed to me.

  But after eight hours of processing product, and cursing that fucker Jamal every minute, followed by six hours of desk work to keep our business running smoothly, I was more trashed than a week-old corpse. Even a boiling hot bath wasn't enough to get me together.

  Having a mouthy girl chained to the tap wasn't ideal either. She was easy on the eye but she would not shut up. "I'm a civilian."

  I didn't want to hear it. "You're in, like it or not."

  "I'm not in, you know." She was still yapping away as I thrust her into the bedroom. "I can't stand Kowalczyk."

  "Yeah, and that's why the press is full of you and he, posing all over town."

  "I'm telling you, it's not how it looks. He made me be his whore."

  I tuned her out but couldn't help but think Persia York was an excellent liar. She sounded sincere as she told her sob story. Flawless deception is a rare skill, and I was secretly impressed. But it just underlined what I already knew. The woman was one of us.

  Even without the excellent lying, the mouthing off would have given her true nature away. The fresa was harder than some men I'd worked with. Jamal had pissed himself when faced with my vengeance, but this woman had fought me every step of the way.

  The one moment she'd broken down, when she'd thought I'd cut her, hadn't lasted more than a second: she'd been terrified but she'd told me to go ahead. The girl had huevos, and I liked her for it.

  But she rubbed me up the wrong way. "How about you just do it - and in silence?"

  She remembered I might still belt her, I guess. "Anything you want."

  "Then get dancing."

  "Just sit up in the bed and make yourself comfy." She was ordering me about, arranging the pillows. "Do you have music? Give me your phone and I'll set up some good Spotify. And have a drink, Jorge."

  "I'm not handing you my phone." But I did put on some Enrique Iglesias and I got myself a glass of Gabriel, a red wine from Adobe Guadalupe so rich that you can taste the Mexican s
unshine. "Come on. Show me your moves."

  She knelt over me, beaming the megawatt smile that put her on magazine covers. "Let's party."

  Joder, talk about wild ride. The gorgeous face paired with the tight little breasts and even tighter cachucha drove me straight to the edge - and she kept me hovering there until I was howling for release.

  I exploded inside her, kept it together long enough to cuff her, and was out like a light thirty seconds after.

  It felt like I'd not even closed my eyes when the alarm clock sounded. It was just six, still dark outside, but like they say, there's no rest for the wicked. By which I mean that if you want to make a fuck of a lot of money, you have to put in a fuck of a lot of work.

  "What time is it? Don't you ever sleep?" She was grabbing the pillow and a stack of books, bitching with her eyes half shut with sleep. "Can I have some tea? Or at least a drawing pad?"

  I did not swat her. I left her in the tub and went back to the grindstone.

  A quick check of our own plaza revealed all was secure. Amit's team were on top of business, safeguarding the revenue stream, and Chin had done a sterling job of putting together deep profiles. I was tempted to read the fresa's first, but I steeled myself, did the right thing and opened the ones that would tell me about my seaport.

  Smith had told the Home Office I was a member of an organised crime syndicate, a suspect in several murders, and a host of other allegations. While there was no proof, it would cause me endless problems.

  When someone badmouths you, you can hire lawyers to make your case or you go the alternate route. James was already on the legal offensive but to beef up our punch, I was looking into who could pull strings for me at the Home Office.

  There were three possibilities, one political bigwig and two committee advisors, and Chin had hacked into their cell phones for me. Some people moan about phone addiction but I fucking love them. In my father's day, it took a team to dig up information on a mark. Thanks to instant messaging, we just tap in and we know what we're dealing with.

  I concentrated on the bigwig, Lord Grandville. After an hour of scrolling through memos, minutes of meetings and a raft of kid and pet photos, I hit pay dirt. The man himself was clean as a whistle but his nephew was a walking disaster.

  Sir Ferdinand 'Ferdy' Firth, owner of a plush estate and rolling in cash, liked to party. He drank like a fish, fucked as indiscriminately as a Labrador, and had to be rescued from one scandal after another by his staid uncle. Ferdy was Lord Grandville weakness and my opportunity.

  I made a call straight away. "Dolores? Are you still doing that Mistress of Pain gig? Good. I want you to run into Sir Ferdy Firth. Make friends and suggest a party. Wear your sexiest outfit and make sure you're caught in the act."

  Dolores had worked for us for years, so I knew she would deliver my target to me on a plate. It was practically a done deal, and I was feeling good. Even better, my email pinged: my video was ready.

  The software had worked brilliantly. When I'd taken the film, the fresa had been passive, not really with it at all, and I'd used that to my advantage. I took a thirty second clip, long enough to grab attention and small enough to share, and put it through two programmes: romantic and wild.

  In romantic, it had added a pink glow and a soundtrack rich with gasps, moans and Enrique Iglesias singing 'Bailamos'. In wild, it had used lots of camera shakes and overlaid screams and a trash punk score. Both showed her face and body but all you could see of me were my hands and my dick.

  It gave me a great set of options. I made myself a pot of coffee and deliberated. If Kowalczyk had been a decent man, I'd send the wild version, knowing he'd suffer agonies, imagining the abuse his woman was enduring. But Kowalczyk was a nasty fuck, maybe nasty enough not to give a shit.

  Sitting back and reviewing the facts, I considered another factor. Persia York wasn't just his playmate; she was his associate. She'd opted for the life knowing the risks. That meant Kowalczyk might care on a personal level but decide it made better business sense to cut his losses.

  It was vital to predict his reaction, but I'd need more information to figure it out. Time to open Chin's file.

  The hacker had taken me at my word and sourced thousands of documents from conversations on Twitter to contracts for fashion shoots. There was a week's worth of work in analysis but a quick look at her most recent text was enough to see how the land lay.

  Kowalczyk says he'll renegotiate terms, she had messaged her brother. We're in Empire, it's the new launch event. Come now so we get the best deal?

  I read that and knew that Persia York was all about business. Talk about snap judgements! I decided she was milking her connection for all he was worth, renegotiating to get the most out of him at any opportunity. She didn't give a shit about Kowalczyk. He was her socio, but they weren't friends.

  As for him, his messages were few and limited to orders about turning up at meetings and events. No pet names, no endearments, no hearts or smileys, even. There was no love lost on either side.

  That decided me. Kowalczyk prized her because she got him press attention, and the love act ensured prime column inches. The best way to ruin that, would be to leak the soft-lit tape. It would tell the world she was screwing around on him, and with the Latino music in the background, and him putting my name in the spotlight, it wouldn't take a lot of imagination to figure out who with.

  Everyone laughs at a cuckold. It would be perfect revenge.

  As my plan evolved, I considered how best to stick it to him. So far in our war, Kowalczyk had lost his best dealers, his dope farm, and he was running low on product. His club was closed, due to my dousing the joint in industrial corrosive, and his yacht and limo had vanished too.

  Despite his initial advantages, the so-called king of London was taking a beating. He was a crime boss, but he appeared completely fucking clueless. The fact that he still hadn't realised that I had his associate astonished me. I was dying to send him that tape, but I resolved to wait.

  That day Kowalczyk would send Baros and his sicarios to the airport to collect the week's delivery of product. While they waited for the plan that wouldn't arrive, we would take over a slice of his territory. It was such a small piece, that we'd wrap up the deal by end of business. By the time Kowalczyk got the news, it would be too late.

  As the jodido Pole would be dying for vengeance, he'd not be thinking straight. I was all set to take advantage. If Kowalczyk fell into my trap, it would cost him Baros and his team.

  Considering the overall plan, I decided to hold back on my ace. I'd move ahead with the war, striking into the heart of his business. Then, when Kowalczyk understood how much he'd underestimated me, and how truly fucked he was, I would send him the video. For maximum humiliation, I'd also send it to his celebrity friends. They'd not be able to resist sharing. The sex tape would go viral in hours. Kowalczyk would be the centre of attention and he'd hate every second.

  As I picked out the celebs most likely to get the ball rolling, I was surprised by a call from home.

  "Jorge, hello." It was Quique. "I saw the weekly report, and it looks great. I'm just calling to congratulate you."

  The call was a ruse. Although my being head of London meant that I was technically senior, he had a decade of experience on me. We both knew he was calling in case I wanted to consult.

  Typical Quique. It warmed me to know he had my back. "Thanks! Let me tell you what I'm thinking."

  I told him the plan, and he loved it.

  "Cabrón! I'd just send it to him and hope to fuck him up. But man, Jorge, you're really sticking it to him. Sending it to his friends, that's a masterstroke. You're a twisted fuck."

  High praise indeed. But better was to come.

  "The jefe told me to tell you that he won't be checking in with you for a couple of weeks," Quique informed me. "He's busy with the Texas operation. He said he was sure you'd understand."

  I'd asked for an opportunity to prove myself and my cousin was giving it to me
in spades. When I won this war, nobody would be able to say I was just following orders. "I do indeed. Please thank him for me, Quique."

  The smile was instant. "Joder, Jorge. You're working on the perfect gift. We're looking forward to all that extra money." Then, laughing, "I wish I could see Kowalczyk's face when he sees that film."

  "Yeah, it's gonna be a laugh."

  "I didn't think Kowalczyk the type to have a female socio."

  He spoke carefully, but I heard the unspoken question. Quique is old-school macho, the kind of man who will break the neck off a beer and drink from the broken glass because he thinks using a bottle opener is gay. He'll blow away anyone who crosses him but he treads lightly around women. With that and my cousin's new rules that forbade involving bystanders when taking revenge, the video concerned him.

  I gave him the facts. "She's up to her eyes in his shit."

  His response was straightforward. "If she's a player, she'll have to take her lumps."

  "Exactly my point."

  That settled, we said our goodbyes. Then, chortling at the knowledge Kowalczyk would soon be going up the wall, I made a list of the six celebs most likely to share. I bet you think I should have kicked myself in the balls. But when it comes to business, I'm a nasty fuck. It's how it is in the cartel.

  While I was acting like a complete hijo de puta, the office staff were coming in and the team were right with them.

  Knowing we were on the path to success put a zing into the meeting. "Today we start expanding our territory by taking over Kowalczyk's. I don't want to go in guns blazing, I want to walk in and keep as much as possible. We just swap out his key people for ours, okay?"

  It was well understood, so it was nods all round.

  "James, you work on the legit businesses." I handed him the list of names. "Get these people on board. Use professional incentives: the promise of a bonus if they sign up. If they refuse, make sure they know we'll run them out of town."

  "Got it, boss."

  "Lencho and Paco, you round up the dealers. They get the regular business offer: work for us or else. If they try to be cute, they're pushing up daisies."