Twisted (A Zeta Cartel Novel Book 5)

by AJ Adams

  "I'm not that dumb."

  "Of course not." But James sighed with relief. He gestured at the file. "They're dealt with?"

  I nodded. "Pass the word to Lencho and Paco: until further notice, no going anywhere without solid alibis."

  "Sure thing."

  "Make a formal complaint about Smith. We need a record to point to in case he tries it on."

  James produced a letter. "I thought it should go like this."

  It was perfect, so I signed it immediately.

  "Anything else?" James asked.

  I didn't hesitate. "Get the applications for the seaport done."

  "I'm on it." But James wasn't leaving. Instead, he sat down. "Boss," he said carefully, "as it stands, we'll have trouble with the Home Office."

  He was my lieutenant. It was his job to back me up, including pointing out problems. "Yes," I agreed. "James, do the paperwork. You're the best and it will need the best. As for the rest, that's for me to deal with."

  He knew I was keeping something back, but he didn't push it. "Okay, boss."

  "I'm glad you're back." I wanted him to know the reticence was business not personal. "I've missed you."

  James grinned. "Thanks."

  Just like that, we were friends again. It wasn't the same, there were subtle differences, but that difficult distance between us shrank to a friendly buffer, a professional necessity giving me freedom to act as the leader while protecting him from my errors.

  The knowledge of the changes that had to be made, crystallised. "Tomorrow we take another inch, leaving Kowalczyk with just four blocks of his original plaza."

  James nodded attentively. "Yes, I've cleared my calendar."

  "Fill it up again," I ordered him. "From now on, you're out of operations. I'm taking your part of the plaza. I want you to focus on legal."

  James paled. "Because I got shot?"

  "No, because I'm restructuring. Paco and Lencho are stepping back as well."

  At that, James got his colour back. "Okay, what do you want us to do?"

  "After tomorrow, you're legal. Paco is finance. Lencho is distribution. Rovero will head the sicarios, directly under my control. I'm dividing our plaza into block sized territories. Each will have a street boss, responsible for their own halcones and enforcers. They run it according to our rules, and pay tribute, kicking it up to us."

  It was standard operating procedure back home but James frowned. "We've a lot of new and untested people. Are we ready?"

  "Not quite," I admitted. "But we've got to do it sometime and as we're moving staff around, this is as good a time as any. We'll institute the usual double, cross and spot checks to monitor the situation closely. With the four of us on top of it, we're certain to nip any problems in the bud."

  James nodded. "Okay, boss."

  That was it, no discussion, no backchat. I tried to guess at his thoughts. He didn't appear upset or concerned. Actually, he appeared relieved.

  James stood up, holding on to the desk for balance but smiling. "I have to admit, I enjoy action and it's been fascinating to observe the daily workings of a plaza up close. However, we're getting to a point where legal matters require my full-time attention. I think Lencho and Paco might find the same. It'll be good to take the organisation to the next level."

  I stood up and hugged him. "We'll make a pile of money!"

  Fuelled by Persia's faith and James' endorsement, I turned to work, focussing on delivering. The war was heating up and Kowalczyk was getting a beating. On paper it looked great but my spider senses warned me there was trouble ahead.

  Kowalczyk was short of funds as we'd cut his revenue stream by ninety percent. His dealer network was in pieces and we'd taken out most of his sicarios too. He'd clawed back some customers by selling cheap but the strategy had been unsustainable. Not only did he have to raise prices again but as his isolationist policy meant he was unknown, his Chinese connection was charging top dollar and demanding payment in full in advance for every delivery.

  To compound his problems, the so-called king of London wasn't making any of the right moves. The attack on the Towers and the deepfakes campaign were followed by a big blank. Bubbles was still standing and from what I'd heard, he'd given up on trying to kill Persia too.

  Instead of fighting, Kowalczyk had retreated. He threw his parties, went to every social event that would have him, and seemed to think mouthing off and massive sulking would do the trick.

  Sounds good, right? I was winning, making a meal out of my revenge. But Kowalczyk's attitude made no sense, and that worried me. While I was on top, I was stretched thin, pulling men from the centre of my territory to beef up my perimeter. It was a dangerous strategy. If I were Kowalczyk, I'd pretend to be weak, draw me out, and then drive a surprise attack into my exposed core.

  While Kowalczyk appeared to have rolled over, I wasn't taking any chances. I spent my time planning for every scenario and contingency I could think of because I was heading for a shift in capabilities. Soon, my contracts with Dragon and Amit would run out. They were well worth the investment, but unaffordable in the long run.

  Without them, I would lose my advantage in product supply and security. If he got back into the game, Kowalczyk would find it hard to regain his territory but if he got fresh supplies at a reasonable price, he might claw some back, especially if I had to pull men from the street to protect my businesses.

  If I had more men, I would have gone in with big guns and cleaned up. An invasion could've been done in three days and settling in another two weeks. It was a shame to have victory so close but with Texas dragging on, I just couldn't pull it off.

  As only pussies whine about what might have been, I made plans based on our capabilities. I spent the remaining part of my day working up a final plan. When I finished, it was dark, but it was all there in black and white. We'd take the rest of Kowalczyk's plaza inch by inch, moving on each time we hit the required combination of income and manpower.

  I'd gone over it three times and I knew it was as good as any plan could be but my gut twisted with worry. As always, some men would be hurt. It was inevitable. But with my slim resources, the risk that a few might die, increased. We Zetas know the score and we're never afraid of death but only a damn fool would actively embrace it. So, I was tense.

  "Hey handsome, want to go dancing? The others left an hour ago." Persia stood in the doorway, looking good enough to eat. Her eye fell on my paperwork. "Ah, bad tidings?"

  "No. At least, not yet." And then it seemed the most natural thing to share my concern.

  "Hmm, if it's dangerous, why not quit?" Persia suggested.

  "No way!" The mere thought appalled me.

  "You chose this life, didn't you?"

  "Well, yeah."

  "So what's new?" Persia asked.

  Put that way, I didn't know.

  "In the last few weeks, you've collected more bruises than a boxer and James got shot," Persia noted. "Never mind the arson, attempted shootings and other mayhem. I think the risks are clear."

  "Right."

  "Usually it's just business," Persia mused. "But this time, you're sending people into danger because you're at war."

  That was it in a nutshell. It had been staring me in the face but I'd not seen it.

  "Just warn them," Persia advised. "They're big boys and big girls. If they don't like it, they can quit, right?"

  "Sure." It was the right move. I felt lighter already. "Thanks."

  She put her arm through mine. "Promise me you'll be careful."

  "Always, corazón."

  Driving to Bubbles, memories of Mama and Papa flooded back. They'd been there for each other, just like we were. It was a warm feeling. But it was new to me, so I instantly screwed up.

  We were just sitting down, when Smith walked in. Unlike the other times, I did not welcome him. I couldn't. Just seeing him made me want to hit him.

  "Steady, love," Persia murmured.

  Smith had blackening bruises around his neck.
I'd gotten him good, and he was still hoarse. But the cop was tough and bouncing back from our earlier encounter. "Robbie Dawes and Nevil Donalds just took dives out of their office windows," he growled. "Corwin Blake and Tony Wellington were shot on the street in cold blood, and Joe Carpenter drowned while taking an impromptu afternoon swim in the Thames."

  Rovero had delivered. It restored my mood instantly. "Having trouble keeping London's streets safe, Detective Inspector?"

  "Kit Evans was found dead in the showers at Wormwood Scrubs!"

  "It's counterintuitive," I sympathised. "But even with all the cops, jail's a dangerous place."

  "You did this," Smith raged.

  He slammed the table, threw down photos and generally made a scene. People stared, but I didn't care; it's helpful to have people know not to screw with you. James, Lencho and Paco were cheery too. From their smiles, they fully approved of the clean-up.

  But Persia was out of the loop. Her face was blank as she took in the crime scene photos. I held her hand, kicking myself for not warning her. I was also panicking in case she gave the game away.

  Smith sensed weakness. "Well," he barked at her. "What do you have to say?"

  She examined the photos, sifting through them, and then she handed them back. The world held its breath and then she beamed. "Well done," she said warmly. "You're a decent man after all, Detective Inspector."

  I sat back with a grin. I'd been a fool to worry. My girl was all over this.

  Persia lowered her voice. "You said you'd reopen the case, not close it."

  "What the hell are you saying?" Smith demanded.

  She smiled at him. "You felt guilty about threatening me, didn't you?"

  "I did not!"

  "And as you told Jorge, you don't tolerate kids being victims. Well done, you!"

  Smith's chin was up. "No way! No fucking way was that my work!"

  "Of course it wasn't!" The sarcasm came with a wink. She patted his arm. "Awesome job, we'll say no more about it."

  Smith stared at her, speechless at her implied accusation. He mouthed a bit, gave it up as a non-starter, turned on his heel and marched out.

  I got to my feet, raising my voice. "Everyone gets a shot of tequila! On me!"

  The announcement reassured the crowd and having tossed back their shots, they went back to having fun.

  As I sat down, Persia leaned in and lowered her voice. "Well done, love."

  "You sure?"

  She nodded. "I don't like it but that scum would just have gone on hurting girls. There was nothing else to be done."

  My last thread of doubt vanished. We'd be fine. Better than fine, we'd be awesome.

  Persia pushed back her chair. "Now, it's been a long day and I hear Jon Secada."

  "Let's dance, fresa."

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Persia

  When I was a tot, I yearned to be a Good Girl. Yes, with capital letters. As I moved from one foster home to another, each filled with charitable people all loaded with riches, I became convinced it was the key to those blessings.

  Longing for the reward of safety and love, complete with husband, kids and a home - a real family, including complimentary kitten and puppy - I was determined to be saintly.

  Crazy, right? It took me forever to learn not to steal, fight and swear, but it was that deep-seated conviction that drove me to keep trying. I had that magic award in mind right until that fatal barbecue.

  I'd been in so much trouble before that when the men who'd hurt me went on unpunished, I was convinced I was beyond redemption. The shaming that came later with Rick's video confirmed it.

  After that, I just gave up. I was a bad girl, and I played up to it. It worked for me, so I never regretted it, but I guess a bit of me remembered that secret longing and thanks to Smith, I finally got a taste of paradise.

  A saintly paragon and Jorge Santos went together like motor oil and ice-cream but the loving was picture perfect. After Smith threatened me and I kicked back my dark devil enveloped me with tender sweetness, always there for me, always putting me first.

  I revelled in his love and even more so, for the first time in my life, I belonged because the Zetas accepted me unconditionally as well. James, clever as a pack of monkeys, Lencho, lean and witty, and Paco, iconic macho alpha male, treated me as a sister.

  They popped into my office on their breaks, often bearing gifts of fruit and tea, and chatting up a storm. In the books, tough guys are strong and silent, but the Zetas were unabashed about their adoration for gossip.

  In between learning about James' obsession with natural blondes, Lencho's fascination with big bikes, and Paco's determination to make a million by the end of two years, they talked about their families, crushes and friends.

  Without thinking about it, I assumed they accepted me because I was Jorge's girl. I mean, that's how macho gangs work. They employ women but we're not part of the team. In terms of gender equality, the cartel is stuck in the 50s - and probably more 1850s than 1950s.

  So, when Miranda turned up at my office door, I supposed she'd come to see James.

  "You look great! Love the dress. James is two doors down."

  "Actually, I came to visit you." She glanced around, eyes lighting up. "These are your designs? They're gorgeous! And such fun! It's like looking at sunshine."

  "You've got to excellent taste. Come in, sit down, tell me how you've been." I was pinning a flounce but the nervous tap of her foot got through to me. "Hey, what's up?"

  "I've got a problem," she blurted out. "I want out of my contract."

  Not good. I remembered she worked for Paradise, the Zetas hottest gentlemen's club and escort service. With James writing the terms, breaking it would be a bitch.

  I liked her, but I was puzzled why she was telling me. "I'm not a lawyer."

  "You can talk to the patrón."

  The boss. I'd heard Rovero use the title, but this was the first time it really came home to me who Jorge was. He wasn't just the CEO of a thriving business; he was also the undisputed leader of the cartel. His word was law, deciding life and death.

  I put down my pincushion. "Me? But I'm not involved in business."

  "The patrón is crazy about you, everyone knows that." Miranda added some fine handwringing to the nervous tapping. "If you ask him, he won't be mad at me."

  My stomach roiled with sudden nerves. Kowalczyk threat, a single splash will ruin that pretty face of yours, echoed through my mind. Surely Jorge wouldn't hurt her? But I remembered the temper and the unflinching determination to punish.

  "I'm supposed to work another year," Miranda explained. "But I paid off my debt early."

  "Debt? What do you mean?"

  "It's like this," she explained. "The Zetas paid for my flight to London, set me up in an apartment and they provide protection."

  "Okay."

  "They run the website, promote me, manage my image, set up appointments and they arrange for payments."

  "Wow, that must cost a bomb."

  "That's the problem," she wailed. "They invest a lot, so I have to work for five years. Otherwise it's not worth it for them."

  "I see."

  "I've done four years and I want to quit. Please, Persia. Help me?" Miranda pleaded.

  Part of me thought Miranda had a better deal than I ever had. We models pay our own flights and accommodation up front and although agents do contracts and payment, promo is pretty much in your own hands.

  But walking away from a modelling gig would be nothing like leaving the Zetas - or would it? Running wasn't an option: I had to know. "Okay, Jorge's super busy today," when was he not? "Let's go make an appointment."

  But when we stepped out, his door was open. Seeing Miranda, Jorge frowned. "What are you doing here?"

  She actually dodged behind me. I grabbed her hand and a deep breath. "Miranda wants to ask you something. She's shy, so she asked me to come with her. Do you have a moment?"

  He held the door open. "Okay, fresa."


  Sitting down at his desk, I felt very uncomfortable. But there was no ducking out from this. I nodded at Miranda, encouraging her, "Go on, tell him."

  The hands were wringing away but her chin went up. "Uhm, Mr Santos, I want to leave."

  Jorge frowned. "Why?"

  "I've changed my mind," Miranda stammered.

  "So, talk to Saffron," Jorge shrugged. "Just give notice and settle the costs."

  My gut settled. This was not a problem. Except, costs might be brutal.

  "I know I signed the deal but I can't work out the notice," Miranda quavered.

  That's why she'd come.

  Jorge wasn't giving any emotions away. "Why?"

  "Because my mum's ill?"

  I had to suppress an eye-rolland a giggle. A three-year-old could've lied better.

  "Don't give me that shit," Jorge snapped. "Who is he?"

  I blinked. The possibility of a boyfriend hadn't occurred to me.

  "There's nobody." But she was clutching her phone.

  "Give it to me." Jorge's tone brooked no argument. Miranda was handing it over as he spoke. Jorge looked through her messages. "Spiro Demopoulos. Are you fucking crazy?"

  "He loves me!" Miranda cried.

  "I'm sure he does." He handed her phone back. "If you want to work for him, he can buy you out. Or wait till next year."

  The vision of two lovers, torn apart by cruel destiny, died. "Spiro runs an escort service?"

  Jorge nodded. "In Cyprus. He needs girls who can service his holiday clientele and Miranda speaks English and Russian."

  "He wants me to go to him," Miranda mumbled. "He said so."

  "You'd do well to stay away," Jorge said evenly. "You know what happened to Meredith Ortiz."

  From her pale lips, Miranda did. But she tossed her hair defiantly. "I hit my income revenue target for this year already. I want a bigger cut."

  Contracts are a bitch. I remembered all the times I was tired and fed up. I'd stayed on but modelling is not the same as selling yourself, no matter what puritans say. If she was delivering well beyond expectations, she deserved to renegotiate.

  Jorge practically growled at her. "No!"

  "It's not fair," Miranda sobbed.