The cartel had never had a turncoat among their upper ranks, and that was the other reason his stomach was knotted all to hell. No matter how many body parts he’d severed from Gerardo, the only thing the snake confessed was that he hadn’t been working alone.
There was another mole on the property, and it could be anyone. A maid, an armed guard, a hired whore, or one of the members sitting out there on the veranda. His opponents were many, but this was a rival cartel, gunning to take them out and steal their business.
Where Nico was the face and the name of the organization, Matias was the spine. Their enemies didn’t know this, but a spy among their ranks would know where to hit and how deep to cut. If they realized what Camila meant to him, they would start with her.
Hence the barbaric markings on her legs, the slutty attire, and the hatred in her eyes. They would see an abused slave, a piece of property, and not a cherished pet he would trade all the secrets in the world to keep safe.
A hush fell over the dining room as he stepped onto the veranda. Eyes lifted, beer bottles froze at mouths, forks settled against plates, and heads lowered. Respect. After twelve violent years, he’d fucking earned it.
He gave a general nod to the congregation of men, and they resumed drinking and conversing.
Ten round tables of six filled the spacious, roofed balcony. Of the sixty seats, only a few were empty. Two or three girls knelt on the floor around each grouping, but some members had wives and mistresses who sat in chairs beside them. There were also a few non-members like Yessica, the resident madam, who’d secured a seat at a table.
As he passed Yessica’s chair, she reached out and brushed a hand against his cock, her lips puckering in an air-kiss.
He couldn’t hear Camila’s footfalls behind him, but the sharp exhalation at his back sounded as if she were choking on smoke and ash.
Without acknowledging his slave, he weaved through the dining room, stopping every few feet to shake a coke-stained hand, pat a tattooed shoulder, and answer questions about his recent visit to the States. Frivolous questions about the weather, the watered-down alcohol, and American pussy.
Other than the wandering eyes and looks of appreciation, they seemed to dismiss Camila as his slave and nothing more. She wasn’t restrained like the others on the floor, but no one would question how he kept her in check. His brutal reputation glowed in angry red welts all over her legs and ass.
She remained silent, head down, and spine straight. Her mind, however, was likely spinning off its rails, absorbing every detail of his criminal wonderland. Her thirst for information matched his own, but where he’d unearthed almost everything he needed to know about her, she was still fumbling through the dark.
If she looked hard enough around her, she’d find her answers.
MATIAS TOOK HIS TIME MAKING his rounds on the veranda. Amid the holstered guns and scarred faces, the usual laid-back energy circulated through the room, making it easy to hold a smile as he examined expressions for deception, studied postures for restlessness, and refused the drinks offered to him.
Camila followed, sticking close to him, but not too close. He suspected she wasn’t seeking protection from the heated stares, but instead trying to evaluate every word spoken and glance exchanged between him and the other members.
He hadn’t bound her hands because he didn’t want to add more discomfort to her beaten body, but she held her arms behind her anyway. Perhaps it was her slave training. Or maybe she was trying to keep herself from drawing the .45 from his shoulder holster and blowing his brains all over the linen tablecloths.
When he reached the head table, he lowered into his chair and pointed at the floor beside him. She knelt without hesitation, and possessive warmth settled in his chest.
Beside him, Nico frowned at the screen of his phone, eyebrows furrowing and releasing. The man might’ve seemed disinterested in his surroundings, but he was always watching, constantly on high-alert.
Picar, Chispa, and Frizz were already seated at the table, which left one empty chair. Matias could smell Gerardo’s death and deceit wafting from it.
“Someone get rid of that.” He waved a hand at the vacant seat.
A man in a black suit emerged out of nowhere and carried the chair away.
Nico glanced up from his phone and rubbed a hand over his dark beard. “Taking this personal, ese?”
“Don’t pretend you’re not.” Frowning, he snatched the bottle of aguardiente from the center tray and poured a glass.
By now, every member in the room had been briefed on Gerardo’s betrayal. However, no one outside of the inner circle knew about the mole that still lurked among them.
Matias tossed a casual glance across the veranda. Men of all ages and style of dress sipped from a range of beer to hard liquor. Their preferences for jeans or suits were as diverse as their motivations. The elders tended to be content in their positions, just buying time while protecting their families—their legacies. The younger members took more risks, always searching for greener pastures, hungry for more money and more power. Like Gerardo.
With a shrug, Nico cast his eyes on Camila. “Any success on the other matter?”
Matias looked down at the swollen cuts on her thighs and felt a deep ache to pull her onto his lap. “Success is relative.”
Once he owned Camila’s heart, he would spend every day of the rest of his life continually seducing her consent for his brand of fucking.
She didn’t seem to be following the conversation, too frozen with horror as she stared at the man and woman on her other side.
Frizz poked a straw through the gap in the threads on his mouth, sucking from a glass filled with a thick, brown puree—probably whatever was on the menu blended into a soup. His other hand stroked the head of the Latina brunette. Tears ran down her face, her eyes dead as she cried silently on her knees beside his chair.
She was one of the slaves brought in with Camila this morning. Nico must’ve gifted her to Frizz, because she wore Frizz’s tragic trademark.
Red X’s stitched across the woman’s lips, with excess thread dangling from one corner of her mouth like a drool of blood. A needle was tied to the end and swung like a pendulum with each violent shudder of her nude body.
Camila pressed her hands to her stomach. Her shoulders quaked, and she jerked her head toward Matias with accusation and tears in her eyes.
Yes, he’d told her if she fought him, he’d take it out on someone else. That didn’t mean he’d protect the slaves from harm.
He bent down and put his mouth beside her ear. “I didn’t do that.”
She gave him a vicious glare then redirected it to Frizz.
Sure, his corpse-like appearance and fetish with sewn mouths was gruesome, but she wouldn’t be so quick to judge if she knew his story.
Frizz ticked his head to the side and wiggled three fingers at her in greeting.
She choked and shot her gaze to the floor.
Dinner was delivered in courses by servers in black suits, beginning with grilled lamb chunchullo, followed by sancocho, large pieces of plantain, sliced avocado, and white rice. The rich spicy scent of the tropical stew blended with cigar smoke and the hum of laughter. Easy conversation added a low-key backdrop. Nothing seemed out of place, which made it difficult to keep his guard up.
As Nico discussed the finer details of yesterday’s heroin shipment to Orlando, Matias spooned hunks of salty meat from the soup and fed Camila.
She sat on her heels, knees bent in perfect form, and opened her mouth for each bite without contest. But she couldn’t hide the p
ain etching her face.
There was that pinch of guilt again, twisting behind his ribs.
He glanced across the table and met Picar’s cloudy eyes. The old doctor didn’t speak very good English, but he excelled at deciphering expressions. Gerardo’s double-dealings had begun only two days ago, and it had been Picar who’d noticed Gerardo seemed shady.
Leaning to the side, Picar removed something from his bag on the floor and slid it across the table. Matias recognized the color and shape of the pill, and for a moment, he considered the possibility that it could be poison made to look like Vicodin. But Picar was a devoted husband and father. He had nothing to gain and everything to lose if he fucked over one of his own. Besides, if he’d wanted to harm Camila, he would’ve done it when he injected the sedative on the plane.
Matias pocketed the pill.
Between spoonfuls of sancocho, Chispa and Nico debated strategies on how to deal with the federal agents that hovered around the compound in El Paso. In the distance, thunder rumbled, drawing Matias’ attention to the huge archways and columns that encircled the veranda.
Nightfall blackened the horizon, hushing the chirrup of cicadas, but the sound of drizzling rainfall helped to ease his nerves.
He pushed his chair back and patted his lap, watching Camila out of the corner of his eye.
She grimaced, and her mouthwatering cleavage heaved above the bodice of the corset. She could hate him all she wanted. His lap would be a fuckton more comfortable against her sore muscles than the wood floor.
With a deep breath, she rose, her legs trembling with the effort. As she stepped in front of him, she kept her head lowered and arms hanging loosely at her sides.
He turned her to face the table, and sweet mother, her round flawless backside flexed inches away. He wanted to shred the panties, bend her over the table, and sink his teeth in. Followed by his cock.