Page 1 of Disciplined: His Forbidden Crush

Chapter One

Rafael Medina closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, savoring the fresh air that rushed in through the open windows of the jeep bouncing along the rough dirt road. The scents of his homeland filled his nostrils—the earthy loam of the soil, the sweet nectar of the orchids and bromeliads clinging to the towering ceiba trees, the green crispness of the leaves. A flock of yellow and blue macaws took flight from the treetops in a riotous burst of color as the jeep rumbled past.

Five long years since he had last breathed free under the open sky of Colombia. Five years that had changed him, hardened him in ways even his dangerous life as a narco lieutenant had not. But now, finally, he was back. Back to pick up the pieces of his life in Los Hermanos cartel.

The jeep turned off the main road, passing through a chain link gate bristling with razor wire and armed guards. More guards patrolled the grounds with assault rifles held at the ready. The compound was built like a fortress, with high walls and defensive positions to ward off attacks from rival cartels or the authorities.

At the center of the compound sprawled the main house, a white-washed casa grande with red clay roof tiles and elegant arched windows. Columns flanked the entrance, and lush greenery spilled from overflowing planter boxes. It reflected the wealth and prestige of Diego Garcia Lopez, the feared leader of Los Hermanos.

As the jeep rolled to a stop, Rafael stepped down onto the paved driveway. He took a moment to stretch, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck. His gaze drifted over the grandeur of the house, the fountain and gardens, a sleek sports car parked in the drive. It looked like a slice of paradise.

Rafael’s gaze fell on the driver of the jeep, a pretty youth named Juan Suarez. He couldn’t have been much more than nineteen, with lovely dark eyes. Those eyes flickered down deferentially as he caught Rafael's gaze, a show of respect for the senior cartel member. Rafael sized up the boy, noting his delicate features, his full lips. Suarez was exactly the type of bonito Rafael had occasionally taken to his bed in the past.

A memory flashed through his mind of another lovely dark-eyed young man, limbs tangled in sweat-soaked sheets, soft gasps muffled against Rafael’s shoulder. God, it had been a long time.

Five years in prison, where even a sidelong glance at the wrong inmate could have meant a shiv in the ribs. Sex was too dangerous a game to play behind those walls.

He didn’t think of himself as gay, not in the way of those weak, simpering men who flounced around drawing attention. To be openly queer was a death sentence in the cartel. Any signs of femininity, any hint of weakness, would see a man ridiculed, beaten, discarded like garbage.

No, Rafael’s appreciation for a pretty, boyish mouth was his own private indulgence. A momentary divergence to sate his body’s cravings before returning to the life of violence and crime that was his reality. He certainly had never felt anything like affection for the pretty young men that occasionally warmed his bed.

He shook off the reverie, pushing away the dangerous thoughts. This was no time to indulge his more carnal appetites. Not when he had just regained his freedom.

Suarez was the same age Rafael had been when he’d joined the ranks of Los Hermanos all those years ago. Fresh-faced, wide-eyed, not yet fully understanding the darkness that lay ahead. Rafael studied the boy more closely, wondering if Suarez had ever been forced to take a life. If he’d yet felt the weight of a warm gun in his hand, smelled the acrid stench of gunpowder and blood.

Somehow Rafael doubted it. Suarez seemed far too delicate for the brutal realities of life in the cartel. He was like a pretty wildflower that had somehow managed to bloom amidst cracked concrete and shattered glass. Suarez would have to prove himself worthy, and quickly. That angelic face would only buy him so much leniency before the other men started questioning his fortitude. The path ahead would be brutal and unforgiving. Only the hardest, most vicious recruits survived to make it to the inner circle.

Rafael felt an unexpected flicker of protectiveness toward the boy, a desire to shield that fragile innocence from the horrors that were surely coming. But it was no use. Pretty things didn’t last in the cartel. Rafael had better things to do than involve himself in lost causes.

He followed the boy up to the mansion house, not needing directions. This at least had not changed.

One of the guards on the door recognized him and called out a greeting.

“¡Oye! ¡El Tiburón!”

El Tiburón. The shark. That’s what they’d used to call him. Rafael smacked his hand into the guard’s outstretched palm and pulled him into an embrace. “Hey, Paolo. How the fuck are you?”

Paolo smacked Rafael on the back heartily. “Good! Got married.”

“To Mariana? Her papá finally came around?”

Paolo looked sheepish. “Eh, well. He had to in the end.” He mimed a big belly and Rafael laughed.

“¡Cabron! You’re lucky he didn’t cut off your balls.” But then he congratulated Paolo heartily, his chest aching a little. He’d missed a lot in five years. At least this was something good. He didn’t want to think about the men he’d known who were cold in the ground now.

Paolo turned a lecturing look on Suarez. “Do you know what an honor it is for you to meet this guy? El Tiburón is a legend in Los Hermanos. Cold-hearted puto, ay? If he tells you to do something, you jump, you got that? If he needs his balls polished, you get on your knees,” he added with a raucous guffaw.

Suarez reddened, but he laughed off the insinuation with good humor. Rafael grinned. “Oh, you’re not offering, Paolo? I thought we were friends.”

Just a joke, not an accusation. Still, Rafael felt Suarez’s eyes on him and wondered if the boy suspected there was more to it.

Maybe he wishes there were, came an insidious thought. Rafael flicked it away. No one inside the cartel, he reminded himself. That way lay chaos and death. It wasn’t worth it.

He bid Paolo farewell and stepped into the grand foyer of the mansion, eyes adjusting to the dim, cool interior after the bright sunlight outside. Marble floors gleamed beneath his feet, stretching out in an expanse of black and white tiles. A grand staircase swept up to the second floor, its dark wood banister polished to a high shine, and Rafael went up, only nominally following Suarez now. The lush interior seemed at odds with the armed guards outside with their assault rifles. Rafael found himself comparing it to the prison he had just left. There too, armed guards had watched his every move, but the similarities ended there. The prison had been a bleak, ugly place, all concrete and metal, the air thick with the stench of despair. This house was a palace.

A figure stepped into the corridor ahead of them. It took Rafael a moment to recognize him as Raul Garcia y Vega, the eldest son of Diego Garcia.

Instead of the rangy teen he’d been five years ago, now Raul was a brash, handsome man in his mid-twenties. He clapped Rafael on the shoulder, a wide grin splitting his face.

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