Page 2 of Disciplined: His Forbidden Crush

“Rafael, my friend! Welcome back,” Raul said warmly. “We’ve missed you around here.”

Rafael returned the grin, clasping Raul’s hand in a firm shake. “It’s good to be back,” he said. “Five years is a long time.”

Raul nodded, his expression turning serious. “Too long,” he agreed. “But you’re here now, and that’s what matters.”

He dismissed Suarez with a wave of his hand, the young man bowing his head respectfully before leaving the room. Then Raul slung an arm around Rafael’s shoulders and steered him deeper into the house. “Come, my father wants to speak with you as soon as possible,” he said. It sounded like an invitation, but Rafael heard it for the order it was and acquiesced easily.

As they walked, Rafael and Raul fell into easy conversation, catching up on the latest gossip and news from the cartel. Rafael listened with interest as Raul filled him in on the recent turf wars with rival gangs, jobs that had gone well (or poorly), the new alliances that had been forged.

“And how is Verano doing?” Rafael asked, remembering the boss’s youngest son. “He must be, what, twenty? Twenty-one now?”

Raul’s expression turned pained, his brow furrowing. “Verano is...well, my father will explain,” he said, his tone dubious.

Rafael frowned, wondering what could have happened to the boy in the five years he had been away. But before he could ask any more questions, Raul was showing him through the heavy wooden doors of Diego Garcia Lopez’s office.

The room was richly appointed. Plush Persian rugs covered the hardwood floors, their intricate patterns muted but still vibrant. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with leather-bound tomes and priceless antiquities. A massive mahogany desk dominated the center of the room, its surface polished to a high shine. Behind the desk, a floor-to-ceiling window offered a breathtaking view of the surrounding countryside.

Raul crossed the room to a bar cart tucked into one corner, pouring two glasses. He handed one to Rafael with a wide grin. “To your freedom, my friend,” Raul said, clinking his glass against Rafael’s. “And to the loyalty of Los Hermanos.”

Rafael accepted the toast with a nod, taking a sip of aguardiente and letting it burn its way down his throat. How he’d missed it during his prison term.

He studied Raul over the rim of his glass, struck by how much the man had changed in five years. Gone was the cocky youth Rafael remembered, all swagger and bravado as he tried to prove himself useful to his fearsome father. In his place stood a prowling, powerful beast of a man, every inch Diego Garcia’s son.

Raul’s shoulders were broader, his muscles more defined beneath the crisp linen of his shirt. His jaw was carved from granite, clean-shaven, revealing the sharp angles of his face. His dark eyes glittered with the same ruthless intelligence that burned in Garcia’s gaze, a predator’s focus sharpened by years of cartel life.

Despite the easy camaraderie between them, Rafael felt a twinge of wariness around this new Raul. He was his father’s son. Rafael knew better than to underestimate him.

The office door opened, and both men immediately straightened, all traces of levity vanishing from their expressions as Diego Garcia Lopez strode into the room and immediately became its focus.

Garcia was a powerfully built man in his late fifties, his once-dark hair now streaked with silver at the temples. But his eyes were as sharp and piercing as ever, missing nothing as they swept over Rafael in an assessing gaze. This was the man who ruled Los Hermanos with an iron fist, the kingpin whose very name inspired fear from Bogotá to Medellín. Garcia’s ruthlessness was legendary, his temper as volatile as nitroglycerin. Rumors swirled of the hundreds of men he had personally executed over the years, their lives snuffed out with a bullet to the head or a blade across the throat.

Rafael felt a shiver awe ripple through him as Garcia approached, unable to tear his gaze away from that magnetic, dangerous presence. He remembered to bow his head deferentially as the cartel boss drew near, a show of respect ingrained in him from years of loyal service.

“Rafael,” Garcia rumbled, his deep voice laced with a surprising warmth. He clapped a heavy hand on Rafael’s shoulder, his grip firm and unyielding. “It’s good to have you back, my friend.”

“I’m glad to be home,” Rafael told him honestly. He lifted his glass. “Freedom tastes good.”

Garcia chuckled and reached for the bottle. “Have another. You’ve more than earned it.” He topped up Rafael’s glass and indicated one of the plush armchairs arranged before the desk. “Sit, sit. Let’s talk.

Rafael accepted the drink with a murmured word of gratitude, sinking into the chair with a sense of relief. Despite the casual invitation, he knew better than to let his guard down in Garcia’s presence. This was still very much the lair of the lion, and Rafael was just a soldier allowed within its walls by the grace of his king.

Rafael listened attentively as Garcia settled into the chair behind his massive desk, leaning back with an air of satisfaction. “Los Hermanos has been thriving in your absence, Rafael,” Garcia said, his voice rich with pride. “Our profits have never been higher.”

Rafael cleared his throat, choosing his words carefully. “I am glad to hear of the cartel’s prosperity, jefe,” he said. “How may I be of service to you and to Los Hermanos? I know I have been away for a long time, but I am ready to prove my worth once again.”

Garcia waved a dismissive hand. “You have nothing to prove, Rafael. Your loyalty has never been in question. I have plans for you, big plans. But first, we must discuss a problem that has arisen in your absence.”

Rafael leaned forward, his brow furrowing in concern. “What problem is that, jefe?”

Garcia sighed heavily, his expression darkening. “It’s Verano,” he said, his voice tight with anger. “The boy has become completely uncontrollable. He disrespects my authority at every turn, defying my orders and making a mockery of our family name.”

Rafael blinked in surprise, struggling to reconcile this description with his memories of Verano. He remembered the boy as a bright, charming fifteen-year-old, all smiles and laughter as he trailed after his older brother Raul. Verano had been the apple of his father’s eye back then, doted on and indulged at every turn. Rafael shook his head, trying to picture the sweet, innocent boy he remembered as some wild, out-of-control youth

“Now he has run away from home,” Garcia growled, his knuckles whitening as he clutched his glass. “He was last seen in Los Angeles, living like some kind of bohemian hedonist. The stupid boy doesn’t seem to realize the danger he’s putting himself in with his reckless behavior.”

Rafael’s eyes widened in surprise. California was a long way from Colombia, and for Verano to have made it there on his own spoke to a level of determination and resourcefulness that Rafael hadn’t expected from the spoiled young man.

Garcia continued, his tone brooking no argument. “I want you to go to California, Rafael. Find Verano and bring him home. Force him to settle down, to remember his place in this family.”

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