Page 51 of Disciplined: His Forbidden Crush

It only made the separation all the more unbearable. This thing between them was forbidden and dangerous, something that could bring both of them to ruin. And yet, Summer would have given anything to be with Rafael for even a moment longer.

Summer buried his face in his pillow, allowing himself to finally release the tears that had been threatening to fall. He cried for Rafael and for the life they might have had, if only they had been different people.

“Te amo,” he whispered, as if saying it aloud could somehow bridge the insurmountable distance between them. But powerful as they felt, the words gave him no solace.

Chapter Twenty-One

Rafael took a pull from a bottle of tequila and passed it to the man beside him, letting the liquor burn a trail down his throat. He was tired. No, he was exhausted.

The last few weeks had been hell. Piece by piece he had reacquainted himself with the world of the cartel, but something inside him had shifted. The confidence he’d once felt had gone stale, leaving an empty feeling in its stead.

The days blurred together as he carried out his various tasks—exercises, training new members, escorting shipments, delivering ‘personal messages’ from Garcia to his rivals. He moved through the motions, his mind plagued by a strange dissatisfaction and restlessness that gnawed at him.

One of the younger cartel members called out. “Ey, El Tiburón!” The kid had been starry eyed following a regular patrol that had ended in a bloody gunfight. Rafael had been forced to take down one of the gunmen by hand. Now the younger men nudged each other when he went past. This one in particular seemed determined to follow him so closely he was almost stepping on Rafael’s bootprints.

And Rafael was tired of it. Sitting with his cartel brothers in the barracks as they whiled away the leisure hours should have relaxed him. Instead, their laughter and banter grated against his nerves. The camaraderie of the cartel was less comfortable than it had been in years past. It reminded him too much of prison, that same menacing machismo.

The kid leaned forward, his eyes shining with admiration. “You wanna arm wrestle me?”

“Bring it on, pendejo,” Rafael replied with a smirk, despite the weariness that settled over him. He met every challenge thrown his way, asserting his dominance and earning their respect. But each victory rang hollow, the praise of his manliness doing nothing to fill the emptiness inside him.

As the night wore on, and the men drank and boasted, Rafael found himself watching the chaos unfold with a sense of detachment. Prison had changed him, hardened him in ways he couldn’t quite grasp. He longed for a connection, something real amid the brutality and the lies.

He downed the last of his tequila and set the glass on a nearby table with a loud clank, catching the attention of Ernesto, one of the cartel members who had joined while Rafael was in prison. He seemed less than impressed with Rafael so far.

“Hey, Medina,” Ernesto drawled, smirking over the table. “I heard you got real close to one of those Los Lagos pendejos in prison.”

Rafael raised an eyebrow, already disliking where this conversation was headed. “What’s it to you?” he replied, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Nothing,” Ernesto chuckled, his eyes narrowing playfully. “I just hope you weren’t too close, if you know what I mean.” He made a crude gesture with one hand.

“Qué chingados?” Rafael snapped, his temper flaring. “Are you hitting on me, or what? I’m not interested in having a bitch.”

Ernesto’s face twisted with rage at the implication, his laughter dying away instantly. In a swift, angry motion, he pulled out a knife from his belt, its blade glinting menacingly in the dim light. “You better watch your mouth, cabrón.”

“Really, are we doing this now?” Rafael sighed, shaking his head. “It’s your funeral.”

“Come on, Rafael,” Ernesto taunted, his eyes filled with a mixture of anger and excitement. “Or did they cut off your balls when they threw you in that cell? El Tiburón,” he added mockingly.

Before Rafael could respond, a voice cut him off. “Show some respect,” said Raul Garcia, striding into the barracks. Immediately, the men stood down, all of them somewhat chastened. Rafael felt the aggravation under his skin of an itch unscratched, but he lifted his chin when Raul looked at him. “My father wants you.”

Ernesto spat on the ground, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. “This isn’t over,” he growled, shooting a venomous glare at Rafael.

“Go fuck yourself,” Rafael muttered. He turned to follow Raul, uncertain. Was he about to be reprimanded? They hadn’t even fought. But what else could Garcia want?

Raul did not elaborate but showed him to Garcia’s office. The room was empty, the balcony doors open. Rafael stepped onto the balcony, the cool night air a welcome respite from the heat and tension of the knife fight. Garcia stood at the railing, watching over the grounds as he sipped what looked like agua fresca from a tall glass.

“Ah, Rafael,” Garcia said without looking away from his view, “I’ve been waiting for you.” He gestured to a second glass resting on a nearby table. “Help yourself.”

“Gracias, jefe.” Rafael took the glass, letting the cold liquid soothe his parched throat.

Garcia finally turned to face him, his dark eyes appraising. “I wanted to thank you again for taking care of my son in Los Angeles. You did what needed to be done, and I appreciate it.”

Rafael nodded, trying not to let his thoughts stray to the tangled mess he’d got into with Summer.

“Verano is home now, thanks to you,” Garcia continued, his gaze fixated on Rafael. “But I have to ask, was it necessary for you to be harsh with him?”

Rafael hesitated for a moment, considering his response. “Sometimes discipline is necessary, jefe, but I always kept your son’s best interests in mind. Has he complained to you?”

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