Page 52 of Disciplined: His Forbidden Crush

“No, no,” Garcia said, though his brow furrowed slightly. “It’s just that...well, Verano doesn’t seem himself lately. Perhaps you went too far? The boy seems weighed down by something.”

“He’s young,” Rafael replied, working to keep his voice steady. “He may just need time to adjust to being back home.”

“Perhaps,” Garcia conceded, his gaze drifting back to the grounds below. “I trust your judgment, Rafael. But I am curious as to how it was you tamed him and convinced him to come home. “

Rafael clenched his fists. “Jefe, I admit I had to be harsh with him.” He chose his words carefully. “I confined him to his apartment, forced him to do chores and maintain a respectful demeanor.”

Garcia’s eyes narrowed, studying Rafael intently. “Is that all?”

Rafael hesitated, then took a deep breath. “I tied him to the bed at night, to prevent any attempts to escape.”

“Did you discipline him when he misbehaved?” Garcia asked, his tone deceptively casual.

“Yes, but no more than you would discipline a naughty child,” Rafael replied, his pulse racing at how close he came to admitting the full truth.

“Ha! So you spanked my son, did you?” Garcia chuckled, seemingly amused by the idea.

“I did,” Rafael confirmed neutrally, fighting back images of what he had done to Summer. “And eventually, he agreed to come home and behave,” he went on, trying to sound a neutral as possible. “I did as you ordered me to.”

“Very well,” Garcia said, still chuckling. “It seems my son needed some firm guidance to set him straight.” He narrowed his eyes. “But tell me, Rafael, why does he seem so unhappy now?”

Rafael considered his words carefully, the weight of their secret pressing down on him like hot iron. “Your son...he wants no part of the cartel,” he admitted, treading lightly around the truth. “He wants to live freely in L.A. with his friends. I think there’s more to him than you realize.”

“Is that so?” Garcia replied, his voice sharp as a blade. “And just what is it that I don’t know about my own son?”

“Nothing to worry about, jefe. I just think he has desires and dreams you might not be aware of,” Rafael answered, careful not to reveal too much.

Garcia sighed, rubbing his temples. “Verano will come around in time,” he said, as if trying to convince himself. “You’ve done well, Rafael. You carried out my orders and brought my son home again. I’m grateful for your loyalty.”

“Gracias, jefe,” Rafael murmured, bowing his head.

Dismissed, Rafael walked the long way back to the barracks. He couldn’t help but think that Garcia didn’t truly know his son, or even want to know him. The truth about Summer would be more than Garcia could allow, given his position. And Garcia would push Summer harder into the cartel if he knew. Rafael wondered how long it would be before Summer fled again, desperate for the freedom that had been denied him.

If Summer ran, Rafael was sure Garcia would send him to fetch Summer back. And if that happened, Rafael feared he could not do it a second time.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Summer’s days melted together in a tangle of monotonous misery. He spent endless hours organizing logistics for his father, poring over maps and spreadsheets, allocating resources and planning routes for the transportation of contraband.

“Another fucking shipment,” he muttered under his breath as he read over a manifest. Summer hated every second of it; the tedious tasks, the constant awareness that one misstep could cost lives—including his own.

But most of all, he hated the stifling aura that filled every corner of the cartel’s compound. It choked him like a noose, tightening with each passing day. He could feel the men’s eyes on him, sizing him up, judging him. They whispered behind his back, doubting his place among them. They thought he wasn’t a real man, that he didn’t belong.

He couldn’t have cared less about their opinions, but he knew that if they didn’t respect him, it could get him killed. Or them—his father had said he would not tolerate disrespect, and Summer knew his father’s temper could be volatile. He might easily make an example of a man who failed to show Summer the proper deference. And so, he put on a brave face, pretending by day to be unfazed by their snide and disdainful looks. But at night, he yearned for his life in L.A., for the carefree hours spent with friends who accepted him without question.

The worst part was that he hadn’t seen Rafael in weeks. The man occupied his every spare thought, and his absence left an ache in Summer’s chest that wouldn’t subside.

“Stop it,” Summer muttered to himself, forcing his attention back to the manifest.

The shipment was delivered on time, and Summer’s father praised him for his hard work. Summer forced a smile and went about his work.

Between these tasks, Summer became aware that his father was testing him. Or training him. It wasn’t clear which. Perhaps it was both. But in any case, Summer found himself some days being run through the same training sessions as the raw recruits, forced to prove himself their equal.

And sometimes, his father took a personal interest.

Like today, for example. The sun blazed down on the shooting range, casting long shadows across the arid dirt. Summer stood stiffly between his father and brother, a rifle in his hands.

“Relax, hermanito,” Raul said, placing a hand on Summer’s shoulder. “You’re holding it too tight. Loosen your grip a little.”

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