Page 2 of Tainted Blood

I rake an icy hand through my hair. “Damn it.”

As soon as I saw that dark sedan park down the street, my suspicion shot off like a bottle rocket. Once I had the license plate, I texted RJ.

My cousin lives for this shit. If you want a database hacked or record unsealed, RJ’s your guy. At fourteen, the kid is already a menace to society. In a few more years, he’ll be a national threat.

Cops are the last thing we need. “Has it been reported?”

“About twenty minutes ago. Which gives you about forty before your quiet little suburban neighborhood turns into a SWAT team party.”

“I’ll get back to you.” Ending the call, I type out a quick text to my father.

Surprise blue light show in forty.

Hitting send, I shove my phone in my back pocket.

Packed snow crunches under my feet as I brace against the bitter wind, all the while keeping a steady gaze on the dark sedan.

Fucking stolen.

Stolen means things are about to get really messy.

Cupping my hands around my mouth, I exhale a few hard breaths, trying to coax the feeling back in my fingers. Can’t pull the trigger if my hand is numb.

Whoever is inside that car isn’t here to pray for their sins. They’re here to dance with two devils. But until they make the first move, all I can do is watch and wait, which is the story of my life.

You’re not ready, Santi…

Watch and learn, Santi…

Wait until you’re eighteen, Santi…

Well, screw that. I’m not a little kid anymore, and I’m tired of waiting.

I kick at the piles of snow in frustration. Now that I’ve been given the chance to prove myself, I’ve been regulated to “falcon”—a fucking watchdog...

Dios mio, I’m Santi Carrera—the kingpin’s son. I shouldn’t be hiding out, reduced to surveillance like a low-ranking soldier. I belong inside where the action is. Seated next to my father, Valentin Carrera. Staring into the black eyes of our enemy, Dante Santiago.

The snow keeps falling. It’s like Mother Nature is trying to counteract all the darkness seeping from the church. It could bury us, neck deep, and it still wouldn’t matter. Light never triumphs over dark.

Inside, a muffled string of heated Spanish fights for dominance.

I check my watch.

Eleven minutes.

I’m surprised they lasted that long. My father and Santiago haven’t been in the same room together—hell, in the same country—in eleven years.

Not since La Boda Roja.

Leave it to Gianni Marchesi, head of the New Jersey Syndicate to mediate a sit-down between the Devil and the Reaper. When your family deals on the wrong side of the law, even a thirteen-year-old knows egos and grudges take a backseat when it comes to the DEA. Handcuffs and prison bars don’t discriminate, and Feds don’t come for one—they come for all.

Which is why they’re all inside, and I’m out here freezing my nuts off.

Santiago and my father would rather spend the rest of their lives behind bars than align again, but both men will do anything to protect their families. Even if it means being inside the same room.

From what I gather, an agent flipped a couple of dockhands on both sides of the river, putting not only Santiago’s and my father’s asses on the line, but Gianni’s too. The Italian mob boss is the one who carved the path for the Carrera Cartel into New Jersey eleven years ago. It’s never a smart move to owe a favor to a man like my father—the trade-off is never equitable.

Out of nowhere, a brutal gust of wind hurls a sheet of wet snow at my face. Blinking the flakes from my eyes, I turn toward the dark sedan again in time to see the rear passenger’s side door swing open.

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