Page 64 of Bad Blood
“Be my guest.” I unscrew the cap and pour out another double. “Unlike you, I don’t mind breaking the law. Serving alcohol to a minor is at the bottom of a long list of offenses in my lifetime.” Extending my arm, I offer the glass. She takes it, and then retreats back to her half of the kitchen.
“Did you ever want to do anything different with your life?” she asks as I slip off my jacket and holster, placing my gun on the island between us.
“No,” I answer tersely, shooting her look over the rim of my glass. “The penthouse apartment and the millions in the bank are a real kick in the balls at the ripe old age of twenty-two.”
As the first-born son of Mexico’s bloody version of Camelot,thisis what was expected of me. I never cared to explore other options because to me, there were none. Carrera men honor their families by protecting them and raining hell on anyone who tries to hurt them. My father’s name is sacred. Our way of life isn’t always honorable, but it’s never disloyal.
A man doesn’t choose his destiny. It chooses him.
“Twenty-two?” she looks surprised. “I figured you were older.”
“Looks can be deceiving,mi amada… What about you? College? Job?”
“Tried college. Lasted one semester. Wanted a job. Wasn’t allowed.” She scans my gun again and then frowns. “Violence is like an earthquake, don’t you think? There are so many aftershocks and consequences, even if you can’t see them. The man you killed might have had a family who now miss him. A trafficked woman might have been lucky enough to escape, but she’ll always have severe PTSD.”
“I’m more of a survive-the-moment kind of crime lord,” I say, leaning back against the counter, intrigued by her strange outburst of metaphorical wisdom—wanting more, even though it’s painting me in every shade of asshole.
One thing’s for sure. Thalia Santiago is much smarter than I ever perceived her to be. Atlantic City is full of eager women willing to bend to my every command. However, I’m a man who fulfills his needs and then moves on. I have no interest in anything more than a hard fuck. Plus, there’s usually nothing between their ears except for air and a wicked tongue. A week ago, that’s all it took to satisfy me.
Things change.
My new bride doesn’t follow rules, and she sure as hell doesn’t fit in any premade box. She’s perceptive and brave and cunning—a woman who understands this savage life fate has chosen for us.
Thalia Santiago Carrera stimulates more than my dick. She challenges my mind.
Andthatturns me on more than I could’ve ever imagined.
Her defiance and intellect, the two attributes that landed her in my clutches, are the same damn things making me want to keep her there.
That’s some psychological bullshit I don’t care to analyze.
“My friend’s mom runs a women’s sanctuary in Colombia,” she continues, spooning the spaghetti into two bowls, taking it upon herself to assume I want one. “She supports abuse victims and victims of trafficking… I helped out one summer, and I really enjoyed it.”
Tactfully done, Thalia.Her so-called “friend” is my number one rival, Edier Grayson. I know all about him and his family’stelenovela-worthy drama.
I bite my tongue at my own words.You’re one to talk, Carrera.
Still, it strikes me that our two families have something in common: a shared aversion to human trafficking. Neither of our cartels supports it. In fact, we both actively condemn it.
Thalia clears her throat. “Listen, I’m not saying I’m a saint or anything—”
“Cheating casinos out of half a million this week certainly puts you in a gray area.” I yank at my tie and loosen the top button of my white dress shirt.
“Oh, forget it,” she scowls, pushing one of the bowls toward me. “Here you go,dear.”
I’m starting to enjoy her acid tongue.Maybe a little too much.
Leaning over the island, she takes a bite from her bowl, and the obscene noise she makes hits me straight in the dick.
“Are you going to tell me what you need the money for?” I ask, mimicking her stance. We’re barely a couple of feet away from each other now, but I can smell that sweet jasmine perfume as strongly as if we were skin to skin.
“You have your deal clauses,” she says, shaking her head. “This is mine.”
Those dark eyes catch me staring.
“Are you ‘cartel-perving’ on me again?”
“Can’t ‘perve’ on someone you hate.”
