Page 47 of Empire of Carnage
“And the ones that don’t?” I asked.
“That depends, quite a few have chosen to stay within the comforts of your brother’s motorcycle club in Grimm’s Reach. They’ll make decent prospects out of them. Some are now floating in the abyss, ready to look for revenge over Dezmond Archer Junior,” Ronan explained.
“You killed him,” Mateo said, not a question so much as he was just confirming it.
“He was in deeper with the Bratvas than we thought,” Ronan told him. “Leaving him alive wasn’t a possibility. I weighed out all my options.”
There was the faintest hint of regret in his tone. Killing someone you thought was family had to be hard, I was lucky to have gone thirty years as a Flores without experiencing it yet.
“That reminds me,” Santos said, reaching down to the floorboard and grabbing his backpack. He fumbled around inside before pulling out a velvet pouch with a drawstring. “It’s for you.” He tossed it my way and I caught it just in time for it to look mildly cool.
I opened the velvet pouch, seeing the yellowish teeth clinking around in the bottom of the bag against each other. I let out a chesty laugh and pulled the strings shut.
“Is this?” I asked and he nodded.
“I pay attention.” The smile was so faint on his face, but I could see the best parts of him fighting to come back to the surface.
“How romantic.” I kissed his cheek, letting my lips linger against his skin. “I can’t believe you brought this on a carry on.” I laughed.
“They’re not looking for teeth.” He shrugged, “It’s not illegal to carry them.”
“What did we miss down here?” Ronan asked, changing the subject.
“There is a big fundraiser event that we will be sponsoring in El Palacio on Saturday. President Ramírez has demanded my presence. I need all three of you to come with me.” I had already told Mateo so he had no input, but Santos and Ronan looked at each other with apprehension.
We’d had plenty of conversations about the politics behind the cártel, that the only way to claim my empire was to rule it from every angle. I needed to solidify my place in our world, make it so the Flores name held power once again.
“All three of us?” Ronan asked, raising an eyebrow up suspiciously.
“Is that a problem?” I crossed my arms, waiting for them to dare deny me.
“I mean you just plan to show up like, ‘Hey, I’m running for office, here are my three boyfriends and expect them to elect you?”
I hated when he knew better than I did.
“I haven’t figured out the logistics of it all, but I need all three of you there with me. It will make me feel more at ease,” I told them.
This fundraiser was a way to reintroduce me to the world, let everyone who mattered know that the Flores Cártel was once again its rightful regime. Of course, only those who really mattered would know me for who I really was, everyone else would see Celia Flores, daughter of the prolific politician Rafael Flores. For all they knew I was coming home after studying abroad to follow in my father’s footsteps, first a mayor, then a governor, and eventually a senator just like my papá.
This was my campaign announcement. This was also where the cártel would seal major agreements with the heaviest hitters in the country. They’d have our protection, our guns, our drugs, we’d have their money. Because I had my family’s fortune, the ledger, and the connections, I was able to attain everything my tío was promising, for much, much less.
A bargain anyone would be stupid to pass up.
It was also a trap. The fundraiser was sticky, sweet bait set out to lure my tío into our hands. He’d think we were unprepared, careless, and ready to celebrate. He would surely come for us. But we were more than ready, more than expecting him.
“What are you so nervous about?” Mateo asked with a laugh, like he couldn’t believe I was scared of anything.
20
Santos
“She’s worried they’re gonna call her white-washed, gringa, Americana,” I told them, she winced at the words I’d been hearing my entire life from the people who called me family.
Having parents who didn’t teach you the language of your people, who didn’t teach you about heritage or culture, that was a curse in itself. Celia was young when she lost her family. She didn’t lose her language but with time she lost that piece of herself that belonged down here.
Now that she was on this side of the border again, her confidence had shattered. She was just as lost here as I was. That wasn’t true. She had and she lost, I had never had it at all. And maybe it’s true what they said, about better to never have it at all and shit. Because Celia looked like she was in pain, and mentally on the verge of losing what little grip she was holding on to.
She was carrying too much on her shoulders, and she refused to let anyone else bear the brunt of it for her. To take some of her load off.
