Page 44 of Hart of Redemption
While I was making inroads with my family, I wasn’t exactly ready to spend another holiday with them just yet, even though they were planning a big Christmas gathering, going as far to invite Joy as well.
Joy Whitlock? It had been two solid days since I’d kissed Joy in the bathroom at the penthouse and only hours since I’d seen her delectable body at the gym. I couldn’t bring myself to resume that conversation we’d had in the hallway at Denim’s place, only because I wasn’t ready to tell her the truth about who I really was. And to a certain extent, I didn’t want to hear why she kept vacillating back and forth when it came to us. Despite that, I was dying to fuck her brains out.
I wondered endlessly if she had a man in her life. If so, was it serious? Jealousy was an emotion I wasn’t accustomed to for the simple fact that I tried not to allow myself to fall for anyone. But with Joy, it was becoming increasingly difficult. Surely, love at first sight didn’t exist. That was just a myth.
“You haven’t seen that bald asshole in the club? The one who hurt Joy. Have you?”
I searched the crowd every night from my office window for that bald beast who’d touched her. I even asked her that morning if she’d seen him around. She assured me he wasn’t a problem and that she’d paid him off.
“No,” Vince said as we climbed out of the car. “I heard Grace last night at the club say Joy is attending the charity event with you. Will that be an official date?”
I shook my head. “Since when do I date?”
Dillon had invited Joy to the gala at Thanksgiving dinner. She gave him some pushback, but Grace wouldn’t take no for an answer.
“You have to start somewhere,” he said.
Preferably, bed would be my choice with Joy. No talking. All fucking. Then maybe we could both open up to each other.
At the mention of her name, I had butterflies in my stomach. For fuck’s sake, that never happened, but I had to be honest with myself. Her radiant smile was like a vice grip on my balls, tightening with every passing moment. Her big hazel eyes were like a sledgehammer to my heart, shattering any semblance of control I had left. She was stirring something deep within me that had been dormant for far too long, and I could feel myself losing my grip on reality when it came to her, blocking my ability to concentrate.
It was time to buckle down and focus on the real issue—stolen guns.
Squinting in the bright sunlight that had been melting the fallen snow over the past two days, I did a quick sweep of the parking lot. Aside from three trucks parked alongside Vince’s car, the area didn’t have much activity. I didn’t expect any for a Saturday, and this part of Dorchester wasn’t exactly thriving with businesses.
We strode through the entrance, only to be stopped by two cartel soldiers. The one with his hair tied in a low ponytail, I hadn’t seen before. The other, Kurt, who wore diamond-studded earrings, had been working for Rosario for as long as I could remember.
Kurt nodded his scarred chin at me. “Duke.”
“I thought by now you would’ve gotten a promotion to a higher rank,” I said.
“I like where I am,” Kurt responded. “This is Joe, Gustavo’s cousin. He’s the one who got a promotion since we found the rat. Gustavo is through that door beneath the landing overhead.”
I crossed the trash-ridden place past spent needles, torn boxes, and empty food wrappers. The stench of urine was heavy in the air.
If I thought the odor was bad, it was even worse when I entered the dilapidated former cafeteria, where Rosario’s lieutenant was pacing with his phone to his ear alongside a set of cabinets to my right. In the middle of the room, an unmoving young man sat tied to a chair, his nose bloody, his eyes swollen and bruised, and his head hanging so that his chin hit his chest. And to my left, Chris Vargas had one knee bent, foot planted against the chipped painted wall as he read from his phone.
Vince beelined it across the cafeteria to the door as if he’d heard something.
“Chris, what are you doing here?”
Then it hit me. Denim had mentioned he’d spoken to the leader of the Southside Creepers and asked Chris to talk to the other gangs about a shipment of stolen guns and dead cartel members.
Chris, a tall, lean, and mean motherfucker with two sleeves of tats and a scar from his ear to his chin, rolled his eyes. “I’m as surprised as you are, but Gustavo wanted me here.” He pointed at the prisoner. “I’m the one who learned this fucker is working with Mateo Alvarez. He goes by Emilio and is a low-ranking soldier for Rosario.”
“Figures that fucker is involved,” Vince said, returning to join Chris and me.
“I’m not shocked, either,” Chris said, “but this isn’t my fight. My guys and I are not into illegal firearms. I hated when Tito started down that road.”
In the grand scheme of things, whether it was drugs or guns, all of us were in the middle. We answered to the cartel. They were our suppliers, after all. Granted, people like Chris dealt with front men and not the cartel directly. That job was left to people like Brian and me.
“Do you know who else is involved?” I asked Chris.
“I don’t,” he said.
Gustavo’s chilling baritone voice made me turn in his direction, where he was still glued to his cell. “Yes, Rosario. All parties are present. I’ll put you on speaker.”
That was our cue to join the fray.
