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But I got cocky, and arrogance blinded even the most cautious of men. Up until now, I’d managed to keep my dealings with the Irish mob quiet. The fewer questions on fewer lips, the less likely it was I’d get trapped in my own web. Not that I would’ve bothered explaining myself to anyone.
Despite being the head of stateside operations for the most powerful cartel in the world, I was still an outsider amongst my own men. I couldn’t blame them. They were born into this life. They lived and breathed it, working their way up the ranks in hopes of one day reaching a position of power. To them, I was a gringo. A traitor to both sides of the law who made a deal with the devil and shit all over their sacrifices in order to secure himself a seat at the top.
They weren’t wrong.
The line I walked with that devil these days was thin at best. Valentin Carrera didn’t have friends; he had strategic alliances. When the kingpin gave an order, he expected it to be followed and dared anyone to defy him. Especially a man who had put half his men behind bars.
But here I sat with a noose tied around my neck, waiting to hang on my own ego, and since I wasn’t looking to die today, I made sure to scan the perimeter again, rolling my phone around in my hands as I memorized faces.
“You know this place has state-of-the art cameras, right?” Slouching back into my chair, I looked up to see an explosion of blonde hair falling in a halo around two strips of sequins I assumed was supposed to be a dress. Suspicion came second nature to me, so when I narrowed my eyes, she placed her palm on the table and leaned in close. “With audio so clear, you can hear the stroke of a dick under a table.”
“That’s…” Shaking my head, I raised my beer mug to my lips. “That’s too much information.”
She slid into the chair across from me with a sultry wink. “Looking for a little pleasure before business, handsome?”
“No. I never mix the two.”
Especially in Chicago.
“A shame,” she mused, drumming her blood red nails on the table. “You look like you could stand to loosen up.”
As the suggestive R&B song playing changed to the hard beats of a bass guitar, I wondered how hard I’d have to kick her chair to send her sailing to the other side of the club. It wasn’t very gentlemanly, but social etiquette and conformity weren’t high on my priority list.
Plus, being kept waiting had worn my patience paper thin.
“Lady, it’s been a long day, and with all due respect, I don’t have time for this shit. Is your boss even here, or does he plan on dicking me around all night?”
As the dollar signs faded from her eyes, her façade dropped. Her flirty smile curled into a snarl, but before she could hurl out the insults waiting on her tongue, she glanced over my head, her eyes widening.
On instinct, I twisted around. “It’s about fucking time.”
However, instead of the smoky Irish brogue accent I expected to hear, a gravelly Spanish one surrounded me like rusty nails on a bullet-ridden chalkboard. “That impatient to see me, Harcourt?”
Carlos Cabello stood behind me, his gray goatee framing a smirk I wanted to punch off his face. Turning back, I shot an accusatory glare at the traitorous woman just in time to see her sequined ass disappear into the shadows.
Even rolling my eyes took too much effort.
“Fuck you.” Tossing my phone across the table, I let out another slew of curses. “I’m supposed to be meeting with Ronan.”
I thought I was meeting with Ronan Kelly, head of the Northside Sinners, the Irish mob in charge of every piss Chicago took. I didn’t like surprises, and I sure as hell didn’t like them being hand delivered by a middleman who had no direct contact with the Sinners.
“Well, now you’re meeting with me.”
“Oh, well, that explains everything.” I tracked his every move as he slid into the chair opposite of me. “By all means,” I said, motioning across the table. “Have a seat.”
I expected a smartass retort, or at least a thinly veiled threat. Instead, Carlos offered an obligatory nod then lifted a finger and motioned to a passing cocktail waitress. I suppose the meaning was unspoken because her response was a simple nod.
Carlos let out a loud laugh. “That’s what I always liked about you, Harcourt. You don’t waste time with pointless small talk.”
We were wasting time. This ridiculous civility dance only postponed the inevitable. “Cut the shit. What the—”
I paused as the waitress appeared by our table, placing a shot glass filled with clear liquid in front of him. As soon as the woman came, she was gone, her presence so fleeting, if she hadn’t left the drink as evidence, I’d question if she was ever really there.
“Vodka?” I asked, nodding toward the shot glass.
Carlos snorted. “Americans.” Picking up the shot, he tipped it back and slammed it. “It’s aguardiente. In English it translates to firewater.” He glanced at my half-empty beer and smirked. “Want one, gringo?”
“I’ll pass.” Time was money, and this small-talk bullshit had gone on long enough. “It seems I’ve wasted my time. However, I’m also not driving another eleven hundred miles, so unfortunately, you’ll have to do.”
