Page 5 of Tainted Blood
As if we didn’t lose four of our best sicarios tonight.
As if a bullet didn’t graze my shoulder.
As if his thirteen-year-old son didn’t just take his first life tonight—he took five.
In the end, the lit match was dropped from Irish fingers. Sean Mahoney, boss of the New Haven Irish Mob, was tipped off about the meeting and wasn’t too thrilled with his lack of an invitation. He crashed the party and, as a result, not one damn Mahoney made it back to Connecticut.
“Thanks,” I say, tonelessly, anticlimax choking out the last of my adrenaline.
“I never meant to bring you into the cartel this soon. You’re thirteen, Santi. That’s too young to understand the consequences of this life.”
I think of the locked box tucked safely away in the back of my mind. That’s what he thinks.
“Then why did you bring me with you?” Why did you give me this choice?
It’s a question that’s been eating at me since we left Mexico.
“I’ve made no secret of my intentions. I expect you to take over one day.”
“And I’ve made no secret of mine. That’s what I want.”
His hand tightens around his glass. “Eventually, everything will be yours—the cartel, the Carrera name, our legacy, and the responsibility that accompanies all three.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Responsibility?”
“La Boda Roja.” The three words roll off his tongue in a twisted mix of reverence and disgust.
He doesn’t have to explain. La Boda Roja has been drilled into my head since I was a toddler.
“Nuestra lucha no tiene fin. Our fight has no end, Santi. It’s a vicious circle that will be handed down for generations to come. So to answer your question, I brought you to New Jersey to show you what lies ahead. To bring you face to face with Santiago, so that circle will burn just as brightly for you as it does for me.
“I hate him.”
Hate isn’t a strong enough word for what I feel for the Colombian. We locked eyes the moment I stormed through the doors of that church and he looked right through me. Bullets flew past his head like torpedoes as he dismissed me like I was nothing more than a kid in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Like I wasn’t even a Carrera.
My father pins me with a lethal stare. “Remember that hate, Santi. Feed it. Build upon it. Use it to your advantage. But whatever you do, never underestimate the same hate that burns for you.”
“So, who will be joining me in this ring of fire?”
His lips twitch. “It remains to be seen. The universe has seen fit to deny Santiago an heir.” The twitch becomes a smirk. “Still, a rebel can’t escape his destiny.”
I have no idea what he means. Pápa has never been one for directness. He enjoys pulling people’s strings and making them dance for his own entertainment—until he’s bored enough to cut them and get to the point.
I usually don’t take the bait... But this has my attention.
“Who would anyone try to run from power?”
“You’d be surprised. Not everyone is like you, Santi.” The pride in his voice makes my chest swell. “But there are some who refuse to see the value in our way of life.”
Then those people are as blind as they are short-sighted. Respect is everything in this world. When I grow up, I’ll have everyone’s, one way or another.
“Who are these idiotas?” I scoff.
“The sons of Santiago’s second-in-command and a close business associate. They’ll form the next generation of the Santiago Cartel, despite their present distaste for it.”
“Does this ‘dream team’ have names?” My sarcasm is pushing boundaries, but he doesn’t look pissed about it. Instead, he seems amused by my newly-inflated balls.
