Page 8 of Tainted Blood
I’m straddling the line between control and chaos as my father steps in front of me, a glass of Añejo tequila in his hand. It’s not a question. It’s a demand, delivered with the casual bite of a snake. Calm and controlled. Almost fucking pleasant. Valentin Carrera doesn’t shout. Men like him wield much more power in a steady tone than a deafening roar. The danger lies in the delivery.
Despite all that, I don’t bother to answer. The explanation of tonight’s events would take too long, and frankly, I’m not in the mood to watch my father’s head explode when he finds out I’ve ignored everything he ever taught me. Instead, I focus on more pressing issues.
“Have you seen Thalia?” I grit my teeth, adding, “Or Sam Sanders?”
At the mention of Sanders’s name, he stiffens—his fingers clenching so tightly around the glass I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter. “Why would a Santiago pinche cabrón be in this casino, Santi?”
That’s a no, then.
Sanders is a reckless son of a bitch, but he’s not stupid. You don’t violate a man’s daughter and then dance at his party. If Grayson sent him in here for Thalia, he’d stay out of sight until she stepped into view.
The irritating sound of spinning slot machines chisel down into my brain as I stand locked in a battle of wills with El Muerte himself.
I have to get out of this damn place.
Just as I turn to leave, my father’s firm grip clamps down on my shoulder. “I repeat… Why would that pinche cabrón dare step foot in New Jersey, much less on Carrera ground?”
“I’ll explain later.”
“You’ll explain now.”
“I’ll explain when I have something to say,” I appease with a low growl, shrugging him off. I’m not doing this with him. Not here. Especially not now. “In the meantime if you happen to see my wife, please escort her to my office.”
* * *
They say when you find yourself standing at the end, return to the beginning.
So that’s where I am—at the beginning. More specifically, the desk I was leaning against as she walked through my door that night.
I glance at the floor where she stood, head held high, lying to my face as her knees shook with fear, then at the wall I shoved her against seconds before putting a gun to her head… My office is a battlefield of scattered landmines, all of them filled with reminders of her.
I can’t think straight when she’s invading my head like this.
Knocking the top off the crystal decanter sitting on my desk, I lift it, and take a long hard drink, not bothering with a glass. Strangling the neck of the bottle with one hand, I shove the other in my hair, tugging at the roots as I pace the length of my office.
RJ remains uncharacteristically quiet as I come undone.
“She can’t just leave like that,” I say, swiping the back of my hand across my chin. “We’re fucking married. I don’t care what shit Grayson convinces her to pull, I won’t give her a divorce. She’s a Carrera for as long as I say she is, goddamn it!” The decanter shatters against the wall as I hurl it across the room. Staring at the jagged pieces of glass strewn across the floor, my tone lowers. “The only way Santiago is going to cut that tie is by cutting my throat.”
I’m spiraling. Half an hour ago, I had every intention of telling Thalia the truth and letting her go. But now… Now, I’m irritated, concerned, and pissed the fuck off—a dangerous cocktail with a hairpin trigger.
As I pass my desk for the fourth time, I stop to check my phone.
Nothing.
“Have you heard from Rocco?”
When all I get in return is an incoherent mumble, I glance up from my screen, narrowing a suspicious glare at my second-in-command. He’s perched on the edge of the couch, an elbow braced on each knee, his phone tucked protectively in his hands. Now that I think about it, he hasn’t taken his eyes off it since we caught the finale of Grayson’s orchestrated shitshow.
“I asked you a question, RJ.”
His thick eyebrows knot. “In a minute.”
No. That’s not how this works. Especially tonight. “Put the damn phone away, or I’ll shove it somewhere you won’t like.”
Holding my stare, he presses another button, flipping his middle finger as he lifts it to his ear. “Go to hell, Santi.”
Too late. I’m already there.
