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“You’ll be okay while I’m gone?” I ask Solimar, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear. She’s placed the luscious black strand high atop her head in a ponytail, the ends curled and swishing from side to side when she moves.
It’s tempting to wrap the strands around my hand and bend her forward. To fuck her like the depraved animal I am.
“We’re going shopping, Mr. Lucas. What’s the worst that could happen? I chip a nail on a rack?” Her mock annoyance is cute, and I’m tempted to bite her. To take her with me and shield her innocent mind from the world.
Solimar can be naïve, and I love her just like this. Want her to feel safe and never look over her shoulder in fear.
She doesn’t see the bad in people, such as her cousin, who I don’t trust.
Laura called her yesterday while we were out, pretentious and full of it, but I stood back while they spoke briefly. Solimar kept it short while we waited for our lunch to arrive in an outdoor café, and not once did Laura ask her how she was or felt, but instead, filled the five-minute and thirty-second conversation with Signio and his poor, bruised body.
I was more than proud when my little flower hung up and turned off her phone after promising to catch up later.
“A lot of things can go wrong, sweetheart. This is not our native country, and here you’re a tourist with money.” I wrap a curl around my finger and give a small tug. She comes closer, pressing against my chest. “Corruption and crimes are global pandemics. Don’t go out with that vacation mindset that gets others in trouble. Go out, have fun, but be aware and never stray from your guards. Understood?”
“Yes.” It’s breathy and I feel the movement of her chest rising rapidly—her hard little nipples against me. Rubbing. My mouth waters and I groan, causing her to giggle. “Something funny?”
“I love you being all protective and caring.”
“That’s because you’re my heart, Preciosa. My life.”
Rising on the tips of her toes, she pecks my lips and pulls back. Her eyes are a bit teary-eyed. “One day I’m going to marry you, Mr. Lucas.”
“That, my beautiful little flower, was never in question.” I knew she heard me that night but needed to verify I wasn’t running or shying away. I didn’t take it back, nor did my affection for her diminish while playing aloof. “And I’m not waiting a lifetime, either. I want you to take my name, be mine in this life and every single one that follows. My love. My wife.”
“I do.”
“Good girl.” Bending my head, I lay a small kiss on her lips, nose, and finally her forehead before stepping back. “I’ll see you later today.”
“Where are we meeting again?”
Her sassy grin pulls a smirk from me. “I never said, but I’ll always find you. Always.”
The words Special News Bulletin blink across the screen of my phone as I study the latest headline. It’s another story on my brother, the monstrous sibling of empresario Alejandro Lucas, who’s been linked to the destruction of a federal building not too long ago.
Funny enough, I’ve never been arrested or so much as questioned regarding the incident.
No text. No call. No citation to appear before the justice department of Colombia.
And yet, reporters are salivating at the chance to scandalize and draw in viewers by feeding them incorrect bullshit. If they had the facts it would be one thing, but you can’t prove what doesn’t have tracks.
Clicking the link, I skim down the regurgitated and lacking glob of journalism. It’s the same as every other story that broke out, and claims that Emiliano’s in custody and already serving time on what could be a thirty-year sentence.
Little do they know, the tombos at the state penitentiary work for me, and my brother comes and goes as he pleases. That asshole is having a vacation and avoiding a honey-do list a mile long.
He owes me.
“Patron, we’re here.”
“Gracias.” Pocketing my cell, I take in the area we’re in. The warehouse is a little out of the way from our hotel as Hialeah is a neighboring city with a heavily Cuban demographic and heritage. It’s residential meets industrial with 49th street being its central focus.
It travels from the east side and through the west, connecting you to shopping, restaurants, and multiple mom-and-pop shops, providing anything and everything you could need.
Thiago’s warehouse sits surrounded by empty lots that in their prime responded to the heavily growing demand of textiles globally. Now, though, they’re owned by one family: Rivera De Leon.
To an outsider, this would appear to be an average scrap yard, but looks can be deceiving.
Geronimo pulls into the private parking lot along the right side of the building—I get out and my men follow.
