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And he loved watching her, ass bare beneath one of the neon thong bikinis he’d insisted she wear, her silken brown tresses brushing her mid-back. His hand tightened around the crystal tumbler, wishing it gripped a fistful of her hair instead, her bare breasts flattened against the glass, palms splayed in surrender while he took what was his.
The rooftop lounge had good memories, too. He loved fucking her there, ignoring her protests about privacy. His men could watch, but never touch, from a discrete corner out of Abigail’s sight.
Maybe that would change.
His cousin Juan had proven his loyalty as they expanded their reach in the US through networks in Arizona and New Mexico. He did the dirty work, ensuring the gangs and dealers moved only Espina Negra product, while Vincente focused on the business side.
Still, Vincente hadn’t missed the way Juan looked at Abigail. With his sun-kissed brown hair and hazel eyes, Juan had lighter coloring and stood taller than him—a fact that irritated more than it should. But they were as close as brothers.
Perhaps close enough that he would gift his trusted second a night with his woman. As a reward.
His cock hardened.
With him watching, of course.
A long pull of mezcal cooled the lust heating his body. Smoke, earth, and spices singed his throat. The burn softened his erection but did little to tamp the fury building in his chest.
What had Abigail thought—this life, these luxuries, came from nightclub and restaurant profits alone? Did she not understand who he was? His father, Diego Lopez Becerra—“El Víbora”—controlled one of the biggest cartels in Mexico. Publicly, Vincente distanced himself and used only his mother’s name, Garcia, so he could operate with discretion.
He’d tried to keep Abigail separate from that world, but it couldn’t be helped, and she’d needed to see the burden of leadership. The cost of betrayal. If she was to be his wife, the mother of his children, she had to accept that sacrifices were required.
In return, he would have given her everything—designer clothes, expensive jewelry, a beautiful home where staff waited on her, and most importantly, status.
As his wife. His queen.
Instead, she ran.
Vincente downed the last of his drink and set the tumbler beside the decanter for the maid.
Tío Ramón’s voice echoed in his head.
Abigail is a liability. Make her disappear.
Always buzzing like a mosquito inEl Víbora’s ear, trying to paint Vincente as reckless, driven by his temper and cock rather than business.
The reason Abigail had run was because he’d done what was necessary for the business. The man he’d eliminated had been a spy. And worse, had accused Juan of plotting betrayal, something his cousin would never do. This, he knew for certain, because he knew why Juan stood at his side instead of Ramón’s.
Juan, he trusted. Juan’s father? Never. If anything happened toEl Víbora, Tío Ramón wouldn’t hesitate to eliminate Vincente to become head of the Espina Negra Cartel.
Crossing into his bedroom, he stripped off his slacks and draped them over the nearest chair, then set his phone on the nightstand. The white silk sheets on the California king gleamed in the low light, hiding the restraints stashed under the mattress.
His hand dipped for a quick stroke as he pictured Abigail spread out for his pleasure, submissive to his needs. Unable to find her own release unless he permitted it.
If she didn’t return soon, another woman would take her place.
He’d already forgotten the face of the brunette he fucked in the back room of his nightclub. It was Abigail’s face he’d seen as he pounded into the woman. Her tits were larger, and the perfume was wrong, but she’d served her purpose and took the edge off so he could rest tonight.
It had been too long. Two months. The detective Juan hired still hadn’t delivered results. Time to replace him with a more competent one.
Despite everything, Vincente still wanted his beautiful doctor. But when he got her back, he’d bring her to his father’s compound in Mexico. There, he’d break her resistance. Once she carried his child in her womb, her loyalty to him would be absolute.
As he headed to the bathroom, his cell buzzed with Juan’s ringtone. Irritation dissipated the pleasant buzz of the mezcal. Late night calls rarely brought good news.
“What is it?”
“Abigail has been located,” Juan said.
His breath stalled. “Where?”