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“I haven’t,” Vincente snapped. The burn in his chest intensified.
Instead of responding, Juan shrugged. “Then do as your father suggested. Visit the Aztec Kings. Show him you’re still in control.”
Heat flared at the tips of Vincente’s ears. “You think I look weak.”
“No, primo.” Juan gripped his shoulder. “My father is trying to make you look weak and you must not let him. Handle the Aztec Kings. Retrieve Abigail yourself.”
“Not Abigail—Gianna,” Vincente corrected. “Any news?”
Juan hesitated.
Vincente stilled. “What is it?”
“The man who interfered the other night? He tracked Matteo and Emilio to their hotel. Was waiting for them. He had a message for you.Leave the woman alone, or deal with me.”
Vincente blinked, then gave a sharp laugh. “Who is this man who threatens me?”
A dark, possessive emotion coiled inside his chest. Was Gianna fucking him?
She’d regret it if she was. No one touched what was his.
“He’s either very brave or very foolish.”
Juan shrugged. “His name is Caleb Varella. His father worked for Espina Negra before he was killed. Matteo kept in touch with the wife. Kept her quiet. Said she talked about her son—the Green Beret.”
Green Beret?
A soldier. Skilled. Maybe even for sale. If he was anything like his father, the answer was probably yes.
It also was possible this Green Beret had ties to Los Coyotes, and his involvement with Gianna was just a distraction—a cover for a deeper betrayal inside Espina Negra’s territory.
Vincente pinched the bridge of his nose as a headache loomed. “A dangerous man whose loyalties we don’t know is a threat.”
Juan gave a silent nod.
“Tell your men to deal with this Caleb Varella.” Vincente’s voice iced. “Permanently.”
Chapter Thirteen
First,meatsauce—darkredand heavy with garlic, the scent rising with each spoonful. Then noodles. More meat sauce. Then béchamel, pale and silky, the scent of nutmeg just barely rising as it hit the warm pan.
Gia repeated the layers with steady hands, though her chest felt tight. The rhythm helped. She’d been on edge all afternoon, every hour ticking closer to tonight.
A chill crept across her skin. How would Caleb react when his grandfather showed up?
Shredded mozzarella fell from her fingers, the cold white strands drifting like snow. The undercurrents at Lillie Blackwater Varella’s funeral hadn’t just been about grief.
The empty mozzarella bag crinkled in her hand as she tossed it aside and reached for the dollar-store grater, fingers closing around its flimsy plastic grip. Warm air carried the sharp scent of parmesan as she worked the wedge into a small mound, each movement precise, controlled—because everything else felt anything but.
Despite Caleb’s belief, she couldn’t reconcile Ben Blackwater—who had welcomed a stranger in need into his community—as a man who would abandon a daughter and grandson.
There was more to the story. Had to be.
The plastic handle snapped beneath her grip.
“Crap.” She stared at her handiwork in disgust. Too much pressure and it snapped. Broken beyond repair.
Kind of like her life.