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His phone rang.
He took another sip. Leisurely brushed aside her long brown hair, which had fallen over the cell phone resting on the desk. With the hundred-dollar bill plucked from his own wallet, he brushed away the faint dusting of white powder the girl had just snorted.
Whatever the call was, surely it could wait. He unzipped his trousers.
Glanced at the screen.
Ramón.
Fuck.
His appetite for pleasure gone, he zipped up his pants and slapped the girl on the ass. “I have business to attend to. Another time,querida.”
She gave him a pout from glossy pink lips—cosmetically enhanced—adjusted her panties and dress and slipped out to the dance floor.
The door opened again. Juan stepped in.
“Your father just tried to call me,” Vincente said, not looking up.
He stared at the screen a beat longer, then sighed and dialed his uncle’s number.
“Your men failed.”
No greeting. Just straight to gloating, thecabrón.
Vincente’s fingers tightened around the phone. He hit speaker so Juan could listen in.
“Why the continued interest in my affairs,Tío? I’m sure you must have better things to do.”
Besides trying to make him look weak and incompetent in front of his father.
“I’m trying to look out for you,Sobrino. You’d be wise to take my counsel. Do you think to do business behind a jail cell if yourputagoes to theFederales? Do you believe the Aztec Kings will not cut us out of our own business and side with Los Coyotes if they sense weakness?”
His uncle didn’t wait for a reply. “Your father never had to reassure himself of his power. His enemies and friends alike fearEl Víbora—and for good reason.”
The fake concern made Vincente’s teeth grind. So did the constant reminders that Tío Ramón thought him a pale shadow of his father.
Let the old man keep talking.
Once he took over the business, he’d squeeze Ramón’s operation until his uncle had no choice but to surrender whatever scraps of power he still clung to, and spend the rest of his days drowning in tequila at the family compound.
Or better yet, he’d give Ramon’s business to Juan. Let his uncle choke on the irony. See what he’d lost by mistreating his own son.
Vincente cast a sideways glance at his cousin.
Although…he’d have to take care if he did that. Power changed people. Made them disloyal.
He returned to the call with his uncle. “There is no threat to business. I’m in contact with the Aztec Kings. The other matter is personal. It’s handled.”
By the end of the week, Abigail—no, Gianna—would be back in Miami.
Not because he trusted her. He didn’t. He’d already taken steps to ensure her compliance.
“Your whore hides on the Navajo reservation. Now she has a bodyguard—one who’s beaten your men. Twice.”
“I’m handling it,” Vincente snapped. His uncle was goading him, trying to take the upper hand. He wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
“You mean you’ve let your men handle it. Maybe it’s time you saw to this personally, no? To make sure it gets done right. It’s what your father would’ve done at your age.”