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“And you came alone?” His smirk widens, a predator catching the scent of a challenge.
“I did.”
“Armed?”
“You’re seriously asking?”
His body shakes with a low chuckle, an unsettling sound that seems to vibrate in the walls around us.
“Frisk him,” he orders two men who step forward from the shadows. They’re big, broad, and silent, the kind of men whose names you never need to know because they only serve one purpose.
“No need,” I say, keeping my movements deliberate as I pull my piece from its holster. The weight of the gun in my hand is both reassuring and regretful—I’d never walk into a place like this unarmed under normal circumstances. But tonight isn’t normal. I set it carefully on a maple wood accent table to my right. Its polished surface gleams under the dim overhead light, a sharp contrast to the peeling wallpaper and scuffed floorboards.
Psycho stares me down, his grin unwavering. I hold his gaze, unflinching. Finally, he snorts.
“I’ll go see if El Jefe has time for you.”
I exhale slowly as he disappears down a hallway. This needs to go smoothly, but nothing is ever easy when you’re dealing with men who’ve spent their entire lives learning to trust no one.
When Mateo finally enters, he does so with the force of a storm. Short but solidly built, his presence fills the room like a thunderclap. His heavy boots thud against the floor, each step deliberate, each movement speaking of power barely restrained. He looks like a man born to fight, his body a map of scars and muscle that tells a story of battles won and lost.
“Middleton,” he says, his voice low and gravelly.
“Mateo,” I return evenly.
“We didn’t have a meeting on the books, and this isn’t your local stomping grounds. What brings you here? Must be serious as fuck.”
“I’m calling in my favor,” I say, getting right to the point.
Mateo raises an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. In this business, favors are worth more than gold—currency that can buy you anything from loyalty to a second chance at life. A flicker of understanding passes over his face.
“What is it?”
I lean forward slightly, lowering my voice. “I received several anonymous texts. Someone’s watching me. Threatening me to stay away from my fiancée.”
Mateo leans back against the wall, crossing his thick arms over his chest. His brow furrows, but his eyes remain sharp and calculating.
“Okay,” he says slowly. “What’s that got to do with Blood Nation? We don’t threaten people over the phone.”
“I know it isn’t you,” I say. “But I know who it is.”
“Fabre.” His lip curls in distaste, the name landing like a curse between us.
“Exactly. He’s making a move in L.A., Mateo. Think about it. If I’m out of the way, he can pull all the strings he wants unchecked, turning this city into his playground. By the end of the year, he’ll have everyone at each other’s throats, which is exactly what he wants—chaos.”
Mateo’s jaw tightens, his expression hardening. He doesn’t like where this is going. “This sounds like ayouproblem, vato.”
“Then why did I just clean up a dead member of your organization tonight?”
Mateo stiffens, his dark eyes narrowing. “What the fuck did you just say?”
“A Blood Nation member,” I repeat, my tone measured. “Dead. At The Shaded Lamp.”
His eyes dart to the side, his mind racing. “Who?”
“I don’t know his name, but my team saw his ink. He’s definitely one of yours.”
He mutters something in Spanish, his words sharp and clipped. “Who the hell would be all the way over at The Shaded Lamp?” He looks at me again, suspicion and anger flickering across his face. “Why didn’t you call me right away?”