Page 85 of Bad Blood

I nod. “The Carrera name has a way of expediting things.”

“You’re welcome.”

My blood pumps a furious rhythm at the insinuation. “For what?” I ask, biting out the words, struggling to keep my temper under control. “You thinkyoudid this? You think it’syourname they fear in this town?”

He lets out a dark chuckle. “They fearEl Muerte.”

Those two words are like a gunshot.The Reaper.A name he’s referred to in hushed whispers all across Mexico.

“On this side of the border, I amEl Muerte,” I say, baring my teeth and slamming my glass onto the desk.

My father’s lips curl into a tepid smile.Son of a bitch.He provoked me on purpose. He wanted me to break first.

My empty stomach churns on nothing but acid and tequila.

“You didn’t come all this way to talk about building structure,” I say idly. “I know you have falcons planted up and down the East Coast reporting back to you. You know I have a caged songbird in my penthouse.”

He doesn’t confirm nor deny, but he doesn’t have to. We both know I’m right.

“Legado…” he notes, ignoring me, the heavily accented word rolling off his tongue. “It’s ironic, don’t you think?”

“What is?”

“That you’d name your casino after yourlegacy…” His smirk vanishes, the black calm of a cartel kingpin sweeping across his face as his palms smack onto my desk. “Only to put a ring on a Santiago, and shit all over it.”

“Watch it,” I warn in a low tone, but I don’t know what I’m defending more—my casino, or my wife.

“Have you let her pussy poison your brain, Santi?” he seethes, his palms curling into tight fists. “That woman isnotyour ally. Have a few days between her legs made you forget everything I’ve taught you? Everything her father did to your mother? The pain he caused our family? The time he stole fromyou?”

That last one was a well-flung dart to the weakest part of me. A dark corner inside my head filled with nothing but scorched hope and unanswered prayers.

“No, I haven’t forgotten,” I counter, recapturing my deadly tone—only this time, it’s sliced paper-thin. “How could I? You’d never let me.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

I don’t answer him. It’s not a conversation I care to have, now or ever. Arguing about the past is like spinning circles inside a hamster wheel and expecting to travel in a straight line.

“Seventeen dead women washed up in a shipping container in my port this morning,” I say flatly, changing the subject.

He grinds his teeth. “Si, I know.”

Of course, he does.This war has escalated to a new level, and now it’s resting in my hands.

On my fucking shoulders.

“My casino got shot up.” I rake my hand through my hair and tug at the roots. “Lola got hurt. Sanders’s bar is a pile of ash and stale memories. Santiago used his own daughter as target practice for Christ’s sake.”

He’s quiet for a moment and then cocks his chin, the gold flecks in his eyes turning from a flicker to a spark. “You knew this was always your destiny. My battle is your battle.”

“No!” I accuse, jabbing my finger across the desk. “It was alwaysyourbattle. You made it my burden.”

“You are a Carrera. A sin against one is a sin against all. We don’t rest until vengeance has been claimed and blood has been spilled.”

“That’syourtruth.”

The spark becomes a flame, his knuckles flattening into my desk. “And you made ityourtruth when you took the oath and accepted a seat atSenado,” he hits back, his accent thickening as his anger escalates. “I may have groomed you to be a king, Santi, but you coveted the crown all on your own.”

He’s right. And I want to hate him for it—only I can’t. Valentin Carrera molded me to be his successor. To bloody my hands and absorb his hate as mine. But in the end, I chose this life. As young as eight years old, I’d sneak out of the house and follow my father and uncles to the one-room building on the far end of the estate.