Page 1 of Cartel Rose (Jorge)

Chapter One

Leisel

“No! No! No!”

This cannot be happening.

“Anne, what’s wrong?”

I look over at my assistant, Johan, and shake my head. I shift my attention to the man who just walked into the conference room. He prowled—fucking prowled, not walked—into the office as though we’re here to serve him. As though this is his investment firm.

It’s not. It’s not even his country.

“He’s half an hour early, and my computer won’t connect to the network. I knew I should’ve brought my own instead of relying on this old piece of shit. It’s updating.”

“Use mine.”

“Thanks.”

I watch as Jorge Diaz turns toward my office, and our gazes lock. The man is beyond gorgeous…and he knows it. The arrogance rolls off him in tsunami size waves. He’s so damn sure of himself.

Smug bastard.

“If you keep scowling like that, you’ll give him the wrong impression.”

“More like the right impression. He’s here to tank the deal I’ve worked on for the past four months. It’s been a house of cards since the beginning, and he’s about to flick the bottom cards out from under everything.”

“You can’t be sure of that, Anne.”

“Maybe not, but it wouldn’t be the first time his family’s done shit like this. Swooped in and fucked over everyone in sight.”

The Diaz family is one of the wealthiest in the world. It’s no secret that wealth comes from more illegal enterprises than not. They’re originally Colombian, so take that for what it is. They’re narco-traffickers. I’m certain of it. No court has ever proven it because evidence and witnesses get lost on the way to trial. They’re that powerful. With their home now in New York, their power and influence reach around the world.

Right now, it’s reaching into my German office and wrapping itself around me, threatening to strangle me.

“Here. I pulled up the presentation. I’ll come with you and connect it to the projector while you schmooze. That’s what Americans say, right?”

“Yeah.”

I hate schmoozing, but it’s an integral part of my job when I’m trying to get companies to invest millions—even billions—in each other. I wanted to be an analyst and stare at numbers all day. I enjoy putting the puzzles together as I watch market trends and company valuations. I enjoy creating investment plans. But my father insisted I be front and center. A pretty face and a brain that works. I never should’ve let anyone know I’m competent.

Nepo-baby.

I’ve been called that plenty of times. It wasn’t nepotism that got me into Oxford to read PPE—Philosophy, Politics, andEconomics. It wasn’t nepotism that got me into the Wharton School of Business for my MBA. If nepotism benefited me, I wouldn’t be walking into a conference room to shake hands with Jorge.

I inherited my father’s Germanic height, so I’m five-eleven. I look most men in the eye. A lot of them don’t appreciate it. I also inherited his blonde hair and green eyes. People have complimented my looks my entire life. I know it’s made life easier many times, but it’s also meant that—combined with the nepo-baby label—plenty of people underestimate me. I’ve learned to use that to my advantage, but it still stings.

Jorge turns as I enter the room and flashes me a smile. It’s polite but reserved. His hand dwarfs mine when we shake, and that’s saying something since I don’t have man hands, but they’re bigger than plenty of women. He has to be at least six-three, six-four. I wonder if everything is proportionate to his height and ridiculously broad shoulders.

The man is fuckingen fuego. On fire.

Like insanely hot.

It’s even more obvious now that we’re standing in front of each other.

“Welcome, Mr. Diaz. On behalf of Schlossberg & Sons, we appreciate you coming to Frankfurt.”

And Sons.