Page 162 of The Devil's Thorn

It wasn’t about what we were offering. It was abouthowwe could get it in. We’d spent years building the backdoor channels. They knew that.

“You can really guarantee those routes won’t be touched?” one of them asked, doubt laced in his voice.

I looked him dead in the eye. “When have I ever offered something I couldn’t deliver?”

Yuri shifted beside me, smirking slightly. “If he says it’s clean, it’s cleaner than your mother’s confessionals.”

That earned a snort from the youngest of the three Cartel men. The oldest, though, didn’t smile. His fingers tapped against the table once. Twice.

“I want a demonstration,” he said finally. “Before anything gets inked.”

Of course he did. They always wanted proof.

“You’ll get one,” I replied. “Give us seventy-two hours.”

They nodded, and silence fell again. The weight of decisions, of blood-soaked alliances and money laced in powder and gunpowder, settled between us like fog.

And still, I could feel their eyes returning to Isabella.

Yuri leaned forward, voice calm but deceptively soft. “You boys should focus more on the deal and less on the woman unless you’re planning to leave with both your hands.”

I didn’t laugh. But inside, I appreciated the way he read the tension. Because if they didn’t stop looking at her the way they were… Well. I might not wait for the seventy-two hours to pass before spilling someone’s blood.

The scent of cigars and old money clung to the air, mixing with the metallic undercurrent of danger. I let the others talk—details about shipment security, checkpoint coordination, and the weight of what was about to move across continents—but my eyes drifted. To her.

Isabella hadn’t spoken a word since we sat. She didn’t fidget, didn’t blink more than necessary, didn’t fold into herself like someone who didn’t belong here.

She looked born for it. And maybe that’s what made them uneasy. Because something about a beautiful woman in a room full of killers who doesn’t look scared?

That’s a different kind of power.

“She doesn’t talk?” the youngest of the three Cartel men asked suddenly, eyes flicking toward her. His tone was meant to provoke—young, brash, too confident in a room he hadn’t earned the right to dominate. “Or is she just decoration?”

I didn’t move. But something about the stillness in me was worse than rage. I saw Nikolai shoot him a glance, Yuri’s smile twist into something less friendly.

But it was Isabella who spoke.

“No,” she said calmly, turning her head slightly toward him. “I talk. I just don’t waste my words on men who mistake silence for weakness.”

A beat passed.

Yuri chuckled under his breath, low and dangerous. Nikolai arched an eyebrow. Even the older Cartel member smirked.

But I didn’t. I watched her.

I felt it again—that tightening in my chest. Not lust. Not admiration. Something else. The kind of tension that knew it could only ever end in fire.

“And what is it you do then,señorita silenciosa?” the younger man pressed. “Besides following Rafael around like a shadow.”

I leaned back in my chair, waiting to see if she’d bite. And she did.

“I kill myths,” she said, voice softer now, almost amused. “The ones men like you build about yourselves.”

Silence. Heavy and satisfying. I wanted to smile. I didn’t.

Because if I gave her that—if I let her see even a flicker of pride in my expression—she’d know just how much control she had.

And I wasn’t ready to admit that. Not even to myself.