Jordyn's Army, page 24
Also true. This is not the life I envisioned for myself. However, I am enjoying it.
She scoffs and tosses her head, a silken tendril of dark hair breaking free from an upswept knot and sliding along the curved rise of her cheekbone. “Trust? I don’t trust you.”
Of course, she doesn’t. Finley is no one’s fool.
I glance around us, at the elegant, dark wood paneling gleaming beneath crystal chandeliers, at the floor to ceiling windows that boast three-hundred-and-sixty degree view of Manhattan. From this luxury skyscraper, it’s impossible not to feel the power I now wield. Ruthlessly.
This shouldn't be an environment I take comfort in.
I was born in Mexico. In a poor village far from any recognizable city.
My mother was a teenaged maid, seduced—or maybe raped, although she'd never admitted as much—by an ambitious, mid-level gangster who rose to the top of the food chain by killing his competition one by one. My father.
When I was ten, he sent me to New York with my mother. As the heir apparent, my older brother stayed behind, in Mexico. I am a second son, the backup, kept away from the danger inherent in remaining within sight of my father’s rivals.
I grew up not far from here, on Fifty-Seventh Street. These days, it’s known as Billionaires Row.
My father is still in Mexico, his influence fading. My brother, Joaquin, runs things below the border now. And he does it well.
All my life, I wanted nothing to do with the cartel.
Now, in my adopted city, I am Los Muertos.
And everyone here knows it.
Especially the woman in front of me.
I toss the aged tequila down my throat and set down my glass on the mahogany bar, more loudly than I intended.
The sound is a slap in the hushed room, momentarily breaking the ambiance provided by the hum of air filters and the steady stream of music pumped through hidden speakers. A medley of jazz and classical that has been resampled to create a sound that is both comfortingly familiar and entirely new.
“Good,” I respond. “You shouldn’t.”
We are separated by less than two feet, but the hairs on the back of my neck are standing on end, quivering like antenna before a storm. Measuring the change in energy. And there is something electrifying about Finley. Tall and thin, with thick, dark hair and a classically beautiful face. High forehead, arched brows that accent wide-set eyes of a startling aquamarine color. Her slim nose is upturned at the tip, her lips set in a permanent pout.
My eyes make a leisurely sweep of Finley’s body, my appreciation obvious. Why hide it?
Her neck is long and elegant. Her silk blouse leaves her arms bare, exposing the rise of her breasts. Her legs are crossed, the hem of her skirt rising well above the knee and offering a mouthwatering glimpse of long, lean thighs. So damn appealing.
I clear my throat and bring my gaze back to Finley’s. “I’ve invited you to Reign several times. And I sent a membership key by private messenger last week.”
“Is that why you waited until Aislinn was in labor to demand a face to face meeting with Damon, knowing he would send me?” Finley’s smooth skin flushes in anger. “Because I didn’t appear when summoned?”
I don’t even bother with a lie. Finley will see right through it. “Yes.”
For a split second, her imperious mask slips to reveal blatant surprise streaking across her expression. Whether at my answer, or the fact I didn’t deny her accusation, I’m not quite sure.
But then she grabs the slim purse beside her untouched drink. “I don’t have time for this.”
I place my hand atop hers, an invisible spark from the contact hitting me somewhere deep. “Stay. Please.”
For a moment we both stare at our point of contact. Finley’s skin is fair, with just a hint of olive undertones. Mine is darker, a bronze that doesn’t come from the sun. Her wrist is small, the bones delicate. But there is a strength to her, a sheer force of will that has nothing to do with bone structure or muscle tone. In a fight, I’d give her even odds with a man twice her size.
I pull my arm away, my thumb sweeping along her skin. “Have a drink with me.”
She hesitates. “Why would I do that?”
I shrug. “Why wouldn’t you?"
“Oh, I don’t know.” She taps her fingernails over her chin, pretending to consider my question. “For a start, maybe because you lured me here under false pretenses.”
I gesture at our elegant surroundings before catching the eye of the bartender. “Is it really such an imposition?” He refills my glass with my favorite tequila and then moves discreetly away. I hold it up, waiting for Finley to finally do the same with her cocktail of choice.
She looks from my glass to hers before finally picking it up. We clink rims, and I watch as she takes a sip before I do the same. She licks at the liquor that clings to her lips and then lowers her voice. “I know the location of every camera and microphone in this club, Sebastián.”
Finley’s boss is my silent partner in Reign. She created the necessary computer models and algorithms to analyze the captured data. It will not be used for blackmail though. That’s low-hanging fruit and would render this place useless once word spread.
The relationships cultivated here at Reign, including all information gained, will be used to further Los Muertos interests in New York and serve as another avenue for Damon King to acquire influence.
This place will be good for both of us.
“All the more reason you should feel safe here.”
She flashes me a look filled with a lifetime of skepticism and disillusionment. “You and I both know there is no such thing.”
2
Finley
Fear has a taste. A bitterness that climbs up the back of my throat, each breath a sour, stale gust of humid air that coats my tongue and scratches at the roof of my mouth.
I know what it is to be afraid.
As a child, it was the first emotion I put a name to. An emotion that, for me, will always go hand-in-hand with hunger.
Not hunger, as in, Meh, I could eat.
The kind of hunger that made my stomach cramp from lack of food, painful rolling spasms as the organ turns itself inside out in search of sustenance. The kind of hunger that had me sniffing at every dumpster I passed for signs of a freshly tossed meal, or leftovers from a nearby restaurant. The kind of hunger that made my fingers twitch, my eyes scanning the city streets for potential marks.
But hunger can be satisfied.
Fear, on the other hand, never goes away. Not even now.
I have plenty of money. I own my own apartment. Hell, I own the whole damn building. The most powerful man in New York City is not only my boss, he’s my brother in law. I love my job, especially since much of my time is spent helping women and children escape abusive situations.
Much like how I spent the first decade of my own life.
Fear. It is my old, all too familiar nemesis.
But I am not afraid of Sebastián Cruz. Or any one person in particular.
I have studied martial arts and can take down almost anyone, of any size (a fact that often irritates the men of King’s security detail). I can throw a knife and aim a gun with lethal accuracy. I can hack almost any technology or computer system.
What I fear is not a person or a thing.
It’s the unknown.
Life is complicated. No matter how strong or smart or fast I am, there will always be someone stronger or smarter or faster. There are elements to every environment that are beyond my control, some that are beyond anyone’s control.
Fear of the unknown is what keeps me up at night.
And Sebastián Cruz is definitely an unknown.
I cannot figure him out, which is all the more frustrating because he should be an easy read. Raised in New York. Posh, private schools. Drunk on privilege by the time he hit puberty. The man was an art appraiser for god’s sake. Sebastián should be soft, an intellectual with his head in the clouds.
But he’s taken to Los Muertos like … well, a thug.
A thug who wears his custom suits like he’s walking down a catwalk.
A thug with an Ivy League degree and a black American Express card.
A thug with an artist’s eye and a sculpted body.
I study Sebastián now. Drinking in his rich, chestnut brown hair and pale green eyes. High cheekbones that taper to a generous mouth and strong chin. Broad shoulders and lean hips.
My attention snags on a small reddish stain marring the snowy cuff peeking out from beneath his suit jacket. Blood, I presume. Word is that Sebastián has become just as violent as my boss. “You should probably get better at cleaning up your messes.”
He frowns down at it. “Damn mole, gets me every time.”
I lean in close, lowering my voice to a whisper. “My Spanish is a bit rusty, but don’t you mean sangre?”
His lips twitch, dark eyes flickering over my face. “No. I don't. Authentic, home-cooked chicken mole. My favorite.”
Instinct tells me to leave, but interest keeps me in my seat. “Home-cooked, huh? There’s someone slaving over a hot stove for you?” Surprise leeches into my question. I'd thought Sebastián was unattached.
“I do, actually. Once a week.” A half-grin toys with Sebastián's mouth, like he doesn't actually mind at all. “Command performance.”
“Wow. That's quite an obligation.”
“When an obligation is a pleasure, it's no problem at all.”
“And what … you just eat and run? Some kind of woman you have.”
“Well, I haven't lived with my mother in several years, so that's generally what I do after dinner.”
I cough. “Your mother?”
“You expected someone else?”
My cheeks heat. I shouldn't be thinking about Sebastián's private life. I shouldn't be thinking about Sebastián at all. “Sorry to disappoint you, but your private life is of no interest to me.
He pins me with a long, searching stare. “Do you play poker?”
“Poker? What does that have to do with anything?”
“Humor me.”
I release a sigh. “I have played, yes. But it's been a while.”
“Well, you really shouldn't. Your face is too expressive. Anyone paying attention to you would pick up on your tells immediately. You would lose.”
I briefly close my eyes. ”You have absolutely no idea what you're talking about.”
“Really?” His scrutiny sears my skin. “And why is that?”
“I grew up pulling cons. You only see what I allow you to.” As a rule, I don't speak about my childhood. At least, not until I started spending time with my half-sister, Aislinn.
Somehow she managed to pull me out of my shell, and I've enjoyed getting to know her. And letting her get to know me. It's been kind of … nice to have a friend.
I've never had one before.
But she's been so preoccupied lately with the coming baby, it's almost as if words have bottled up in the back my throat and Sebastián's presence has loosened them.
Opening up to him is a mistake I’m sure I will regret.
“So right now, you want me to see your disdain?”
The tips of my ears feel hot, but I resist the urge to rub at them. “Should I hide it?”
He looks around. “We are in what some might call polite company.” At the last two words, he raises his hands to make air quotes.
“That’s your opinion.”
“And what’s yours?”
I shrug my shoulders, trying to slip back into my normally aloof mode. Sebastián is getting under my skin, and I don’t like it. “Nest of vipers might be more accurate.”
The bartender catches Sebastián's eyes and he gives a subtle nod. Both our glasses are replenished.
“I wasn't planning to have another drink.”
“So don’t.” He picks up his glass and tilts it toward me before putting the edge to lips that are too prone to smiling for my comfort. Sebastián is charming, his manners impeccable.
To me, a scrappy kid raised primarily on the Lower East Side, it’s grating.
I pick up my glass, draining half of it in one searing gulp. “What do you want, Sebastián?”
His brows pull together over the bridge of his aquiline nose. “I want all of the data.”
“You’ve got it,” I reply immediately. “Every conversation that’s triggered by one of the keywords you requested is put into a file accessible by you at any time. Are you having issues retrieving anything in particular?”
“I want all of it, Finley. The raw data. Searchable by me, at any time.”
“I’ll have to talk with Damon.”
“I already did. My six-month trial period is over. I’ve held up my end. I’ve done everything I promised. I’m sick of being kept on a goddamn leash.”
Limiting Sebastián’s access to Reign’s recordings was my idea. I don’t trust him, and nothing about our conversation tonight has changed things.
I manage a nod, although I don’t intend to do anything until I speak with Damon myself. “Fine.”
“Good. Now that that’s done, we can enjoy the rest of the night.”
I practically choke. “Ah, no. I’m leaving.”
He lifts his half-empty glass. “I don't like to drink alone. Does the fact that we work together preclude you from having a drink with me?”
“We don’t work together.”
“How would you describe it then?”
I lean forward, lowering my voice. “Cut the shit, Sebastián. I work for Damon. You requested this meeting, and now that it’s over, I’m leaving.” Before I can pull back, I catch a whiff of Sebastián's scent. Sandalwood and spice. An exotic, heady mix.
“If you really wanted to leave, you would be gone already.” He turns his head, his eyes locking on to mine. “Come on, what’s the rush? Tell me about yourself.”
A low laugh trickles from my lips as I shake my head, hating that he’s not wrong. ”I don't think so, Sebastián. We are not trading intimacies.” More than I have already.
“Not into sharing, are you?”
“Not even a little.”
“Fair enough.”
Silence settles between us, the air crackling with the energy that has imbued our conversation. The words said. Even more, those left unsaid.
The bartender refills our glasses for the third time. I don't stop him, but I don't reach for my glass either.
“Next week. You. Me. Chicken mole.”
I never attended prom in high school, never had a boyfriend who would pick me up at my door, never had someone to hold hands with as I walk down the street. I’m not a nice, ordinary girl. And I’m sure as hell not interested in finding a nice, ordinary guy.
I glance at Sebastián sideways, feeling sure that there is some degree of sarcasm in his statement. But if there is, I can't see or hear it. “Where … your mother’s?”
“Why not?”
“Why not?” I sputter. “I'm not exactly the type of girl men bring home to their mothers.”
“There’s a type?”
“Yes. And I'm not it.”
“Why not?”
“I'm not a good girl.”
“And I’m a good guy?”
I eye Sebastián up and down. “Hardly.”
His deep throated chuckle caresses my ears like the finest velvet. “And yet, here we are. Together.”
I should leave. I know this. I don't trust Sebastián. I don't even like him.
I don't even like that he's invited me home to meet his mother. I mean, who does that?
Any involvement, beyond Reign, is a bad idea. Sebastián Cruz is a criminal.
Technically, it's all I've known. My father was a criminal. My mother is a criminal.
I am a criminal.
Unlike either of my parents, however, I am a successful criminal. No arrests. No convictions. No jail time. I have a squeaky-clean record. And I intend to keep it that way.
The problem is, I can't be with a regular guy either. Too much risk. Too many questions I can't answer. Too much unknown.
Just. Sex.
That's all I allow myself.
Orgasms. Occasional physical interactions.
Nothing more. Nothing less.
I take another look at Sebastián, lust rushing through my veins. Christ. He's exactly my type. Tall, dark, and…
The damn man passed handsome miles ago. There's an elegance to Sebastián's features, a cockiness that clings to the set of his shoulders and the way he wears a suit. Like he just walked off a Milan catwalk. A fuck you confidence that has me practically drooling.
Sebastián interrupts my thoughts. “Is there someone waiting for you? Some guy warming your bed?”
I can’t hold back the bark of laughter that leaps from my throat.
He frowns. “Did I say something funny?”
“No,” I respond, sobering. “I just don’t do that in my apartment.”
“You don’t do … what?”
I lick my lips. Shut up, Finley. Don't say it. “Fuck.”
3
Sebastián
“You don't fuck in your own apartment?” I've schooled my expression into an impassive mask. Had I been talking to anyone but Finley, I would think her admission was designed for shock value. But she appears irritated, and not just with me. With herself.
She sits up straight, belatedly prim. “We are not discussing my sex life.”
“Why not?” I flash her my most charming smile. “Your sex life sounds pretty damn intriguing to me.”
“Clearly, you’re not getting enough action in your own, Cruz.”
Bull's-eye. Since taking over as the head of Los Muertos in New York, I've kept my sexual interactions to the bare minimum.
Last year, I thought a woman would be my ticket out of this life. Aislinn Granville. My old crush from high school. Finley’s half-sister. And now, she’s married to New York City's most notorious crime boss, Damon King.
But I was never attracted to Aislinn the way I am to Finley. I felt a connection to Aislinn because, like me, she was raised as the daughter of a powerful man, attempting to navigate the expectations forced on her since birth.
