a low whistle behind me, causing her smile to widen before I hold a hand up to silence him. I don’t care who of the four made the unwise decision; they’ll all suffer if it happens again. I also don’t need to look back to know the point has been made. “Those men can wait a moment or two. There’s no need to rush in, Patron.”
The bottom half of her outfit is nothing more than a band across her hips to cover the split between her thighs. And more importantly—a fact she’s missing in her forwardness—it does nothing for me. She does nothing for me, not so much as a cock twitch, and I smirk when her attempt at a coquettish smile drops.
It’s also not lost on me that she called me boss.
Like her, many have tried, and all have failed. I’m not a relationship kind of man.
I do not need sentimental attachments.
“Señorita, I suggest you keep those hands to yourself. Understood?”
“I’m just being—”
“A holdup,” I finish for her, taking her hand off my arm none too gently and letting it drop at her side. “Hagale, and open the door.
“Alejandro, I...” she trails off then, lips snapping shut when I part my jacket to show her my personal escorts. Her face drains of all color. Her fear becomes palpable and I breathe in deeply, enjoying her terror.
I let her see a glimpse of the demon that resides within.
An enemy she should never meet.
“I’m going to pretend the last few minutes never happened...” my voice is low, but in the calm lies the threat “...that you never took liberties that aren’t yours to take. Don’t do it again.” The woman has gone mute, eyes wide and with a slight shake. “Do you understand? Nod your head if you do.” She does, and I snap my fingers; one of the men traveling with me walks past us and opens the door leading to the dining room’s main floor. “Now, have yourself a pleasant evening.”
My men follow as I walk down a dimly lit hallway that leads to a large circular space at the center of the building with five doors. This locale has three floors; each one pays homage to a different kind of need, from fine dining to themes. From music to age. There is a segregation of tastes, but one thing doesn’t wane…
Sex is a unifying factor. A mutual appreciation.
There’s no shame within these walls.
No moral code.
It’s the perfect place for the meeting about to take place; a good amount of space between each private dining room that secures privacy. No one comes in without you requesting their service unless you’re a guest.
The one I’ve reserved for the night is the largest.
No noise can be heard. Not even the servers can be seen.
And more importantly, it has a private exit.
Coming to a stop in front of the third door, I tap the card reader with the key and the light blinks green, letting me push the large wooden structure open. The room’s lighting is dim, but my eyes take in the three faces sitting in my direct line of sight.
Three men. Two strangers. And all sitting silently on one side of the long table at the center of the large room.
They are here for me.
Because my poppy and marijuana plantations across four countries dominate several markets across the globe, from pharmaceutical companies to large cartel organizations south of the United States border. From morphine and codeine production to the harsher and illegal forms, I control ninety percent of the world’s supply.
I’m a privatized general with a personal army to match, but more importantly, the citizens of Colombia are loyal to those that feed and take care of their own.
I do both, and fairly. I reward their devotion.
Something the government hates me for, but will not rise against an armed enemy.
An asshole with no remorse and his own militia. An anti-establishment movement whose sole purpose is to bring forth the demise of the Quintero family’s reign and corruption. Two generations have served as president—served themselves to the country’s riches—and while I’ll never be a saint, I do plan to destroy them.
“Is the Jurado ready to deliver their verdict?” the judge asks the jurors sitting to the left of him. There are not many here. Just five people: three women and two men, and they’re each older than dirt.
I also don’t like the way they look at us.
At my father.
As if we’re scum. Criminals.
There’s judgment in their eyes—it’s been there since before