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.