Total pages in book: 767
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
The corner of Diego’s mouth quirked. “Where’d you hear that?”
“It’s true, isn’t it? My father’s instinct is unrivaled, but you’re the brains behind this business.”
“I’m hardly that,” he said, but deep dimples appeared with his smile. Once I’d been old enough to notice how sexy they were, they’d proven irresistible. “I just want him to see me as . . .”
“As?”
“More than the others.” He kissed the back of my hand. “Someone worthy of being part of his family.”
“You are worthy. I know that, and so does he.”
“But I can’t blame him for doubting me after the way my parents conspired against him.”
I refrained from pointing out what he already knew. Yes, Papá had agreed to take in both boys, but on one condition—that they wouldn’t follow in their father’s footsteps. In order to ensure the boys never made a move against Costa Cruz, my dad had made them watch as he’d put bullets in their parents—a warning.
“My father knows you’d never go against him,” I said. “Their murder ended a decades-long feud between our families—”
“Until Cristiano,” Diego said.
I shivered, a natural response to hearing the devil called by his name.
Mamá’s hospitality had come with a price—her life. But it had also brought Diego into mine.
He’d understood that my father and abuelo had had no choice but to stop his parents.
Cristiano, on the other hand, hadn’t.
Eleven years later, he should’ve been a distant memory. I tried not to think of his tight grip on my arm, his gun tipping up my chin, or the shadowed, divine face of a godless man. But how could I not look over my shoulder? Cristiano de la Rosa still inspired dread, even from the grave. At least, I hoped that’s where he was. Despite rumors that he’d been running an underground drug empire in Russia, or that he owned a freighting company in Bolivia, or had become an arms trafficker between America and the Philippines—I’d convinced myself he was six feet under. I didn’t sleep well most nights, but assuming he was dead helped a little.
“My father knows you aren’t your father, and he definitely doesn’t think you’re anything like your brother,” I said.
Diego stuck his hands in the back pockets of my jeans and pulled me closer. We were tempting fate by being affectionate out in the open, but it excited me that Diego couldn’t resist touching me. “Your parents treated Cristiano like a son, and he still turned on them,” Diego said. “No matter how I prove myself, your father keeps me at arm’s length—even before the betrayal, I was just another worker to him. I sometimes question whether Costa would’ve taken me in without my brother.”
Even though it hurt to hear that, I understood why Diego felt that way. Both boys had been tossed into the Cruz cartel army right away. Cristiano had taken to it like a child to sweets, while sensitive, creative Diego had struggled to adapt.
“You’ve shown him almost twenty years of loyalty,” I said. “You’re now one of the cartel’s most trusted advisors. You’ve helped make this business what it is—one with an average success rate above eighty-seven percent.”
Diego’s mouth fell open as he scoff-laughed. “How long were you listening at the door?” He narrowed his eyes, playfully scolding me. “You little snoop.”
“I just didn’t want to interrupt,” I said. “But is eighty-seven percent good?”
“The best. Our competitors don’t even touch us. Cartels come to us when they need the absolute best chance of getting their shipment over the border.” He winked. “That’s how we can charge so much.”
“See?” I said. “You could never be just another worker. Papá knows that.”
“Let’s get back to the topic of our future.” He squeezed my ass cheeks. “In the States, will we be royalty like we are now?”
Not if I could help it. To be royalty was to put a target on our backs. We already had that here; I wanted to escape it. There was much more to life than wealth and status. “How does a bungalow near the Pacific Ocean sound?” I asked. “Fresh fish, fruits, and vegetables every day. No guns in sight. And California has great schools.”
“Schools?”
“For the children.”
He chuckled. “We have children, do we? Do they have names?”
“I’m serious,” I said. “Once I graduate and start my career, we’ll marry in a small, cozy ceremony. Although, the churches there are big and tacky, not like the ones here.” Regretfully. Our little Roman Catholic church in the town center was beautifully maintained thanks to my family. Father lavished millions every year on our small pueblo nestled between arid desert lowlands and lush mountainside on the west side of the country—a business investment more than charity, as it secured him the loyalty of the townspeople and local law enforcement.
“But how will I show off such a beautiful princess if we have a cozy ceremony?” he teased.