Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 127201 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 636(@200wpm)___ 509(@250wpm)___ 424(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127201 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 636(@200wpm)___ 509(@250wpm)___ 424(@300wpm)
Father’s actions wouldn’t be much of a surprise to Miguel, who’d surely heard many stories about their stormy relationship.
Nero might be a Moreno, but you didn’t enjoy the life of a Caiman without strings attached. There had been a time when he’d tried to leave, but he’d soon discovered that one didn’t leave the Moreno Cartel, and that was that. Maybe one day, he’d get the call telling him Father was dead, but he had no real plans for such an occasion. Once that happened, he’d either be sniped in a bid for power or flee, so it wasn’t that complicated.
The interior of the villa was all stone, with modern furniture bathed in the bright light coming in from windows stretching from the floor to the ceiling. A large, modern artwork hung above the sofa, but since this was a private residence Father used to vacation in rather than for work, there was no ostentatious wealth here, only luxury.
Which made the shadowy space in the far-off corner of the building stand out all the more. Lit up with large, colorful candles was an altar to Santa Muerte, with a lifesized figure seated on a throne with a scythe across her lap. The skull and bones making up the effigy belonged to a powerful witch, whose spells, Father claimed, helped him become the formidable man he was. Its empty eyes followed Nero across the living area with such intensity a part of him worried she might rise and expose him for the liar he was.
But she remained still, like she always did.
Father’s other bodyguard, Solomon was as quiet as Mouse… unless the boss was away. When no longer bound by the necessity of silence, his mouth never stopped moving, but for now, only the rhythmic tapping of his dark green sneakers expressed his unrestrained temperament.
He raised his hand to greet Nero and pulled his lips into the most discreet smile as he picked up a cup of coffee and watched them from the open plan kitchen. Like Mouse, Solomon was loyal to the man who paid his salary but was willing to acknowledge said man’s offspring, regardless of what he thought of him.
The quiet hanging over the villa shocked Nero. He’d been thinking of Miguel as a silent type, but he really wasn’t when compared to Father’s men. He might be a grumpy wall of tattooed muscle with conversation skills dry as chalk, but if the two of them were alone, he would have made a snide comment here and there, gotten himself some water, or asked if he was needed. Since entering the house though, Miguel had turned into a dark shadow following Nero the way Solomon and Mouse followed their master.
It was a great shame they’d never finished the surprisingly philosophical conversation they’d had on the way, but they could always get back to it later, and for now having Miguel at his side felt like the best insurance policy Nero could afford. The Correas would have never served that purpose, and he was positive that they’d throw him to the caimans if they could get away with it. Miguel? He was a man of his word and, and unlike most, could be relied on.
Unfulfilled desire still gnawed at Nero, but out of all the men who shared their bodies with him, none had been so pleasant and relaxing to be around.
None danced the tango with him. Or called him a friend.
He peeked at Miguel, and they caught each other’s gaze behind Father’s back. He didn’t know what their silent exchange meant but felt reassured by it as they walked on, to the terrace glowing with shiny particles embedded in the stone slabs making up the area outside. The air conditioning in the villa had been a much-needed respite, but as soon as they stepped outside, damp heat engulfed them like soup made of air.
The sunshine was blinding after being in the shade, and his gaze was drawn past the pool, to the shadow cast by the large gazebo of dark wood. Two men sat at a wooden table, but they got up as soon as they spotted their king and the abominable prince.
One was tall and slender as a reed despite firm muscle bulging under tanned skin. A bit younger than Father yet completely bald, he had a narrow face, where every element pointed downward, from the large nose to eyes so hooded he looked like someone who needed to catch up on sleep. Nero had only seen him in passing, but Hugo Cano had a reputation of someone who never gave up on tracking down a mark. Once he put a target on a man’s back, death was just a matter of time. A sicario, had he now become a permanent cog in the Moreno Cartel’s cocaine factory?