Page 3 of Cartel Devil

“Sure.”

Was that too emphatic?

It’s a cash bar for anyone who isn’t part of los Diaz or the bridal party. It’s not like we’re cheap or can’t afford the thousands of dollars people are swilling. We might invite the other three families, but it’s a reminder we aren’t friends. Inviting our major rivals is a weird flex to show off where we host our parties—the most exclusive venues—and all the people who clamor for invitations—the richest of the rich. Yet, we don’t want our rivals to have fun unless it’s literally at their expense.

Patrizia and I order, and I slip a twenty into the bartender’s jar while Patrizia reaches for her pocket. Vittoria said something about being the best bride ever because the women’s gowns have pockets. I glance down at Patrizia and shake my head. Her brow furrows.

“Next one.”

I shake my head again, my gaze hardening. There’s no way I’m allowing a woman to pay for anything. Though I’m not averse to another drink with her. We don’t have to talk as much while we sip, but I still get to be around her.

“Really, Joaquin. I⁠—”

“You’re a family guest. There’s no need.”

She appears as though she wants to argue, but instead, she accepts my insistence.

“Thank you. Are you not a fan of Sambuca?”

She watched me turn my nose up at the disgusting drink. I’m not Italian. I have taste. If I’m drinking anything anise-flavored, it’s Colombian aguardiente.

“Not so much. Have you had aguardiente—or guaro—before?”

“No.” Her gaze dips to the liquid in my glass.

“Would you like to try it?”

When I offer it to her, she hesitates before nodding and accepting the drink. She brings the glass to her lips, the rim slipping between them. She sniffs, and a look of pure trepidation crosses her face before she takes the tiniest sip ever. When it doesn’t burn a hole through her throat, she takes a healthier taste. She flinches, puckers her lips, then squeezes her eyes shut.

“Delicious, isn’t it?”

She pops open one eye to look at me before screwing them shut again. She shakes her head.

“That’s only mildly better than tequila.”

I chuckle, and she looks up at me. She gladly hands the glass back to me, and I finish it in one swallow. She stares at me, almost as though she expects me to cough and splutter.

“Did your parents put that in your sippy cup or something? How on earth do you develop a taste for that?”

“I’d say the same about Sambuca.” We’re only serving the shit for Vittoria’s sake.

“We’ll have to agree to disagree. Perhaps I’ll stick to something fruitier from now on.”

“What would you prefer?”

“Are you going to have another burning water?”

“Haha. You look disgusted. No. I’ll save you having to smell it. I’ll have something else.”

She must know enough Spanish to understand the drink’s translation.

“Would an amaretto sour be too girly for you?”

“I haven’t had one since college. I don’t mind fruity drinks.”

I’d never order one, but if that’s what she wants, and it’ll keep us talking, then I’ll drink the damn bottle. She turns to the bartender to order. I observe her attempt to slyly reach into her far pocket, but I already have another twenty in my hand. I drop it in the jar, and she huffs.

“Joaquin, seriously.”