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“Hey, pendejos. ¿Que estas asiendo?” I yelled out.

They both stopped mid-argument and turned to look at me. Robert’s face went from pissed off to relieved. Obviously, he was happy I was here to sort shit out.

“This asshole wants to send the shipment through Reaper territory,” Robert said, flailing his arms around in irritation.

My forehead wrinkled in confusion at what Robert was claiming. I didn’t even know who this other guy was. I didn’t know the names of any of Mario’s men; I always just called them Armando. Everyone got the same name because I didn’t care to learn their real ones. Plus, nothing pissed off the male species faster than calling them by another man’s name.

Striding past the two grown-ass men acting like children, I made my way to inspect the shipment that had arrived while Mario was “using” Lotería. A hand slammed down on the lid before I could pry it open. My eyes cut to Armando.

Who did this asshole think he was? Better yet, who did he think I was? Because I’m not the one.

“Move your fucking hand, Armando. Or I’ll remove it from your wrist.” My voice cut through the silence, unreleased raged clear in my tone.

He gave me a cocky grin. Fucker thought he was about to tell me what to do because he was a part of Mario’s goon squad. But Mario was on my shitlist, and I didn’t care if I pissed him off today. Plus, this chismoso overestimated how much his boss would care about him getting hurt at my hands.

“Name’s not Armando, and I’m in charge here. Now back the fuck up. I ain’t letting some bitch open these crates,” he spat out.

A red haze coated my vision, and the whole room could probably hear the grinding of my teeth.

“Don’t shoot him. Don’t shoot him. Don’t…fuck it. Stab him.”

Without breaking eye contact, I slammed my switchblade down, pinning his pinky to the wooden top. Armando’s eyes widened in surprise before he started shrieking like a total pussy.

“Let’s have a little lesson, shall we? I’m fucking in charge here. I run this club, and I run these guns. If I want to open the fucking crate, I can, and I will. And if I decide to cut out your tongue because you pissed me off, no one in this room will stop me.” I leaned in closer and bared my teeth. “If you want to test the theory, keep standing in my fucking way. Otherwise, move.” My voice was loud enough to carry over the entire warehouse. His head nodded vigorously while his eyes darted to the blade still stuck in his finger.

“Okay, yeah. Now, take that out of my finger.” His voice came out whining and desperate.

Rolling my eyes, I yanked out the blade, causing a squelching noise that made Armando turn green.

“Don’t you dare puke in my warehouse, Armando,” I stated.

With a fearful look, he scurried back to where Robert was giving him a mile-wide grin—clutching his barely injured pinky.

“Who said we’re going through Reaper territory?” I called out, lifting the lid.

The crate seemed to look emptier than usual, but I was overanalyzing everything lately. Something was off in the underbelly of Tucson, and I didn’t want to get fucked over when shit when down. So I was keeping my head on a swivel.

Not-Armando-Armando answered, “The MC moving our shit decided the route they wanted to go.”

My expression probably looked like I’d sucked on a lime. Luckily, no one was looking at my face. Schooling my features, I turned around. What Armando was saying sure as shit didn’t sound right, but the problem was that I didn’t know what was going on—yet.

Someone was lying, and it was clear I needed to keep my cards close. Mario’s inner circle was only loyal to him, and I didn’t know the Skeletons well enough to trust them. And I sure as shit didn’t trust the Reapers.

“Okay. So when is the pickup, and where is the drop? I’m guessing this is one of Mario’s clients because I didn’t schedule this,” I said, watching Armando’s facial expression as I spoke.

I didn’t think he would know anything more. Mario didn’t reveal shit to anyone. Half the time, Sergio didn’t know what was happening with him.

As if speaking his name summoned him, Mario came striding through the bay door.

“Muñeca, what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be overseeing the dancers?” His cheery tone barely hid the edge in his voice.

What the fuck was up with these men not wanting me to be around my own club?

I folded my arms over my chest, not wanting to deal with Mario’s shit. He’d gone too far with the fiancée stunt.

“I’m getting the details for the run, Mario. Details you’ve yet to share with me,” I snarked.

Mario had a long leash when it came to my tolerance of how he treated me. There was some weird Stockholm syndrome going on when it came to him. Because it was hard to let go of the fact that Mario had pulled me off the street, even if it was with a threat. At some point, I’d accepted his treatment. Maybe because he held Sergio over my head or because he would sprinkle in affection…whatever it was, I’d turned a blind eye.