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I look at my phone sitting beside my plate.
I lied about getting a call from my mom. I haven’t heard from her yet. We won’t know the biopsy results for a day or two anyway. My father’s strong. He’ll get through the surgery with no problem. I know this, so I’m not freaked in the slightest when an actual text comes in from my mother.
I don’t run to the bathroom, as I did when I got the fake text.
Morgan and Lance are deep in conversation, so I simply pick up my phone and look at it.
And then I gasp.
23
LUKE
Jorge Herrera owns a chain of taco shops called Los Tacos. They’ve been voted the best tacos in LA for ten years straight, and they are fucking delicious.
His seasoning for the ground beef is a closely held secret. All the biggest chefs in LA have tried to replicate it, but with no luck.
Jorge is a multimillionaire. His taco business is great, but it didn’t make him millions.
Jorge moves drugs.
And the man who got him started?
Yours truly.
King takes me aside a year after he brought me into the business.
“Listen, Raven,” King says, “you’ve proven your loyalty. But there’s still more you have to do if you want to move up in this organization.”
“Just say the word,” I say.
“We need a front. A new front. The Chicken Shack is going under.”
I lift my eyebrows. The Chicken Shack has been moving drugs for the last several years, according to King.
“What happened?”
“The DEA raided one of their trucks. Found four hundred kilos of meth.”
“Shit.”
“You’re telling me. So we need a new partner.”
“Yeah, I guess we do.”
“That’s where you come in.”
“Me?”
“Yeah, you. You have contacts. Contacts with big business.”
“Big business isn’t going to get involved in this. You know that, King.”
“You’d be surprised what big business gets into, but it doesn’t necessarily need to be one of the Fortune 500.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. I need you to find us a new front. Someone who’s trustworthy. Someone who’s hungry.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“You take care of this, Raven, and you can write your own fucking ticket.”
It’s kismet that I have a hankering for tacos later that day. I stop at Jorge’s Beverly Hills location, and Jorge is there himself.
“Mr. Ashton,” Jorge says, stopping at my table. “Great to see you. How is your food?”
“Delicious as always, Jorge.”
“If there’s anything you need, you just let me know.”
I nod.
When I’m finished with my lunch, I rise to go throw out the trash, when I decide to order a few more tacos to go. I head to the counter, passing Jorge, who is having a conversation on his cell phone.
“Not possible,” I hear Jorge say. “You need to give me more time, bro.”
I pull out my own phone, feign checking for messages, as I listen to Jorge.
“No, man, that’ll cost me my business. You can’t do this to me.”
I shove my phone back in my pocket, go to the counter, place an order for four more tacos to go. Once they’re bagged, and I’m walking out of the store, I sidetrack Jorge.
“You want to talk?” I ask.
“Sure, what do you need, Mr. Ashton?”
“It’s not what I need, Jorge. It’s what you need. And no more of this Mr. Ashton stuff. Call me Raven.”
Jorge is still working for King. I know that because all his locations are still thriving. I’m the one who made it happen. I made Jorge Herrera a rich man.
I never gave up his name.
The FBI and the DEA weren’t interested in small potatoes like Jorge. They wanted big names. They wanted the kings.
I gave them King’s name. knowing what it would cost me potentially. And even though word on the street is that he hightailed it to Mexico, I know better.
He’s here.
And I think I need to get some tacos.
Am I unrecognizable enough? The brown hair and brown eyes hide my true identity well. But this is LA. This is where people know the Ashton family.
This is where the underground knows Lucifer Raven.
I’ve been hiding in the stupid bomb shelter for days now, and that’s been long enough.
It’s time to do what I came for.
Attempt to redeem myself.
Jorge is as good of a place to begin as anything.
I head to the bathroom, touch up my blond roots with hair color, shave off two days of blond stubble. After a shower, I dress in board shorts and a long-sleeved T-shirt. Then I put an LA Dodgers baseball cap on my head.
Just another beach bum.
I walk up to the basement and then up to the main floor of our Beverly Hills mansion. I manage to escape the staff, and I’m nearly out the door when—
“Lucy, where are you going?”
My mother.
My gorgeous blond and blue-eyed mother, who looks the exact same way as she did when I was a kid. It’s not Beverly Hills plastic surgery, it’s just Mom. She’s that beautiful.
