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ngs, Zoe. Some would call me an entrepreneur. Some call me a ruthless businessman or even a soulless monster with eyes only on the bottom line. But… many others just call me king,” he continued.
I narrowed in on that single word. The way he said it implied dangerous connotations, and I decided to press him a bit further.
“You own a lot of businesses, Grayson. I know that you like to buy startups like mine and build them up, but I imagine that isn’t your only source of income. Tell me, how many of your businesses are legitimate?” I asked purposefully.
“Most of them,” he answered, sipping his glass of wine while he held that steady dark stare firmly in my direction.
“On the surface at least,” I finished for him, and his grin widened precipitously.
“Quite perceptive, my pretty bride,” he answered.
“So, you’re something like a mob boss?” I asked.
“Something like that.” He cocked his head.
I gritted my teeth. His admission should concern me more. Was he a killer? Would he hurt me? To be honest, I already knew the answers to my questions. I was very certain he wouldn’t really hurt me. I’d slapped him, tossed a glass of wine in his face, and the worst that had happened was that he’d given me a sore bottom. He wouldn’t hurt me. He wanted me.
And… I wanted him despite everything that was screaming at me not to.
“Every king needs a queen by his side, doesn’t he?”
“Yes,” I answered boldly. Right now, I’d really like to be a queen in his bed. I dropped my gaze, remembering what the sight of his cock looked like as he stood next to me, hard and thick and I caught myself thinking about what it would feel like sinking deep in between my legs.
“How much do you know of your family history?” he asked, and I was a bit taken aback by the sudden change in subject and the fact he’d caught me right in the middle of a sordid fantasy of what was going to happen once the two of us retired to his bedroom for the night.
“I don’t know a lot about my family. My mother was an only child and her parents passed away some years ago,” I answered thoughtfully.
“Not on your mother’s side. Tell me about your father,” he pushed.
“I don’t even know his name,” I admitted. It was the truth. My mother told me he wasn’t worth knowing a very long time ago and she’d refused to answer any of my questions when I’d grown older despite my constant persistence. Eventually, I stopped asking and I started trying to find the answers myself. I tried to find any evidence that would offer a hint to his identity, but in the end, I found nothing. At some point, I gave up on my search and assumed he was just some deadbeat loser. Anyone who had gone to that level of hiding clearly didn’t want me in his life.
“Did you ever think there was a reason for that?” Grayson asked gently.
I paused. Grayson clearly knew something about him that I didn’t.
“I just assumed he was some lowlife that never wanted a daughter,” I answered curtly.
“No. He was much more than that,” Grayson replied. I licked my lips, trying to discern exactly what he might mean. Was there more to what he was saying? Something hidden between the lines, maybe? I decided to push. If he knew something, he was going to tell me.
“Does his identity have something to do with why I’m sitting across the table from you in your rooftop gardens in a wedding dress with your ring on my finger?” I asked, keeping my voice steady.
“It does,” he answered.
“Will you tell me his name?” I asked. My voice was soft, coaxing even. I didn’t want to demand it of him. I already knew that he didn’t seem like a man who would react well to anything like that.
“Ismael Zambada Garcia,” he answered. I stared at him for several impressively long seconds.
I knew that name. Most of America knew that name because he’d ended up on the FBI’s most wanted list for some time on suspicion for drug trafficking. It was also rumored that he was the leader of the Sinaloa Cartel, an international crime syndicate that ran deep into the country of Mexico. They were also known to have a significant number of ties to places here in the United States, including but not limited to San Diego. Their reach went far. Their pockets ran deep too.
“It’s not possible,” I whispered.
“It is.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Your mother hid his identity from you because she was afraid that if he knew of your existence you would be as good as dead. Ismael wasn’t the man he is now back when you were conceived. He started out as a farmer, a good man, but he got caught up in the cartel and never turned back,” Grayson explained.
“So why is he so important if he doesn’t know who I am?” I pressed.
