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For now, though, he wanted to keep everything under wraps, until they had all the facts. Assuming they still had that kind of time. A lot of it had passed already, so there was no telling just how far Contreras’s infection had spread. If the increase in criminal activity and drug addiction was any indication, though, it was far and wide, and Blake and his men were too little too late.
He was going to fuck Contreras up when he finally got close enough to wrap his fingers around his throat. He’d imagined many times looking into those smug, hate-filled eyes while he choked the life right out of him.
A small voice inside his head whispered that if he wasn’t careful, this was the path that would lead him to turning into his bastard father.
It was likely the only thing that would keep him from going that far.
“Cars coming up the road, three o’clock,” Taco grunted, gaining everyone’s attention.
They were stationed outside the Contreras compound, formerly the Cruiz compound, tucked out of sight behind thick trees and brush with a vantage point that oversaw the entire estate. Country had given him a map of the place, citing this as the most opportune area to scope it out. It was the exact spot that Country himself had staged his one-man militia, raining hot lead down on Cruiz’s men and tearing up the fancy little house. Blake could still spot the discoloration in the stucco where they’d tried to patch the bullet holes, but the paint didn’t quite match up.
The heavy iron gates at the head of the long and winding driveway swung open, and a fleet of black cars and SUVs rolled through, their windows blacked out so no one could see in. Armed guards took position at the front of the house, circling the wide steps and drive that circled a massive ornate fountain. When the cars pulled to a stop, a few of those men stepped forward to open the rear doors of the first two, allowing more men in suits with weapons at the ready to exit. The last to make his appearance was clearly the head of whatever operations he was running—probably guns—with his tailored navy suit, expensive loafers, and slicked back black hair. He was short with a belly big enough to make itself known beneath that suit jacket, and when his chubby fingers went up to smooth his flawless hair, gold and diamond rings on three of his five fingers winked in the sunlight.
Money. He screamed money. And power. And crime.
“Jesus, if that’s not a boss, I don’t know what is,” Repo commented.
Blake agreed. All of this land they were sitting on had been tainted by Cruiz’s criminal activity, scarred by blood and warfare. It made Blake sick to think about his son, Ash, and any of the Spartan men’s families enduring a future like the one Contreras presented.
And he wasn’t going to stand for it.
As Blake watched the scene below unfold, witnessing Contreras finally emerge from the house to shake hands with his guest and welcome him inside, cold fury began to grow inside of him. His fingers twitched, wanting to reach for his pistol and put a hole between both their eyes, putting an immediate end to all of this. But he knew he couldn’t act out of emotion, because they’d already seen how that scenario would play out. He needed to calm down and think rationally and logically, find a peaceful solution to all of this.
But that was Gabby’s words in his head, not his own. Because he knew just by what he’d witnessed that there wasn’t going to be anything peaceful about reclaiming this county. For any kind of peace to be established and order to be reclaimed, it would have to be taken by force.
Nothing had ever been clearer.
Pushing out of his crouch, Blake hiked up his pants. “Mount up, boys.”
“What do you have in mind?” Repo asked, curious and concerned at once.
“We’re going to go crash the party and join in the negotiations.”
None of the men appeared happy about the change in plans, but they didn’t argue. It was a sign of trust and loyalty that they followed Blake the way they did.
He just prayed he wasn’t walking them into a slaughter.
eighteen
Victorjia was in the study, brushing up on her classics, when she heard raised voices coming from somewhere down the hall. Frowning, she closed the old tomb and set it aside to investigate.
As soon as she opened the door, the voices grew louder and clearer, though she couldn’t discern actual words. But there was definitely an argument going on. And if her ears were hearing right, there were a lot of men involved. In fact, though muted, suggesting the source of the argument was going on behind closed doors, it reminded her of the commotion at the bar she’d met Heath at.
That alone drew her fully from the study and down the hall, toward its source. Her feet carried her to her father’s office. The door was indeed closed, but the voices had grown considerably clearer. And it was heated.
Eaten by curiosity, she had to force herself to back away. The last thing Victorjia was interested in was getting deeper involved in her father’s business beyond being his daughter. Even that was something she was starting to wonder if it was worth the potential hazard to her life.
Was he really dangerous enough to visit that kind of fallout on her? She had no way of truly knowing.
Overall, he seemed like such a good guy, with redeeming qualities. After all, her mother wouldn’t have fallen in love with a criminal and bore his child. Everything her abuela had told her about her said so. But she couldn’t deny the things she’d heard were lining up with what she was seeing and hearing since she’d arrived on his doorstep.
It had only been a couple days, and already there was something going down that caused her stomach to turn nervously and her heart to hammer in her chest. Whatever was going on, it wasn’t a simple disagreement between business partners—of that she was sure.
Before she could make it a few steps back to the study where she planned on locking herself inside until the coast was clear, the door to the study opened and a flood of men poured out. They came out in batches, the first half in suits, and the second in black leather and jeans. All wore the same grievous expressions, as if someone had died…or was about to. Most were armed, their weapons worn out in the open without apology. But that wasn’t what shocked the breath right out of her lungs.
The men in leather were Spartans. The same men Heath aligned himself with, wearing the same patches he had on his riding jacket.
What were they doing here, in her father’s home? Were they into whatever kind of stuff he was? It didn’t seem to fit, but then again, what did she know about criminal enterprises?
