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I sigh heavily, sinking back into the chair that feels too much like a throne. I close my eyes for a moment, chasing the tendrils of tension from my forehead. Jackson's probably headed straight home, back to that new wife of his. My mind conjures her image without permission. The curve of her smile, the arch of her brow, features etched with a beauty that's as undeniable as it is infuriating.
Even now, just the thought of her, the memory of that instant magnetic pull I felt upon first laying eyes on her, sends a ripple of forbidden warmth through my veins. The idea of Jackson with her, his hands where mine ache to be, ignites an unfamiliar possessiveness that claws at my insides, fierce and unyielding.
She's a vision, but visions can be deceptive. She's painted in whispers and rumors, hues of greediness and entitlement. Jackson's description, not mine. A money-hungry socialite, he called her. I can't help but wonder if there's more to her than the spoiled brat he's painted. These thoughts are a danger, a line I've drawn firmly in the sand.
Isabella is off-limits, untouchable, the wife of my brother, a complication in an already tangled web I cannot afford. So, I force my thoughts away from the softness of her lips, the laughter in her eyes, and the silk of her skin. Stay away, I remind myself. Some prices are too high, even for me.
I press the intercom button with more force than necessary. The frustration of my encounter with Jackson is still simmering beneath the surface.
"Tina, in here, please," I demand, my voice taut with the effort of maintaining my composure.
The door opens almost immediately, and she steps in. "Yes, sir. What can I help you with?" she asks with a glimmer of something more than just professional attention in her eyes.
I manage to suppress a sigh. Her unspoken advances are the last thing I need right now. Tina’s competence is the only shield saving her from being fired. Her ability to run the office through my intermittent absences is, admittedly, invaluable.
I meet her gaze, all business. "Cancel my meetings for the afternoon. I need to clear my schedule. I'll be occupied for the rest of the day.” The words are clipped. “Also, take over the gala preparations. I trust you know what to do.”
She nods, and the slightest flicker of disappointment passes over her features before she locks it down and responds. "Yes, sir."
With no further comment, she exits as quietly as she arrived, closing the door gently behind her. I stand in a fluid motion, driven by a need to move, to act. Shrugging into my suit jacket with a practiced ease, I walk to the door. My stride carries a tension, a marked purpose as I reach the elevator. The doors slide open, and I step inside, descending from my high-rise domain into the city below.
The moment I step outside, the brisk air strikes my face, drawing a sharp contrast to the stifling atmosphere I left behind. I weave through the crowd with my mind running calculations and strategies. Within minutes, I'm seated in the leather confines of my car with the engine purring to life beneath my hands. I waste no time dialing Victor's number, the call connecting as I navigate through the dense traffic with practiced ease.
"Meet me at Casa Valdez," I command the moment he answers, my tone leaving no room for argument.
Casa Valdez, the inconspicuous family restaurant, brimming with the aroma of spices and secrets. To any outsider, it's a place to savor authentic cuisine. To us, it's a lucrative façade. The Valdez’s have been allies of the Blackharts for decades, and their restaurant serves as both a meeting point and a front for our more discreet operations. Namely, the transport and sale of weapons. Our services carry a weighty price tag, but one that's justified by the risks and always, always paid.
I pull up to the restaurant just as Victor's car slides into view. He steps out, his presence radiating the kind of strength and reliability that only years on the frontline can forge.
"What are we doing here?" he asks, eyes searching mine for the turmoil that's roiling beneath my calm exterior.
"Fucking damage control," I growl. I can see his mind already turning, piecing together the fragments of information that point to a singular, disastrous event.
"What the fuck did Jackson do now?" Victor probes, his voice steady despite the gravity of the situation.
"Those whispers you heard?" I say, allowing a fraction of my frustration to seep through, "Well, apparently, Jackson cut off Chico's head."
Victor curses a sharp, hard sound that slices through the quiet morning air. His hands move with a practiced motion as he checks his gun, an action that's second nature to him. Preparedness is his creed. He's lived by it ever since he took a bullet meant for me years ago.
The memory comes on swiftly. Victor grew up impoverished, every day a battle, every night shadowed by uncertainty in the cold walls of too many orphanages. His past is a patchwork of hunger and survival, and yet, there's an unmistakable strength that adversity has etched onto his character.
I remember that fateful, gritty evening in the bad part of town. The smell of gasoline was strong, mixed with the threat of impending violence. I had stopped at a gas station, a wrong turn on an otherwise ordinary night. I was a teenager that got lost on the way home. Suddenly, a group of thugs approached me. Their intentions were as cold as the steel they pointed in my direction. The fear I might feel in such a scenario now is dulled by the life I've built, shielded by affluence and security. Back then, invincibility clung to me like a second skin.
Before my mind could race to the next move, he was there. Victor, a boy with nothing to his name but the fire in his eyes, stepped between me and the looming threat. His voice cut through the tension as he demanded the thugs to back off. However, words aren’t armor, and a scuffle broke out, revealing the courage within Victor as he dispatched their violence with a swift, practiced might.
It could have ended there, but as the thugs relented, the bite of a gunshot shattered the momentary calm. Time slowed. Inches and seconds collided as Victor shoved me out of the bullet’s deadly path. A shove that sealed an unspoken bond.
Since that night, our lives have been interwoven with loyalty and an unwavering sense of brotherhood. That moment cemented his status as my right-hand man. There's nobody I trust more within the treacherous balance of our world than Victor, a man who's seen the darkness in me and stands by my side regardless.
The click of the firearm snaps shut, drawing me back to the present. The stakes are clear. We have to smooth this over with the Valdez family or risk igniting a conflict that could consume everything I’ve worked to build. I can feel Victor's resolve, as tangible as my own, radiating off him as he follows me into the restaurant, ready to face whatever comes.
The scent of simmering spices and the low hum of conversations are abruptly cut off as the doors close behind us. Inside, the men at the tables rise as one, the scrape of chairs against the floor almost drowned by the sudden chorus of weapons being drawn. A silent tension swells in the room, like the calm before a storm. Our hands instinctively go up, open and empty. We both know it's a universal language of peace or at least non-aggression.
"We want to speak to Jose," I state, my voice steady despite the adrenaline that begins to surge. "I want to smooth things over and to apologize. My brother is an idiot."
An older gentleman breaks from the shadows, his steps measured as he motions for his men to lower their guns. “Damien,” he acknowledges, his voice carrying a weight that sees beyond years.
“Jose,” I return the greeting with equal gravity, my eyes holding his in understanding that stretches back to stories my father used to tell.
