Page 28 of Tainted Blood
“Keep what in check?” I ask.
He stands like a statue, giving nothing away. “Your temper. Your reactions. Your expressions. All of the above. Santiago has built an empire on his ability to mindfuck the soulless. Don’t let him feed you a spark and let it draw you into an inferno.”
Dios mío, not him too. I’m so sick of hearing about “Stone Cold Dante” and his blindsides. He didn’t seem so covert when he was pulling a Lee Harvey Oswald out the window of Thalia’s high-rise last week.
“He’s not God, for fuck’s sake. He’s just a man. Cut him, and he still bleeds like everyone else.”
He nods. “True. Contrary to popular belief, even Dante Santiago isn’t immortal. But arrogance is a thin shield, son. This will be the first time he lays eyes on the man who blackmailed his daughter into marriage. Don’t expect anything but six days-worth of resentment.”
“This also isn’t Colombia, or some off-the-grid Pacific island,” I argue. “This is New York. Isn’t Grayson the boss around here? Or is he just an extension of Santiago’s overinflated ego?”
The words are barely out of my mouth before he’s spinning around and jabbing a finger in my face. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. You’re projecting your anger, and that’s what’s going to end this meeting before it begins.”
It pisses me off how well he reads me sometimes. All I can think about is my sister and my wife and what could be happening to them. Who could be hurting them. What cuts the deepest is I’m powerless to stop it. I have a reach that stretches across all seven continents, but it’s still not enough.
I have to find a way to bottle that hatred—self-directed or otherwise. This paper-thin truce is the only thing preventing the bullets from flying.
“Whose side are you on?” I grit out eventually.
Without warning, my father’s mask drops back into place, and just like that, his break in character is over. Curtain call. Take a bow.
“I’m not going to dignify that with an answer. However, if the situation were reversed and Sanders had forced your sister into marriage against her will”—his nostrils flare, the thought filling him with fury—“let’s just say I’m not sure there wouldn’t be a bullet waiting for him in the next room.”
He doesn’t elaborate further, and neither do I. The image hangs in the air—a blunt reminder of why we’re here in the first place.
The beast returns, and motions for us to enter the side room. Our men follow in our wake, the sound of marching footsteps filling the tense beats of silence.
This warehouse is smaller than the last, with that same latticework of rusted brown beams. Once again, I couldn’t give a fuck about the architecture, not when I see the long, low mahogany table set in the center, and the two men sitting behind it.
Of all the things to focus on, I can’t take my eyes off a half-drunk bottle of bourbon on the table. It makes me think of Thalia crawling across my desk and into my heart.
As Grayson’s men move to stand behind their boss, my own men position themselves behind us. Everyone is watching and waiting for history to repeat itself as I force my gaze from the bourbon to a couple of dangerously still expressions. Not that I can blame them... After all, the definition of insanity is doing the same thing, over and over, and expecting a different result.
Good thing we’re all a little mad here.
Grayson is the first to acknowledge our presence. Rising to his feet, he slowly makes his way around the table to where we’re standing. He’s wearing the same all-black attire again—as is every other member of his unwelcome party. It tells me Santiagos are creatures of habit. Either that, or they have a severely stunted imagination.
“Carrera.” My name rolls off Grayson’s tongue like a sharpened dart as his gaze slides to where my father stands stoically to my right. “Carrera…” Shifting down the line to RJ, he arches an eyebrow in disinterest. “Not Carrera…”
“Your powers of observation astound me,” I say dryly.
My sarcasm is lost on him. Instead, he offers a curt nod. “My second-in-command is bleeding all over your casino. We’d like him back. I assume the only reason you’re here is to arrange his safe return.”
“Fuck his return. I’m more concerned with who shot him twice at close range, and why.”
His cool facade slips a notch. I may be holding the details of Thalia’s kidnapping close to my chest, but during our call, I had no problem giving this bastard a detailed, play-by-play of his right-hand-man’s near demise in the parking lot of my casino—swiftly followed by hours of agonizingly primitive surgery.
RJ called it reckless.
My father called it infantil.
I call it payback.
Grayson quickly tempers his expression. “How is he?”
“Alive…” At his almost imperceptible exhale, I add, “For now. How long that continues is up to you.”
Tired of dancing around the volatile elephant in the room, I turn to Santiago. He’s leaning forward, forearms on the table—his posture deceptively calm.