VENDETTA: A Bad Boy, Motorcycle Club Romance (21 page)

Emily

Jackson clipped the fence with the bolt cutters, each crack of metal on metal sending a new wave of butterflies through my stomach. The adrenaline churning through my veins already put me on edge—the sharp sound of cutting metal had my eyes darting around, looking for someone with a gun on his way to investigate the potential break-in.

But no one came. Only dust and sand surrounded us.

Once the hole was finished, Jackson bent down the thick chains and each of us crawled through the space he’d created. Piston was so large that a link caught on his jacket, but I reached out and pulled it free before it could rip into the leather. He rewarded me with a rare smile.

“We stay together,” Flash said, punching a message into his satellite phone to alert the rest of The Fallen to exactly what was going on. Knowing that they’d be coming, a cavalry charging in on the backs of their Harleys, helped soothe some of my frazzled nerves. Our small band wouldn’t be in this alone.

Reaching the servant’s entrance undetected, Jackson picked the lock and then swung the door open. A woman stepped into the foyer from the hallway, turning toward us. Piston grabbed her and locked his hand over her mouth, preventing her from crying out. Flash pulled supplies from his pack and passed a soaked cloth to Piston, who held it over the mouth and nose of the struggling woman until she went limp.

“We have to hurry,” he said, lowering her to the floor and binding her wrists. “Move.”

Clearing the villa room by room, the men either executed guards or left employees tied on the ground, with the promise that nothing would happen to them the last thing they heard before the drugs lured them into unconsciousness.

But we still couldn’t find Manuel.

As we approached the room where I’d been stripped and sentenced to death, a chill crept over my entire body that had nothing to do with the cool air blasting out of the vents on the ceiling. Memories assailed me like a physical blow and it was all I could do to keep my knees from knocking together. Sounds from the room—men talking, ice clinking in glasses—bled into the hallway through the crack in the door, reminding me too much of the first time I was there.

Piston moved forward, waving to us to stay back. Lifting a hand, he signaled to the rest of us that there were five men in the room. I strained my ears for the sound of the bikes approaching the compound, though I knew I wouldn’t be able to hear them through the thick walls anyway. Three men and me versus five who were likely armed?

Way outnumbered
.

Even now, doubts filtered through the panic that swelled up like a wave. If Manuel was in there, he’d be dead soon and I’d be the de facto head of the Deleon Cartel. Head of a cartel in a country where I didn’t live and with people I’d never met, in a business I wasn’t experienced with. I’d helped package and sell meth in basements and garages.

We were a long from there.

Flash pushed me against the wall, his hands rough. “Stay here until we call you in.” I nodded, but it felt wrong somehow to let them go without me. The gun in my hand burned hot, even though the metal and my skin were both cold.

If I was going to take charge, shouldn’t I be the first one into the room?

But the men rushed in and chaos erupted. Spanish curses rose over the sound of screams and the voices of The Fallen ordering the men to put their hands on the table. A screech of chair legs against the wooden floor, and then a gunshot.

The sound was like someone pumped chill water through me.

Flash
.

Before I could move, he was there, looking around the door frame and motioning me into the room. On the floor, a body cooled, face down. Four men sat at the table, their wrists bound with the same white plastic ties the men had used on the household domestics. None of them bothered to look at me, either staring at Piston or the man on the floor.

“Where’s Manuel?” Piston asked one of the men, holding his thin hair in one hand and pulling his head back so their eyes met.

“Fuck you,” the man said crisply. Piston nodded and lodged a bullet in his brain. Blood and brain matter sprayed out against the wall and I bit down on my lip hard to keep from vomiting.

Piston merely stepped through the mess and took the next man’s jaw in his hand. This one, unlike the others, didn’t have a mouth twisted into a nasty snarl. He met Piston’s eyes steady and held the look.

“We were allies,” he said, calm. “What are you doing?”

“We were allies until Manuel killed one of ours.”

“He must have had good reason,” the man said. But doubt slid over his eyes. I wondered if this one would end up making it out of the room alive.

“Like he did to kill Rafael?” Flash asked, moving so the man could see him. I felt invisible. They were speaking of my family—possibly my future—and I was less important than the lit sconces on the walls.

“Rafael was sick.”

“He was poisoned,” Piston said.

“According to you.”

“No,” said Flash. “According to Javier.”

“Javier? He disappeared days ago.”

“He called my father,” Flash said. “It’s true. Manuel told him the truth about Rafael and Rafael’s daughter, ordering him to send his men to succeed where The Fallen failed to kill Esme Deleon. Knowing that, he defected. He thought Dad might be able to protect the daughter of the man he’d worked for all those years.”

“What girl?” The man still hadn’t noticed me standing silent by the wall. “There’s no girl. Rafael didn’t have a child.”

“He did,” said Piston. “He and his wife had a little girl. They called her Esme.”

Esme
. I wished that someone had told me before then.

“Not true.” The man’s face twisted into a sneer and Piston’s hand twitched on the gun. I couldn’t stand it.

My throat felt thick, but I took an unsteady step forward. “It is true,” I said, and all eyes in the room turned to me. Straitening my spine and swallowing to clear my throat, I met the eyes of the man who’d denied me. “I’m Emily Deleon. Or Esme Deleon, if you prefer. Rafael and Rosaline are my parents.”

His face blanched as he stared at me, searching my eyes, my lips, my hair for some sign that I was lying or telling the truth. “You’re Rosaline’s little girl…” He shook his head. “She died.”

“No,” I said. “They sent me to live with adoptive parents in America so that Manuel wouldn’t try to kill me.”

“Why would he—?”

“He wanted power.”

“Are you going to listen to this shit?” said one of the bound men. I had enough experience with drug users to recognize the signs of a bad high. He was all large pupils and shaking hands. “Kill the girl and get these fuckers out of here.”

“Bad idea,” said Flash. He lifted his gun and fired. The man’s trip was over.

“What the fuck, Flash? You’ve known Jose since you were a kid.”

“I’ve always hated that asshole,” my man said, looking dispassionately at the body. “And Emily is mine. Threaten her at your peril.”

“I’m going to ask again,” said Piston, interrupting all of us. “Where is Manuel?”

“Oh, shit,” said the more reasonable man. “He’s probably in his room. Some of his men got killed in LA and he flipped his shit. Called Rosaline to bring him whiskey.”

“We’re going to kill him,” Flash said. “What do you think of that?”

The man cocked his head to the side, considering. “I preferred Rafael,” he said finally. “Things were better then. You have any idea what you’re taking on, girl?”

“You can call me Emily,” I said, “or Ms. Deleon. But you’re not going to call me girl.”

Hesitant respect lit his eyes. “Emily, do you know what it means if Manuel dies.”

“It means I’m taking charge,” I said, surprised by the steadiness of my voice. “It’s mine by blood.” Daring him to challenge me.

He lowered his head. “Fair enough. I’ll be here whenever you boys get around to finishing off my ex-boss.”

“And you?” Flash said to the final man. The man spit in his face.

Piston took the shot.

We left the reasonable man in a room surrounded by bodies. His face was more annoyed than horrified, and I wondered whether he would be the type Bill had told me about. The type worth keeping around.

No sound came from the thick wooden door in front of Manuel’s room. We hadn’t seen anyone else during our trek across the top floor of the villa. It meant that Flash had been correct and Manuel was still keeping all his guards outside, sure he was safe in his home.

Not anymore
.

“What if he’s sleeping?” I whispered. Somehow it seemed worse to me to burst in and kill a sleeping man than to face down one with a gun.

“All the better,” Piston said.

In the distance, I heard the sound of gunfire. It sounded oddly like fireworks and not like men dying. Maybe men I liked. It meant one thing: The Fallen had arrived. If we were going to get to Manuel, it had to be now.

Without further hesitation, Flash went through the door. Manuel was standing at the window, looking out into the courtyard. He had a gun in his hand. Turning, he saw me.

“You,” he spat. “I should have killed you.” He raised the gun, but Flash was faster. He slammed into Manuel like a freight train, sending him to the floor hard. Manuel’s grip on the gun was broken. The pistol skittered over the wood and Jackson dashed out to grab it.

Flash landed a punch into Manuel’s face with a sickening crack, but Manuel kicked Flash off, surprisingly agile, and reached to grab the woman who’d stepped in from the sitting area with a bottle of liquor and a thick crystal tumbler in her hands.