Page 21 of Cartel Devil

“All right. All right. I’ll make it work.”

My brothers and I leave the meeting and head to the SUV convoy. It’s not until we’re inside the middle vehicle that we speak. With a driver and bodyguards with us, we skip English and Spanish, switching to Macaguán. It’s an Amerindian language indigenous to the Colombian region our ancestors settled in. There are about five hundred people who still speak it, so we never fear anyone understands us. Let’s just say our men know better than to learn it and are confident we’d discover if they did.

“Do we tell Nielson to back off a bit?”

I look at my brothers as our vehicle pulls away from the curb, following the two SUVs in front of us while two more bring up the rear. On wider roads, they surround us that way no one gets close to us unless we allow it.

“Maybe for a bit, but it means we have to pay more attention to Misha and Pasha. Those carechimbas are still pissed that we’re pushing them out of the Caribbean market.” Vagina faces. There’s not really an equivalent phrase in Macaguán.

The bratva cousins own Bear Imports/Exports. Bear—because they’re Russian.

Original.

Fucking twats.

“So maybe it’s our fault the DEA got a tip that their Jamaican coconuts were full of more than just milk. They should be over it by now.”

Jorge gives a dismissive shrug as he pulls out his phone. I’m certain he’s texting his wife, Anneliese, to let her know we’re on our way back to Florida. Javier’s doing the same thing for Madeline. I’m the only one left with no wife to reassure I’m safe, so I text Mamá. We slip our phones back in our pockets before continuing.

“Well, they aren’t over it. What if we appease them with those tax documents Lorenzo misplaced?”

By misplaced, Javier means the ones I hacked and stole from the Mancinellis’ encrypted server. The ones Lorenzo, their accountant, doesn’t know we have. We were saving them for when they pissed us off again, but Pasha, the bratva accountant, would love to get ahold of them. Jorge has already gotten everything he needs from them, and we’re not inclined to do shit for Finn O’Rourke right now. He bought his wife a Victorian sapphire ring Pablo had his eye on for Florencia. Finn fucking knew that and coerced the auction house into selling it under the table to him just to spite Pablo. Why? Because he could.

Anyone who didn’t know better would think we’re just a bunch of Petty Betties. I mean, we are, but that’s neither here nor there. But it’s why we’re willing to “help” a rival when it means screwing over a different enemy. The enemy of my enemy and all that.

“Let’s see what Tío says, but I think that’s a good idea.”

Jorge and Javier nod in agreement. We won’t act alone when it comes to giving away this kind of information. We’ll run it by our tío, but we’re confident he’ll agree.

“It’s been two weeks since Alejo and Toria got home. They haven’t reciprocated and had Sera and Carmine over.”

“Jorge.”

“Ne?” What?

“Don’t be a little shit.”

It’s a good thing our men don’t speak Macaguán because at least one of them would tell Mamá that I’m picking on my baby brother and calling him names. But he is being a little shit.

“I just made an observation.”

“Yeah, well, we aren’t done sorting out this situation. What do we do if we let Nielson hang back and someone else takes advantage?”

“We make sure Nielson knows he works for us first and foremost right now. Anyone else tries to step up, he and his crew intercede. When Alejo and Toria have Sera and Carmine over, will you be there to make sure Alejo doesn’t stab Carmine with his butter knife?”

Jorge grins at me as only a youngest brother can. If we weren’t related, I’d throat punch him. It’s the same thought I had while walking home with Alejo and Toria after the dinner from hell.

“You live closest to them. You can go. Why should I have to come in from Manhattan when you live two streets over?” I turn to Javier. “You live three blocks away. Make it a triple or quadruple date. Leave me out of it.”

“Scared she might be there, and you won’t be able to get away with the grunts you call conversation?”

“Jorge.”

I stress his name even more, and it sobers him. I used to get teased about my shyness as a kid. My brothers would defend me, even though I’m the oldest. Javier and I covered for Jorge’s anxiety, while Jorge and I softened Javier’s misanthropic rough edges. We’ve always protected each other.

Right now, both of my brothers are realizing what Alejandro did. I really like Tre, and I’m way in over my head. This isn’t me being standoffish or annoyed about being inconvenienced. It’s a near-debilitating fear that I won’t come up with anything to say or that whatever I say will be so banal she’ll think I’m an idiot. It’s an awkwardness that reminds me of when we moved to the States as tweens and barely spoke any English.

At the reception, it abated because Tre did most of the talking from the start. But dinner was such an utter shitshow that I doubt Tre will ever speak to me again. She definitely won’t carry the conversation. I’d wanted to melt into the floor that night. I didn’t know what to say and because I stayed silent, she took the brunt of it. She dug herself into a hole, and rather than reaching down to help her, I kicked dirt onto her.