Page 32 of Their Princess

Lifting his chin, Caz said, “You got three days. Payment in full for the shipment, or you help us take over Baranquilla territory. Let’s go, brothers.” He led the way toward the front door, but then stopped. Acero and el Fantasma kept walking.

Sas pinched his eyes shut and seethed but didn’t turn to watch them leave.

Before reaching the door, Caz turned around with his arms spread wide. “Or we can go the bloody route, amigo. Your call.” He winked and left.

We stood in terse silence until the door slammed shut behind the Rojas brothers. Then the voices ticked up again, each pelting Sas with a jumble of questions and accusations.

Rafe moved back to his post against the wall.

I sauntered back to my seat at the island and plugged my ears with both earbuds this time. The chorus of “Under the Bridge” by the Chili Peppers blared as I turned up the volume and picked up my pencil and sketchbook.

Sas bellowed over the din of voices, loud enough to cut through my music too, “Get the fire going out back and make sure there’s enough beer on ice.” He marched through the crowd to the basement door. Apparently, he needed to hit something in the ring downstairs.

The crowd dispersed. Hopefully, getting ready for the evening party would keep them out of trouble for a couple hours.

Sas paused at the island and glanced down at my sketch of the scene that just transpired. “That’s fucking fire.”

I glanced at it and shrugged as Sas shot an acerbic look back at Rafe, who stood there with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Don’t ever do that again,” said Sas. “You are a patched member and officer, but you follow my lead. Read me?”

Rafe looked every bit the badass Marine, stoic and ready for battle, like he was still in a war zone even though he had come back to the real world. So why the hell would he have an issue with following orders?

Sas marched over to the door and threw it open. The VP tipped his head toward the basement and said something, but the music blared in my ears, erasing the sound. Then he disappeared down the stairs, leaving the door open—a silent order for Rafe to follow. The military man, however, didn’t move immediately.

If Rafe was supposed to jump, he obviously didn’t view Sas as someone worthy of jumping for. And I got an eerie feeling that every response out of the ex-Marine was about Adelina.

Chapter Eight

RAFE

Fuck,I needed a drink.

I didn’t deserve to live the high life, hadn’t done much in my life to earn a happy family or the American dream with a house, picket fence, and two point five children. But motorcycle clubs were proving to be... odd. At the same time, I had to blame Massimo for this SNAFU as much as Sas and the president, Wilde.

Or, Prez, as everyone called him.

I figured I’d be okay after the military’s tendency to throw a TLA at everything under the sun—from KP to TAC?1. Fucking hell, I could probably create whole sentences that didn’t use anything more than capital letters and only others in the service would recognize what I said.

Guess I did speak another language. Just not something useful like Spanish or Italian.

In the MC, they spoke in code too—Prez, Veep, enforcers. Some things, like tail guards, sounded quite military, but it really applied more to the motorcycle formations than a platoon. As far as business went, everything worked about the same as it did inla Famiglia, but at least I could get Massimo to listen to me. Most of the time.

The same couldn’t be said for Sas. Maybe he’d shoot me for speaking out of turn, no matter how fucking stupid his deal with the cartel was. At least the Mafia’s deal had the money flowing in and lining the Parisi pocketbooks. After, of course, passing it through several legit businesses to keep the source under wraps. Sas entered a deal that landed the MC in debt. Stupid fucker.

I meandered over to the fridge behind the kitchen island in the clubhouse and grabbed a beer, not caring which kind. It was all American and all watered down. If I was going to drink a beer for enjoyment, someone had to give me a juicy IPA or rich and creamy stout.

Using the granite countertop, I popped off the cap and took a long swig, polishing off half the bottle in one go. The taste transported me back to the desert. Lukewarm American beer, because the refrigeration sucked ass when it was 120 degrees in the shade. Gritty sand clung to sweat that dried too quickly and left a crust on my skin. Concrete and metal buildings, ISO shelters, and huge tents rife with suffocating body odor had all been commonplace.

The worst, though, had been the sound of hearty laughter trying to chase away a constant sense of impending death. Soldiers understood the risks of our missions, and most of the time, laughing it off had been the only way we could cope.

I drank more, trying to wash away those memories before they darkened and swallowed me whole. On the second pull from the bottle, I gulped down the beer, then reached for another. As much as I needed to keep my senses about me—for both my safety and Adelina’s—we had experienced one hostile situation already between the cartel and the club, and the Rojas brothers proved another wasn’t out of the question.

My presence wasn’t or trusted. Rightfully so. I was accustomed to being unwanted by the Mafia—my own fucking brother—and now by the MC.

I couldn’t let any of that interfere with my duties. Adelina was the only mission that mattered.

When I turned back to the clubhouse with my second beer in hand, I noticed that only one person had stayed behind.

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