Page 28 of Hidden By His Side

Ash slipped out, closing the door of the piece of trash car silently, which defied the rules of the universe. When Ramiro opened his side ten minutes later, the hinges creaked in protest.

He walked past the growing crowd waiting to enter the club and approached the entrance where cartel thugs were acting as bouncers.

The one on the left eyed him with interest while the one on the right sneered. “Who the hell are you?”

“Ramiro Rodriguez. Guzman invited me.” He watched as the posturing thug’s eyes widened before he stepped out of the way to let Ramiro pass. The other bouncer continued to eye him and reached for his phone.

Guzman would know he was coming, but Ramiro was counting on that.

The heavy bass of the club thrummed in his head as he crossed along the edges of the dancing bodies taking up most of the space. The Guzmans knew how to handle the club scene. They ran a few around the city, and all turned a decent profit. Hayes had once shown him the numbers, and even he’d seemed impressed.

Of course, the fentanyl-laced drugs they distributed made much more than that. The clubs weren’t enough to filter the funds through; they also cleaned it through real estate, which was getting even easier with the balloon the market was seeing.

The Guzmans had been around for a while. The pampered sons took over once the authorities nabbed their father in Sinaloa, Mexico, because of some pissing contest. Then they’d birthed even more pampered sons who weren’t nearly as tough as they needed to be. Ramiro had done their dirty work back when he was in the syndicate and had continued to do it as anindependent contractor building his own team. The cartel paid well for their services.

Two more thugs waited at the bottom of the steps leading up to the VIP rooms. Neither of them was a Guzman, but there were fewer of those left now. The cartel was a rainbow of skin colors as men joined up along the way. A lot of the men from the disbanded Zeta syndicate had taken positions with them once Nino Zeta died.

Ramiro made his way past the men. They didn’t frisk him for weapons. Ovidio Guzman must be feeling confident, or at least willing to risk his life to fake it.

One of his men opened the glass door to the VIP room. Ovidio sat on the couch inside, his legs spread and his arms draped over the back, as if daring Ramiro to put a bullet in his chest. He always was a cocky bastard.

He had about a dozen years on Ramiro, but Ramiro had started out much younger. They’d run together more than once back in the day. Ovidio had been an asshole even before his father died and he ended up with more power than he knew what to do with.

It was too bad he no longer had a son to pass it on to, but Naz had taken care of that.

“Rodriguez,” Ovidio said, eyeing him with satisfaction.

“I got your message.” Ramiro unbuttoned his jacket before he sat. One of Guzman’s men put his hand on his gun as Ramiro flashed his own. A familiar thrum of adrenaline filled his veins. He’d been behind a desk more often than not lately, focused onorganizing things and letting his men take the heat. He didn’t hate delegating, but this felt more comfortable.

Ovidio smirked. “It took you a full day to react? You’re as slow as always, Rodriguez.”

“You’re one to talk. I sent you my message months ago. I thought it was rather clear.” He hadn’t bothered to clean up Naz’s mess after he’d killed so many of the cartel’s men. Leaving the bodies to be found spoke more strongly than trying to hide them.

All humor dropped from Ovidio’s face. “One of yours killed my son. Julio was more important to me than money or drugs or this fucked-up business.” Ovidio’s eyes narrowed. “You knew that.”

Ramiro remembered how excited Ovidio had been back when his son was born. Not for the child himself, but for the legacy. “It’s a bit late to be playing the doting father, isn’t it?”

Ovidio lunged forward, punching Ramiro in the jaw. Ramiro let him, palming his gun as he took the hit.

“Show some goddamn respect!” Ovidio’s vein bulged in his forehead. He jerked his jacket straight as he collapsed back against the couch again, breathing hard.

Ramiro shifted his jaw, the throb of pain distant. “You’re losing your touch, Ovidio. That barely hurt.”

Guzman’s eyes flashed darker.

“Is that what all these men are for?” Ramiro taunted. “You need them to rough me up now that you’ve grown soft?”

Ovidio stared at him, then laughed. “Shit, Rodriguez. Ihavegrown soft. Soft and bored, since everything’s gone well for years. I’d thank you for taking that away if I wasn’t so pissed at what your boy did.” He reached for a glass of clear liquor and tossed it back.

Ramiro studied the man’s face. It slid back to calm, a bright delight in his eyes that had dread churning in Ramiro’s stomach.

“As for the timing, it took me a while to find anything you gave a shit about. I thought it’d be those boys you’ve gathered together, but while you’re protective of them, that’s not enough. You don’t see them as sons. Hell, you have no interest in a legacy at all. Did you truly believe you could go legit?” Ovidio snorted. “Men like us don’t get out. And we sure as hell don’t have pretty, innocent toys, unless we’re willing to see them broken.”

Ramiro’s suspicions flared into one throng of pain. He should have kept Summer far away from the start.

“How did it feel, having one of mine dirty up that pretty little secretary of yours?”

Ramiro forced a smile, pretending to relax back into his chair. “That tweaking skinhead barely got through the door. If you wanted to send a message, Ovidio, you used the wrong delivery.”

---