Page 70 of Wicked Lies

Nick came up behind him and shouted over the music. “Alejandro?”

Alejandro whipped around and twitched. “Nick? What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Came down to check on things?” He moved Alejandro away from the line. “You seem a little jumpy.”

“Nah, everything’s great.” Alejandro closed his right hand into a tight fist. “Couldn’t be better.”

Nick grabbed his fist, pried it open, and stared at five small glassine bags of white powder. “You got balls. I’ll give you that much.”

“C’mon.” Alejandro puffed up full of attitude. “You wouldn’t stop a guy from making a few bucks.”

“Not this way, and not in my club.”

“Maybe you’d like it better if I cut you in for some of the take.” Alejandro’s arrogance floored him.

“You dumb shit.” Nick yanked him under the stairwell. “Your family didn’t come all the way from Cuba for you to be a dope dealer.”

Alejandro spun out of his hold. “My mother works her ass off in a hotel, my uncle works for you, but I’m making real money.” He pounded his chest with his fist. “They call me the Prince of South Beach.”

“You’re gonna be the dead Prince of South Beach if you get in any deeper with this shit.” Nick stepped forward, crowding his space.

“Who are you kidding?” Alejandro waved his hands around. “I’ve heard the stories about you and how you came up.”

“You don’t know shit.”

“Busting heads on the Brooklyn docks, jacking cars, and making collections for Frank Barnett. You did it the old-school way. I’m just putting a new spin on it.” Alejandro’s lips twisted into a sneer. “You’ve probably done worse than me.”

The kid had him there. The arrogant punk was right. He had done worse. Admitting it to himself didn’t make it any easier, but it sure gave him an excellent excuse for slamming him against the wall.

One of the bouncers appeared beside him. “You need some help, boss?”

In seconds, two other human blocks of cement were at his side.

Nick leaned into Alejandro. “Just keep that shit outta the club.”

“You can’t protect what’s not yours.” Alejandro zeroed in on Nick. “Word is, Frank’s coming down on you hard.” Alejandro jerked his head at Nick’s bruised cheekbone. “Maybe you should be worrying about saving your own ass.”

“What?” Nick got in his face.

“Get outta Miami while you can.”

“Shut the fuck up, punk,” one of the bouncers growled as he dragged Alejandro away from Nick toward the back door.

Nick stayed under the stairwell and sucked in some deep breaths. Was Alejandro spitting out wise-guy bullshit or the real thing? First, Graciela on the beach with her cryptic warnings, then Carlos’s twitchy responses, and now Alejandro acting like he knew what went down in New York. Maybe he was working with Frank, but Frank wouldn’t want him selling junk in the club—unless he set it up as a distraction.

Fuck! Nick cracked his neck and tried to focus. He was letting his paranoia run wild, and he better put a fuckin’ lid on it before he forgot the real reason he came to Miami—Carlos’s support—plain and simple.

Nick braced his hands against the wall, sucked in several deep cleansing breaths, straightened his spine, and headed back to the VIP room with his game face firmly in place.

22

A half-hour later, Nick maneuvered Cheryl through the lobby of his building. After his encounter with Alejandro, he tried to relax, but it was useless, so he collected Cheryl from the VIP and said his goodbyes. He made it appear like he couldn’t wait to get his sexy woman home to bed, but that was only part of it. He couldn’t shake the growing fear something was about to go disastrously wrong, putting him on edge and making him examine even the most casual remarks.

Cheryl swayed in his arms. “I had the best time tonight.”

She attempted to wrap her arms around his neck, which caused her dress to hike up dangerously high. The doorman stared and winked until he realized Nick’s scowl was meant for him. After tripping a few times, he scooped her up and carried her into the elevator. For a drunk little thing, she was very wiry.

“I don’t know what’s the matter with me,” she slurred.

---