Page 1 of Cartel Devil

Chapter One

Joaquin

“That’s when my cousin wound up with dirt up his nose and down his diaper.”

Alejandro’ll kill me.

But it’s nowhere near as bad as my brothers’ tale about him “trimming” his papá’s prize orchids to “help” him give his abuela—his papá’s mamá—an Easter gift. He will definitely have words for Javier and Jorge.

As I scan the guests at Alejandro and Vittoria’s wedding reception, everyone has tears rolling down their cheeks from laughing so hard. The bratva, mob, and Mafia men are laughing the hardest. Fucking pack of hyenas.

Wedding and baptism receptions are an opportunity for the Four Families to show off their wealth to the world’s who’s who. If these events weren’t, we’d never let our rivals through the door. But it’s one of many fucked-up traditions in this world. It’s like getting your first knife when you turn twelve. You’re no longer peewee and little league teammates but men ready to defend your family to the death.

My gaze settles on a bridesmaid again. The woman stands out with her blonde hair and green eyes compared to the two other Italian women she’s sitting beside. Vittoria Trevisan—Alejandro’s bride—and Serafina Mancinelli have the more expected dark hair and darker eyes. But all three are one hundred percent Italian. Well, Vittoria is. Serafina is half Sicilian and half Italian, and Patrizia is one hundred percent Sicilian. Only they care about the difference.

Then again, if someone confuses me for anything but Colombian, them there fighting words. Why can’t Americans figure out not every narcotrafficker is Mexican? If I metaphorically roll my eyes any harder, they’ll get stuck in the back of my head.

I focus on Patrizia as she stands while I walk to hand her the mic. Our fingers brush as I pass it to her, and I swear her tits rise and her belly sucks in.

Wishful thinking?

They are the finest pair I’ve ever seen. Her bridesmaid’s gown is respectable, but there’s no hiding what the material covers.

“Thank you.”

I’m not unaffected either as I step away and return to my seat. I’m curious to hear her toast to the newlyweds since I know next to nothing about the woman. I’ve been traveling for the past five weeks, spending more time in Europe and Asia than usual. I had little to do with the wedding plans. I took care of the couple tasks I was given that I could do online, then showed up barely on time for the rehearsal yesterday. I came straight from the airport.

“Serafina and I might be to blame for all the trouble we caused during college, but don’t be fooled—Vittoria was right there alongside us whenever we were together. It wasn’t nearly often enough, but then again, I don’t think our fathers’ hearts could take it if we were. Our fathers called us ‘bambina bandite’—you can guess that one, but we preferred ‘trio trionfante’—triumphant trio.”

Patrizia garners tamer, but no less genuine, laughs than the ones my brothers and I got. The crowd is laughing with Vittoria while they laughed at Alejandro. Good-naturedly, of course.

That eye roll again.

That expression will stick if someone hits you in the back of the head.

At least, that’s what my abuela—the one I share with Alejandro and our other cousin Pablo—told me.

I wonder how well Patrizia knows Vittoria and Serafina since I’ve never heard them speak about her before. Then again, it’s not like I hang out with Serafina and her certifiable pedazo de mierda—piece of shit—husband, Carmine. I’ve spent plenty of time with Vittoria since she and Alejandro met, but only he suffers through dinners with Carmine. Punishment for a previous life for sure. That or purgatory is on Earth.

Tío Matías, Alejandro’s papá, offers a few kind words about the couple before inviting everyone to dance. With four cousins but no brothers, Alejandro had no shortage of options for best man. He’s always been close to our oldest cousin, Pablo, so it was natural for him to choose Pablo. It also meant neither of my brothers nor I were left out. When Javier married, Jorge and I both stood as his best men. When Jorge married, Javier and I stood as his best men. We’re Tres J’s—you don’t get uno without getting tres.

To walk down the aisle, Pablo and Serafina were paired together while Patrizia and I were since I’m the oldest of the three brothers. I’ve fought not to stare ever since. Javier escorted his wife, Madeline, and Pablo’s wife, Florencia, while Jorge escorted his wife, Anneliese. If Juan, Pablo’s younger brother, were still alive, the numbers wouldn’t have been off, but that’s a story for another day. It was lovely that Vittoria already sees the women as her cousins—not in-laws, just cousins.

“Quino.”

Only my family calls me that, and it’s always in private. No one outside the family hears. I look up as Javier nudges me. I turn a blank stare at him. My wandering mind has me clueless about what’s happening beyond couples headed to the dance floor. Mamá and my tías insisted we all take ballroom dancing—which we all hated—but it made us agile. Little did we know that all that time in spandex and bow ties from five until ten years old was training.

I dance well, but I’d rather have a root canal. I don’t like to mingle with people, and I don’t like crowds. I don’t get anxious like Jorge, and I don’t hate people in general like Javier. I just prefer to be a wallflower.

“¿Cómo?” Come again?

“It’s disculpe?, not cómo?.” Excuse me.

“And you’re not Abuela. I should’ve just said huh.”

Mamá’s mamá was a drill sergeant about manners. She definitely preferred formality. It’s the difference between what and pardon.

“Get up and dance with Patrizia. She’s looking around for someone to partner with. The rest of us have wives.”