Born Sinner by Cora Kenborn

Chapter Five

Lola

“Not hungry?”My brother raises an eyebrow at me from across the small table.

I glance down at my untouched plate. “I don’t like pizza.”

Ugh, why did he have to pick an Italian restaurant? Thanks to our father, he has more money than all of New Jersey combined, yet here we sit in some godawful strip mall pizzeria.

“Bullshit. That ham and pineapple stuff is your favorite.”

My stomach lurches. “Santi, please.” I place my napkin on my plate, and gracias a Dios, it blocks the layer of grease from sight. “Will you lay off already?”

“No.” He tosses me a lethal smirk.

I scrunch my nose in disgust. If we weren’t in a public place, I’d punch it right off his face. Instead, I glare at him. “I’m sick, all right?” Crossing my arms, I slump into my chair. “I think I have the flu.”

“You smell like last call.” My big brother leans forward, the gold flecks in his eyes glinting with accusation. “The only thing you have is a hangover.” I jump as he slams his palm onto the table. “What have I told you about the consequences of drinking around strangers?”

“That I could have fun?”

Santi’s hand clenches, the vein in his temple pulsing with every grind of his teeth.

Christ, he’s the spitting image ofpapá.

“You’re testing me, chaparrita,” he warns darkly.

I cringe at his childhood nickname for me. Shorty.

“You might get hurt,” he continues, pausing on a slow inhale. “Where did you go last night? Felipé is getting his balls chopped off because of you.”

My jaw drops. “What? Why?”

His eyes flash with an unforgiving truth no border walls can contain. “He’s one of your personal guards, Lola. Papá’s direct link to you besides me. What did you think would happen when you ditched him last night?”

Oh shit.

That’s just it; I didn’t think. Our father is merciless enough, but when it comes to me, he’s inhuman. For some reason, I flip a switch in him that even mamá can’t control.

Felipe is a pain in my ass, but he doesn’t deserve papá’s wrath.

“I’ll call papá.” I reach for my phone, my hands shaking so badly, I nearly knock over my water. “I’ll tell him it was my”—I draw in a sharp breath as the tender flesh beside my hip burns—“my fault,” I finish weakly. Keeping my gaze lowered, I try to pull up my father’s coded contact in my phone.

Why won’t my hand stop shaking?

I’m not afforded another attempt. Santi’s bronzed one darts across the table and clamps on top of mine. “That’s not how it works, and you know it. Actions have consequences. Unfortunately, Felipé will pay for yours.”

I nod. It makes me sick to my stomach, but he’s right. This is the way of our world, and no amount of pleading will change it.

As the pressure on my hand releases, I jerk my phone to my chest. Bad move. White, hot, pain tears through my body like a greased bobsled.

“Something’s wrong.”

It’s not a question.

“Yeah.” I wince, shifting in my chair. “Our father is about to castrate a man, and I’m about to throw up my spleen. Not a good day for vital organs.”

Awesome, Lola. Crack a joke. That’s always helpful.

He ignores my insolence. “Every time you move, you wince and clench your fists. You’re hurt, so I’ll ask again. Where were you last night?” He jabs a finger at me from across the table. “And don’t lie to me.”

“I sort of had a date.” Technically, it’s not so much a lie as a bent truth. “It didn’t go so well.”

“What does that mean?”

“He gave me a drink, and then it’s all a big blur.”

Santi’s restrained anger explodes, his palms smacking the table again as his feet hit the floor. Glasses rattle and tip over, shattering into serrated pieces. “You deliberately put yourself in a vulnerable situation, opening the door for some asshole to roofie you? Of all the stupid—”

The entire restaurant falls silent as eyes shift toward us. This is the last thing either of us needs. “Santi,” I plead in a low tone. “Please don’t. Not here.”

His gaze shifts to the left before he slowly sinks back into his seat. But I don’t take my eyes off him. Just because the dragon isn’t roaring, that doesn’t mean he’s not still breathing fire.

“Name,” he says flatly.

“Santi…”

“Name, chaparrita. Don’t make me seek it out myself.” He issues the threat calmly, his nostrils flaring like a restrained raging bull. “You won’t like what happens.”

I believe him.

“Troy Davis.”

Santi pulls out his phone, and within seconds, he has someone on the line. “It’s Carrera. Find a student named Troy Davis. Bring him to the docks and then wait for me there.” Without another word, he disconnects the call and pockets his phone.

“What are you going to do?”

He holds my stare for one too many skipped heartbeats before speaking again, his tone dangerously calm. “You’re a Carrera, Lola. You should know better than to let your guard down. Do you know how many men in this town would take a blade to you just to get to me? To get to papá?”

“No worries. Troy already took care of that,” I mutter.

His eyes narrow into deadly slits. “Show me.”

“Here? No!”

“I won’t ask twice. You can show me, or I’ll have RJ show me.” He tilts his head to his left, where our cousin, Santi’s second-in-command, sits watching our every move.

So that’s who he was looking at.

“You wouldn’t dare,” I hiss, calling his bluff.

“Try me.”

“You let him anywhere near me, and papá will shove a gun so far up your ass, you’ll be burping bullets.”

His full lips tip into a disturbing smile. “You think papá won’t sanction my commands? Think again, chaparrita.I’m king in this state. You’re just the kidwhoditched her guard, went to a Santiago-affiliated party, and got herself roofied.”

I glare at him, refusing his request, when his words blaze through my mind, leaving a scorched trail of deceit. “Wait, a what party?”

“Exactly,” he scolds, folding his arms, his biceps straining beneath his white button-up shirt. “You have no idea the danger you’ve put yourself and this family in.”

His accusation is like a punch to the chest. “I don’t understand. How?”

Of course, he doesn’t answer my question. He never does. This is Santi Carrera’s world; we just live in it.

“Show me,” he repeats, his jaw clenched.

Cursing under my breath, I tap the camera icon on my phone with more force than necessary.

“What are you doing?”

“Giving you what you asked for.” As discreetly as possible, I lift the hem of my shirt and lower the elastic waistband on my shorts, quickly snapping a picture. Gritting my teeth, I shove my hand across the table. “They say a picture’s worth a thousand words… Well, how about a letter?” I snort at my own joke as he takes my phone. “The bastard gave me a scarlet one. He carved an S for slut right next to my hip.”

My heart stutters as fire sweeps up my brother’s neck, igniting an all too familiar bloodlust in his eyes.

“It’s not that bad,” I whisper, shrinking into my seat. “Once it heals, I’ll get a tattoo over it. It won’t even show.”

“The S is not for slut,” he says in a clipped tone.

A few precious beats pass...

And then all hell breaks loose.

Santi stands, his expensive Santoni dress shoes hitting the tiles seconds before a roar rips from his chest. Flipping the table, he sends it flying across the restaurant and then storms out the door.

What the hell just happened?

I glance toward RJ, who simply shrugs and pulls a wad of bills from his pocket.

Oh, for fuck’s sake...

It’s not smart or rational, but I follow after my brother. It only takes a couple of steps to spot him leaning against the side of a building, a newly lit cigarette hanging from his lips.

By the time I reach him, I’m more than a little pissed off myself. “What the hell is wrong with you? And since when do you smoke?”

A little hypocritical, but whatever.

“Since about thirty seconds ago—right about the time I realized my sister started the next phase of this war.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Leaving the burning embers tucked between his lips, he pulls his phone from his pocket and scrolls until he finds what he’s looking for. Taking a long drag, he pulls the cigarette out of his mouth and holds up a picture. “Look familiar?”

My knees nearly buckle. No. That can’t be right.

“Who’s that?”

“Nora, my dock hand, who I compensated very well to clear all my shipments. She was on my payroll.” He taps his middle finger against the rectangular thing lying beneath her. “Now she’s on a metal slab at the medical examiner’s office. A Carrera associate was about to perform her autopsy when he sent me this photo.” He jabs the same finger toward the center of the screen, “And that, dear sister, is the same scarlet letter carved into herchest.”

I can’t breathe.

“S isn’t for slut, Lola. It’s for Santiago.”

Breathe. Just breathe.

Dropping the barely-smoked cigarette onto the pavement, Santi stomps it out with the heel of his shoe while shoving his phone back into his pocket. “I told you to stay the fuck away from Colton.”

“I have! What’s he got to do with this anyway?”

“Mamá.”

The word is like another deep cut to my skin. Our father has sheltered me from most inner workings of the family business, save one. Mamá’s role in the eighteen-year Carrera/Santiago feud is something that even the great Valentin Carrera could never hide.

Not when the ripple effect lasted well into our childhood.

A temporary alliance between Dante Santiago and my father turned into a third-party massacre at my Tía Adriana and Tío Brody’s wedding. My mother, pregnant with me at the time, got caught in the line of fire, and it nearly killed both of us.

Papálaid the blame at Dante Santiago’s feet, swearing vengeance against his cartel and its bloodline.

I shake my head. “But that has to do with the Santiago Cartel, and Sam—”

“Colton is the Santiago Cartel,” he says coldly. “He’s operating under a false name, María.” I wince at his mocking drawl of my alias. “His real last name is Sanders, otherwise known as Senator Rick Sanders’s stepson. You know, the former New York kingpin turned politician? Santiago owns New York,” he stresses, shoving a hand through his thick, dark hair. “Dios mío, Lola!”

The way he spits out my name, it might as well be another curse word.

“How could I have known that?” I insist, my voice shaking as I defend myself. “You and papá don’t tell me anything!”

“You weren’t on a date last night,” he accuses, taking two steps toward me. “You were with him. ¡No me mientas! Don’t lie to me.” His bitter expression turns deadly as he backs me against the building. “Right now, Troy Davis is being dragged from his hospital bed and will soon be chained to a metal beam. I’m already going to shred him into unrecognizable ribbons of flesh. It’s your call whether his death will be quick or drawn out.”

We stare at each other, my voice trapped in my throat.

“It’d be a shame if he endured unnecessary torture while paying for someone else’s sins,” he adds viciously.

My stomach lurches. “Fine! I was at Sam Colton’s…” At Santi’s dipped chin, I clench my teeth. “I mean Sam Sanders’s party, but I swear Troy did put something in my drink. The last thing I remember is him taking me upstairs.”

I force myself not to cringe as Troy’s foreboding whispers from last night slithers through a hazy crack in my memory. Trust me...

My brother’s eyes are crazed with hate as he draws his arm back and drives his fist into the wall. I cringe at the sickening sound.

“Sam didn’t touch me, Santi!” I scream, looking up at him with pleading eyes. “We’ve never even spoken to each other.” Words as painful as they are accurate.

I’ve never had to fight for a man’s attention, but at that party, I’d locked gazes with him. I’d bitten my bottom lip, letting it slowly slide through my teeth.

Teasing him...

Enticing him…

And then nothing.

For a man who couldn’t take his eyes off me, hesure as hell couldn’t take a hint.

I never even wanted Troy Davis.

Guess the joke’s on me.

“You think he didn’t touch you?” A tight frown tugs at the corners of Santi’s mouth. “Are you sure about that, chaparrita?” Cupping my chin, he leans close. “This is why papá didn’t want you in America. You’re too innocent. Too fucking trusting.” His eyes flash with a hint of sadness as he pushes off the wall and walks away.

“Where are you going?” I call after him.

“To clean up your mess.”

“Santi!”

He pauses but doesn’t turn around. “You’re my baby sister, Lola. A Carrera. By touching you, Sanders fired the first shot.”

I wince at the ruthlessness in his voice. “What are you going to do?”

“Fire the last.”