Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 127201 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 636(@200wpm)___ 509(@250wpm)___ 424(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127201 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 636(@200wpm)___ 509(@250wpm)___ 424(@300wpm)
The other man was an enigma, and while he was younger than everyone else here, shorter and slenderer, his athletic build and the way his big dark eyes met Nero’s without hesitation suggested he wasn’t an ordinary boy. Nero wouldn’t peg him for Cano’s son, but who knew? He could have picked up this stray by the side of the road, for all Nero knew.
Hugo stepped forward, leaving his companion in the shade of the gazebo. He slipped his round sunglasses down his nose to reveal his eyes and offered his hand to Nero.
“You might not remember me. Hugo Cano,” he said, but Nero bet the guy had spied on him before this meeting.
The hand was dry for such hot weather, but he squeezed it, nodded, and glanced over the sicario’s shoulder, to the young man, who pushed back dark hair barely long enough to make the shortest of ponytails.
“And who is your friend?”
Hugo called over the sullen-faced young man with a gesture. While of an ambivalently young age, he already had a large caiman adorning his forearm, and a whole ladder of thick scars on the other. His outfit was quite casual—a black fitted T-shirt and gray jeans paired with a white sneakers—but Nero could spot an eye-wateringly expensive watch from across the room, and that one piece of luxury told him a bit more about the guy’s status.
“Ramiro Rios,” the stranger said and also shook Nero’s hand. He captured Nero’s eyes for longer than necessary, as if trying to read him. Or challenge him. Or fuck him.
Which one was it?
Nero liked his guys bigger than this glorified twink, but this amount of confidence was hot on anyone.
Father laughed and patted Ramiro on the shoulder. “Or ‘The Axe’, as some call him.”
“What do you do with an axe?” Nero asked, knowing nicknames were rarely acquired without a good reason.
But then it clicked. He’d heard of this man.
He glanced back to the scars prominently displayed on Ramiro’s forearm. Each marked a promise he’d made, and he was said to have never broken any of them. A bold (or dumb) rule to have in the world of cartels, but it had earned him respect under the age of thirty.
“You’ll soon find out,” Father said and whistled, pouring himself some whisky on the rocks before sitting in a wooden chair close to the edge of the terrace. With the blue pool on one side and a flowering bush on the other, it was a beautiful spot to marvel at the amazing landscape. Or throw food to the caiman enclosure below.
Cano pulled out a switchblade, sending all of Nero’s senses into high alert, but then he used the tip to clean some dirt from under his nails. “I found the man for your father,” he said as if Nero was supposed to know who they were talking about.
Miguel inched closer despite being left to rot in the background like a handsome statue. Oh well, there was a pecking order, and he wasn’t yet at a point where he ought to be introduced to people. Nero kinda liked it that way, keeping Miguel all to himself.
The door of a smaller building in the garden burst open, and the two bodyguards reappeared, dragging a man whose white dress shirt was stained with blood, and his face—covered with a sack. His identity became clear the moment Nero heard his voice.
“I had nothing to do with it! Where is Mr. Moreno?” Oscar whined, making pathetic attempts to resist them despite being too weak to go against Mouse and Solomon.
The expensive crocodile skin shoes bought for blood money were ruined from all the dragging already.
Had Nero fucked Oscar over? Yes. Was he remorseful? Not really.
There was a big chance he’d end up in a similar position one day, and he’d seen people killed for less than betrayal. Hell, he’d once smashed a guy’s head in for trying to bribe him with a hooker, who’d turned out to be a frightened, trafficked boy. The bastard had pleaded he only wanted to make Nero happy. Boo-hoo. His brains had splattered all the way to the ceiling, and Ezra Correa had twisted his ankle when he’d fallen off a ladder trying to clean up the mess.
“Come, gentlemen!” Raul said and urged them closer with a gesture.
A beaten man and Father sitting in his favorite feeding spot. That could mean one thing—Miguel would have his wish fulfilled and see the man-eating caimans in action. Maybe even get to feed them bits of Oscar meat. Nero berated himself for being a needy idiot and wondering whether that would please Miguel in a way Nero couldn’t.
Ramiro picked up a small axe which must have been resting against one of the legs of the table. Now his nickname made perfect sense, even if axes were more reliable as execution tools than torture implements.