Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 73042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
And he was scary as hell.
It was a rainy afternoon, the kind that seems to drag on forever. The scent of damp earth and cedar wood wafted in through a window left slightly ajar. The men were huddled like vultures around Grandfather’s mahogany table. They were talking in hushed tones punctuated by short bursts of laughter. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but I didn’t need to. The tension in the room told me everything.
A big boss was here.
Diego Vega had a sort of dangerous charisma about him that managed to both pull you in and put you on edge. His features were sharp and pointed, as if they had been carved from stone by a sculptor inspired by the lethal elegance of a predatory bird, his eyes gleaming with the cold calculating gaze of a hawk ready to strike.
He noticed me then, standing hesitant in the doorway. His lips curled into a grin.
“This must be the little cobra,” he said.
“Little cobra?” I asked.
“It’s your legacy,” Vega said. “Like your father. You should join us.”
My father shook his head at me, but I ignored him. I’d be eighteen in a few months. I should know what was going on with us. I wouldn’t run away. I was the little cobra, after all, though “little” was hardly a word that could be used to describe my tall stature.
Vega poured me a glass of whiskey, sliding the tumbler toward me. It slid a little too far, toppling over and spilling onto the mahogany.
“Damn it, Vinnie,” Grandfather said. “Can’t you pay attention?”
I leaned down to pick up the glass. Vega put an arm out to stop me.
“A cobra doesn’t pick up after himself.” He rang a bell, and one of Grandfather’s housekeepers came in. “Susan, can you please clean up this mess?”
Susan nodded timidly. “Yes, Mr. Vega.” She grabbed a rag out of her apron and got to work.
Susan was Grandfather’s maid, not Vega’s. It was a bold move for him to order her around as if she were his own employee.
Susan got to her feet, the empty glass in her hand. At least it didn’t break. “Will that be all, Mr. Vega?”
“I don’t know.” Vega looked to Grandfather. “Will it, Mario?”
Grandfather nodded slowly. “Yes, that will be all, Susan.”
“Thank you, sir.” Susan placed the empty glass on the counter.
“Good girl.” Vega slapped her ass as she scurried out of the room. He poured another glass for me and slid it across the table.
This time I caught it.
Vega grinned. “You are young.” He sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers before him like some mob-movie caricature. “But cobras grow.”
He looked at me then. Penetrated my gaze, and something rose within me.
“I’m not afraid,” I said. My voice didn’t waver. I made sure of it.
For a moment, my words hung heavy in the room. Then Vega laughed—a resounding, belly-deep sound that had an edge of menace cloaked in amusement. “So the snake shows his fangs. Good.”
My grandfather refilled Vega’s glass. Beside him, my father was silent, a muscle pulsing in his temple.
I didn’t break eye contact with Vega. His gaze was intense, but I refused to look away. This was a test of some sort—I could sense it—and I would be damned if I failed.
A few heartbeats later, Vega finally leaned back, chuckling as he lifted his refilled whiskey glass. “To the little cobra, then,” he said.
I stopped my hand from shaking as I reached for my glass, raised it to the sky with the confidence of a man twice my age.
“Drink,” Vega commanded, raising his own glass in a mock toast.
I followed suit, the whiskey burning a path down my throat, its taste sharp and bitter. It was hardly my first taste of alcohol, but it was the first that mattered. This was my first small venture into the family business. My first real taste of it.
Vega looked at me like he wanted to eat me alive. “Cobras have their pride,” he said. “And their territory.”
My throat tightened. Territory. He was talking about my family. Our home, our business, and our lives. It was a thinly veiled threat. A loaded statement.
Diego Vega was a man to be feared.
I would show no fear.
“My family’s territory is not up for negotiation.”
“Bold words, little cobra,” Vega said. “But bold words need bold actions to back them up.”
“I’m ready for it,” I replied, willing my voice not to shake.
Both my grandfather and father were glaring at Vega, and truth be told, I couldn’t believe they’d let this conversation go on between Vega and me as long as it had.
Vega rose, finishing his whiskey and setting down the glass. “Mario, Vincent”—he turned to me—“little cobra. It’s always a pleasure.” He lowered his voice. “Remember. Pride comes before a fall.”
Once he was gone, the air thinned and I was able to draw a deep breath. “What was that about?” I asked my father and grandfather.