CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

 

Hernán Suarez closed the handwritten accounting books as his personal financier hovered close by. Classical music played in the background, and the decadent smell of dinner wafted from the kitchen behind the private dining enclosure while he reviewed the day's numbers and had dinner with Esmeralda.

This was their time to connect and his time to inspect the daily tallies from the cartel's various moneymakers, most of which were diversified internationally, with the bulk funneled through the United States.

"All remains good?" Esmeralda asked in English. That was the language of business. When they were in bed, at home, or at the market for a stroll, they always spoke Spanish. But they'd learned to differentiate that part of their life with one single barrier—language.

Hernán wasn't sure what made him more excited. That his wife wanted their fortune to grow because it meant power—not more money, though that was an obvious benefit—or if he liked to see the dark side of her, the devious one. It made his blood run hot and his heart grow. They were partners made to work and to love.

Having perused what he needed to see, Hernán gave a nod and closed the leather-bound portfolio. He ran his hands over his fortune, basking in the decisions they had made over the past few days. "It does, my dear."

Her sweet, sadistic smile could give a heartless man a cold chill as easily as she could spin a siren's song silently around an unnoticing victim. "Excellent."

They didn't want any changes with Mayhem, and she had assured it by planting a seed of doubt and greed. Men could be so simple.

Hernán's perspective and strategy had a businessman's slant. But Esmeralda's… she was much like his father, capable of psychological ruthlessness, and her cold hands reminded him of this even by touch as she put her hand on top of his. "Are we ready for the next course?"

She didn't care about the books as she held his palm down to the pencil-coded bankbooks. Hernán tilted his head over his shoulder as they both lifted their hands, and the financier walked over and removed the leather-bound records.

Hernán stroked Esmeralda's wrist as the next course of their meal was ushered in. "Is there anything you want?"

The question was posed religiously, and whenever she had an answer, which wasn't often, he made it happen. Most times, she made it happen herself. But there was a delicious aspect of providing for her when she didn't need to be cared for. His grip on her forearm tightened, hanging onto her as hard as he could, knowing that no matter how painful the grip might be, it wouldn't break her.

Her bottom lip parted from the top as she clung to the squeeze of pain he offered as a quick gift. When he released, she rubbed the blotchy red mark on her beautiful almond skin, and her lips curled in relaxed pleasure.

"One thing," she whispered, eyes barely focused on him.

"Yes?"

"La hija." Children.

Not business at all. They hadn't had that discussion in some time, and it was the one thing he couldn't give her. Children. But he'd promised if it was something she wanted, it was something she could have. He would find her a way when she was ready.

 

Esmeralda pushed her long, dark hair over her shoulder and eyed one of the servants, who came over and topped off their wineglasses then scuttled away. She wrapped her fingers around the base of the glass, letting her manicured nails trace up and down the crystal stem as she swirled the expensive vino, lost in thought.

Hernán knew where her mind was but not the dark twists and turns it always took. "You're still worrying about the meeting with Mayhem?"

She tilted her head, not answering with words as much as she did a silent look.

If Mayhem changed the distribution, there was no question that they would lose money, and that was his concern. Hers was more control. She didn't like plays to be initiated outside of their direction, even when they brought better circumstances to their family. It had taken many, many conversations with her before they came to an agreement. It was an agreement, because for as much as he was the head of this organization, she was his wife, his partner, his world. Hernán would give anything to her.

"If Hawke shores up the rift we made with Johnny, then we find a new hole to tear open. That's business, right, mi vida?"

Esmeralda picked up her glass and took a long sip. Then they both watched as their plates were traded out for the next course.

"What if they subbed out their distribution?" She picked up her fork and held it over her plate, clearly thinking of various options that Hawke could take while still honoring the agreement between Suarez and Mayhem.

Hernán shook his head, digging in to the feast in front of him. "Never. To be so bold without my explicit permission? Unacceptable."

She speared a piece of meat on her plate, raised it to her mouth, and chewed deliberately. "You trust them too much."

Her words sank in as they feasted on dinner. Interesting that she was positing ideas without solutions. She couldn't see the whole picture, either, and maybe that was the problem.

"Hawke would," she finally assessed. "He's in the MC for the club, not for himself. He'd choose the organization's greater good over one of self-satisfaction."

Hernán cut into the Kobe beef, and the bloody meat melted like butter as he thought about what she'd said. For as long as he'd known Hawke, that was true. The man's life was dedicated to his motorcycle club, and that was one of the reasons why he was an excellent distribution partner. The club wanted to make money; so did Hernán. The club wanted to stay protected. So did he. But if the club wanted to get out and there was a vote, then Esmeralda was right. It was Johnny, who even if they had turned, was the weakest link for both of them. "We'll have to find more pressure points than just the one that sat at our table."

Esmeralda nodded. "Something painful to keep our friends in line."

That sounded like his wife, the business partner he knew so well. She loved to work in pain, and that worked with his business acumen. "What do we know…"

"Not enough right now." She stabbed a piece of meat, and as she picked it up and held it before her lips, the rare meat dripped blood onto the plate. "Send Jorge Torres."

Hernán faltered for a moment, not expecting his name to be worked into the conversation. "Why would you suggest him?"

"I have found that he is exceptional at seeing who is expendable and seeing who creates action." She took a long moment to enjoy her beef. "There's a fine line between squeezing the life out of someone that no one will remember and doing so to one person that will ruin the life of many. He knows how to figure out the difference."

They finished their dinner in silence, then the server came over and exchanged their main course plates for cheese and fruit. Esmeralda was likely lost in imaginary thoughts of how to do the killing, and he wondered if she was right, if Torres was the right person for the job or if that was too strong of a play.

Hernán plucked a grape from his plate and reached across the table, feeding it to her. Her lips wrapped around his fingers as she took it from him, and everything made sense. The Ying to his Yang, the diabolical to his fanatical. "I'll call him in the morning and send him to the United States."