Jacked Up (Bowen Boys #4)(41)

“I don’t want her hurt,” James warned. “You’re my son’s godfather and I love you like a brother, but if you break her heart, you’ll have me to answer to.”

“I would never hurt her.” He was not at risk of breaking her heart because her heart was not on the table. She’d made that clear too. They were two consenting adults having the best sex of their lives. His life, at least. Although she hadn’t seemed unhappy at all this morning, when he’d taken her in the shower and she’d come twice, screaming and scratching his back.

“Who did Elle cross in Florida?” James asked. “She never gave any names to Tate.”

Jack pretended he didn’t hear him. “What about the search for your lost sister. Any news on that front?”

“Elle is much better at deflecting than you.” James scowled him. “No, so far we’ve gotten no leads. Now answer; who did she cross in Florida?”

“Maldonado.”

James stilled. “Maldonado? Joaquín Maldonado?” Jack nodded and James cursed. “Maldonado is not a small-time crook like she told Tate. He’s a…”

“Monster,” Jack finished.

Jack explained what had really happened in Florida and James turned white as a f*cking sheet. “Fuck, f*ck, f*ck.”

Yep he could say that again. “Mullen’s on the case.”

“And? Have they found a way to arrest Maldonado?”

Jack shook his head. “Plane was clean and other than several appearances of Aalto in the airport cameras, they got nothing that would tie him to Maldonado.” The bodyguards were a no-go. The one who had a niece with drug problems seemed to have disappeared. The niece too.

Whoever in the deceased politician’s office was aware of his connection with Maldonado was not talking, and their computers didn’t hold any leads.

Jack knew how this shit worked. Maldonado was very powerful with influential friends. Big pockets, even bigger connections. He could buy anyone he wanted and cover his own tracks. Surround himself with so many lawyers, it would take a century to peel through them to reach the bastard. Not to mention his underground, ruthless, extremely illegal ways. After all, one didn’t become the most feared narco in South America by being a softie.

To nail Maldonado was going to require much more direct action than the police could provide. They would need Jack down there. They had to figure out the connection between Aalto and Maldonado or Elle didn’t stand a chance.

“Why are you letting Elle get her way? You need to lay low. Stay under the grid.”

“Elle doesn’t want to leave and dump the restaurant on your wife.”

“Fuck that,” James cursed again. “Paige, Tim, and me can deal with Rosita’s. Does she understand the danger she is in?”

Jack didn’t answer.

The truth was Elle didn’t have the slightest clue of the danger she was in. The second Maldonado found out she was alive, there would be a bounty on her head so big she would have to look over her shoulder for the rest of her life. Which, if Maldonado had anything to say about it, was going to be damn short. Should she testify and the DA managed to put him away, the bounty on her head would be even higher. Imprisoned, spiteful narcos had long memories and lots of free time. Bad combination.

If the police couldn’t catch Maldonado without Elle and insisted in involving her, Jack would take matters into his own hands. He was walking out on her, but he wasn’t going to let a single hair on her precious head be harmed.



Maldonado was sitting on the terrace of the exclusive spa when he saw Nico walking in his direction. “You here for some relaxation?” he asked as the Russian reached him.

“The person your men thought dispatched your flight, didn’t. Somebody impersonated her.”

Fantastic. So those idiots snuffed the wrong chick. “Who did then?”

“Don’t know yet, but I intend to find out. I’m off to Hawaii.”

Thank God Nico was taking care of this personally, because Maldonado was going to start shooting his own people if there were more f*ckups. The morons better pray real hard to Jesús Malverde, the patron-saint of drug dealers. Not for protection from the DEA, but from him.

A waitress approached them. “Anything I could bring you today, Mr. Maldonado? We have this new recovery drink.”

He shook his head, watching while the man at the neighboring table drank one of those murky protein shakes and spoke into his earpiece.

Man, Americans were so freaky. Even Latinos had been Americanized and were doing the weirdest things.

His country might be considered third world, but Maldonado preferred the way of conducting business down there. While hunting, or enjoying a good, bloody barbecue. Drinking in a country club. Not in Florida. Here they spent all their time in a gym doing yoga, saluting the sun and shit like that. But when in Rome, right? So after moving to Miami Maldonado had joined the most exclusive gym and spa in the state and started conducting business Florida-style. Heck, he’d even hired that buttard Lars to keep him in shape, but he drew the line at those murky protein shakes. So fake everything. But he wasn’t the one going to judge folks taking a preference for powdery stuff, was he?

Joining that gym had been most profitable. Not so much health-wise, for networking, it had been invaluable.

After giving him an approving once-over, the waitress offered a shake to Nico, but he refused.