The Cocaine Princess Part 5 (Cocaine Princess Series #5)(39)

The “mistake” was last year’s failed assassination on Alexus Costilla. A sniper had sent a hail of bullets through the windows of Rita Mae Bishop’s high-rise office at the MTN Tower in downtown Chicago. Several rounds had come close to striking down the Costilla cartel leader, but she had escaped unscathed.

There were four one-gram lines of tan-colored powder stretched across the cover of a hardback Stephen King novel on the bedside table next to Jenny. A short straw lay beside the book. Jenny picked up the book and the straw, and sat up in the bed. She used the straw to snort half a line up one nostril and the second half up her other nostril. Then she leaned her head back and squeezed her eyes shut as the cocaine and gun powder raced throughout her veins.

“You should really stop snorting that gun powder,” Miguel advised.

“I’ve been doing pow since the eighties, and Papi’s been doing it since the sixties.” She opened her eyes.

“Which explains why he’s so prone to chopping off people’s heads with that golden machete.”

Sitting the book back on the table, Jenny laughed briefly. She stood up, stark naked, cum oozing down her inner thighs. The pow—a sobriquet Papi had given the cocaine and gun powder mixture—had her feeling supercharged. She sashayed over to the floor to ceiling windows and separated the big white curtains. They were in a penthouse suite on top floor of the 43-story Costilla Resort Hotel, which, altogether, was a 220,000-square-foot paradise of water slides, hiking trails, swimming pools, jet skis, yachts, and exotic eateries. Caliente, the Mexican-style sports bar on the hotel’s first floor, was never void of inebriated crowds of men and women from all over the world.

“What time is it?” Jenny asked, staring out the window. She adjusted her eyes to study Miguel’s model-esque reflection as he checked the rose gold Rolex watch she’d bought him a few weeks ago.

“Two hours past midnight. Bedtime for normal people.” His black steel Tec-9 submachine gun was on the nightstand, a fifty-round clip extended from beneath it. He picked it up and crossed the room to Jenny. He coiled his arms around her waist. “What are you thinking about?”

She took in a deep breath, leaned her back against his smooth chest, and exhaled. She was thinking about the nuclear war head, wondering how much longer she’d have to wait before its construction was completed. Her son Santiago had kidnapped a Russian physicist—Vasily Kramnik—from a vacation resort in Panama, and now Kramnik was being forced to build the bomb at an abandoned factory in the remote jungles of Cabimas, Venezuela.

But Jenny knew that, no matter how much she trusted Miguel, she could not risk revealing her plans to him—or anyone else, for that matter. She wasn’t trying to get hauled back off to that military prison.

So, instead of telling him what she was pondering, she said, “I’m thinking about the new Ferrari I’m going to buy you.”

“Really?” He showed her his wonderful little smile, sliding his free hand up to cup her breast. “Actually, I’ve had my eye on a Dodge Viper I saw at a dealership in Mazatlán.”

“Then that’s what you’ll get.” She turned and looked up at him. “But first I need you to get a message to the Mexican Mafia.”

“To their boss?”

“Yes. Tell Sergio I sent you.”

“And what’s the message?”

“Crash the Mercedes,” Jenny said coldly.





Chapter 24

Chicago, Illinois

Alexus sauntered into the lobby of the 86-story MTN Tower at 9:30 the following morning, flanked by Enrique, her attorney Britney Bostic, and a phalanx of bodyguards. Her bloodshot eyes were stashed behind a pair of Dolce & Gabbana shades. She donned a white Prada skirt-suit and white, five-inch Louboutins.

She stopped and shook hands with several MTN employees before stepping onto the private executive elevator. Then she was on her iPhone, getting in some FaceTime with Blake, who unsurprisingly was still in bed with Chyna and Cereniti; they all had flown back to Chicago late last night on Alexus’s one-hundred-million-dollar Boeing 757 private jet, which had two bedrooms, three full bathrooms, a kitchen, and a living room.

“Good morning, Bulletface,” she softly intoned, watching Blake’s mouth stretch open and tremble as he yawned away his tiredness. She liked the way he looked in the morning: black and ugly, yet handsome at the same time. “Ugh, get up and brush your teeth. I can smell your breath through the phone,” she japed.

He chuckled sleepily. “Don’t get beat up.” He sat up, fingering the crust from his eyes. “Where you at?”

“I’m downtown at the MTN Tower. My mom wants to talk to me about something. Probably about us sending the kids to stay with Carolynn and Dale again.”

Carolynn and Dale were Blake’s parents. They resided in the affluent Brentwood area of California, in a hilltop mansion not far from Heidi Klum’s. Savaria and King Neal were staying there until the end of Blake’s concert tour.

“Tell Rita I said hi,” Blake said.

“I will. Get yourself a few more hours of rest. Douglass would never let me hear the end of it if you passed out from exhaustion at one of those shows. I’ll call you back at noon.”

Britney said, “Tell that gangster I said hello and good morning.”

Blake heard her; he chuckled again. “Mornin’, Britney.”