Guns and Royalties Book 2

Twenty-four Hours Earlier

Unknown

At the age of twenty-seven, he was ready to meet his end.

Revenge was a bitter pill, but he had achieved his goal—the one thing he had set out to do when he discovered he was still alive.

Years of torment had taken their toll. The nightmares. The screams. His father’s lifeless eyes, clouded by tears and blood.

He carried them all. Sanity was a luxury he no longer had.

The demons demanded blood. They haunted him. Whispered. Tempted.

He had fulfilled his purpose. He had killed them all. No regrets. No remorse.

He couldn’t understand why they had saved him. Death would have been a relief.

“Urgh!”

His growl echoed in the corners of his room. He was alone. So very alone.

Months had passed since he nearly died saving a friend, and recovery was becoming more and more difficult.

He wished they had let him die. He would have found peace then.

The voices were back. Buzzing like bees. He would do anything for peace. Anything. Distractions were useless.

Women. He tried them. Used them and discarded them. After a year, he stopped. He couldn’t stand their complaints.

And it didn’t help. They were a temporary fix. But he felt guilty. She wouldn’t have approved. They wouldn’t have approved.

Killing. He tried killing his enemies and traitors, as brutally as he could. Bathing in their blood. It still didn’t help.

Since his last near-death experience, he had locked himself in his room, avoiding everyone.

His organization kept him occupied. The empire his father left him was the only thing stopping him from ending it all.

His people relied on his success. On his vision for their future. Many of them came from poor neighborhoods all over Mexico.

His father had taken them in and given them a secure and better life.

He would do anything to honor his father’s legacy.

In the deep darkness of the night, his wound throbbed, and he gritted his teeth.

“Puta!” Cursing the pain, he stalked to his liquor cabinet, pouring himself a generous amount of aged brandy.

The grandfather clock struck midnight. His full lips thinned.

Sleep would elude him.

***

A week had passed since his return from the Americas; paperwork had piled up on his desk.

He had no second-in-command. No secretary and no capable men to help him run his profitable empire.

The only people around him these days were his underbosses and his hardened private army.

Even though he knew they were trustworthy, after what happened to his former second-in-command, a blood relative, he had become overly cautious.

No. He wasn’t afraid for himself. He was afraid for his people. Those who depended on him and his leadership.

Perhaps he should call a trusted friend of his late father. He needed the old man’s expertise.

Dawn was breaking and his work had barely made a dent in the pile on his desk.

His deep brown eyes were bloodshot and a constant frown marred his forehead.

Fuck! I need help.

Resigned to the inevitable, he grabbed his cell phone and dialed a familiar number.

It rang five times before his call was answered by a gruff, sleepy voice.

“You better have a fucking good reason for calling me.”

He smirked. Always the grumpy old bear. “It’s me, tio.”

Frantic movements could be heard, rustling sheets, and a soft feminine voice groaned in protest. Always attentive, his tio.

“Is something wrong, mijo?”

“No. I...ah...I decided to spend time at the hacienda.”

Their deep Spanish accents echoed in the silence of dawn.

“I see.” A hesitant and vague response.

He frowned. “Is something wrong?”

“No...no...everything is fine. Do you want me to come and get you?”

This time he couldn’t help but chuckle. “I’m more than 8, Tio Ramon.”

“Cheeky boy. Si, bueno. I will have everything ready when you come home, mijo.”

“I know. We will close this place. Everyone will be coming home with me. It’s time for me to choose my second-in-command. I hope you have prepared our men well, tío Ramon.”

He had complete confidence that his esteemed caretaker had followed his orders to the letter.

“I did, El Patrón. Only the best for our organization.”

The confidence in the old man’s voice eased any doubts he was feeling.

“Gracias. I always knew I could count on you.”

He trusted his father’s friend with his life, as he had proven his loyalty time and time again. Ramon had even nursed him back to health.

“Your Tia Juanita will be excited.”

Ah. Tia. A very important woman in his life. The only one he had allowed close to him after what happened to his....

Suppressing a snarl, he stood and paced to the open windows.

When would he find peace?—When I die.

He cleared his throat. Quashing his growl. Delving into his past was dangerous.

“I’ll be there soon.”

He responded in a rough voice. Choosing not to respond to the enthusiasm in Ramon’s voice, he ended the call without saying anything else.

Puta! He was a lost cause.

***

Three firm knocks on his study, a sign of respect before a familiar woman entered.

“El Patron,” she bowed and stood before his desk.

A part of him twisted in pain. She reminded him so much of his sweet little sister.

“Lucinda,” he acknowledged in a controlled voice and returned to an important document—more to compose himself than anything else.

He glanced again at the concerned look of his and his sister’s nanny. It was rare that he allowed anyone into his sanctuary.

“We are going home.”

That was all he needed to say. She would know what to do. He could feel the happiness radiating from the caring woman before him.

He couldn’t blame her. She must have missed her sister, Juanita.

“That is wonderful news. I will have the household prepared at once.”

He grunted and kept his attention on his work.

“When are we leaving?”

“Have everything ready by tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, El Patron. Anything else you need before I leave?”

“No.”

“Alright. I’ll bring your breakfast soon.”

His nanny’s footsteps echoed lightly as she returned to the kitchen, her voice ringing out with the same commanding energy she always had.

His mother would have been so proud of...

He let out a heavy sigh. They all reminded him of the family he’d lost.

Even returning to his childhood home, where his parents had showered their children with love, was a painful reminder of what he’d lost.

It had been years since he’d truly been home.

The family he was now protecting tried to fill the void, but something was missing. His soul, along with his sanity, had long since abandoned him.

No purpose. No future.

***

Sonora, Mexico

Rancho de Montero

During the day, the drive through the towns and villages was easy.

Everything was familiar. From the butcher’s shop to the old pub his father used to frequent with the ranch hands, and his mother’s favorite local bakery.

The road wound through dips and hollows, leading to a familiar clearing. A mountain range encircling a grand villa.

He remembered a river he used to retreat to when the training became too much.

Everywhere he looked, he saw traces of his late mother’s loving touch. His heart clenched.

Tía Juanita had preserved everything, even after all these years.

Their convoy turned south, carefully crossing the stone bridge. A relic from the past, his father had always taken care to maintain it.

They passed scattered buildings and quaint cottages before a shift in the landscape made him grit his teeth.

He was home. His car came to a stop right at the entrance.

His mansion, grand and imposing, stood before him. Waiting for its owner.

He felt a growl building in his throat. With a heavy heart, he counted to ten before allowing his driver to open the door for him. His people were gathered to greet him.

Juanita and her sister Lucinda stood before him, their faces lit up with joy. Then they turned to him, their smiles wide and welcoming.

His face remained impassive, his jaw ticking.

No way He wasn’t in the mood for a warm embrace. In his entire career, he’d never even kissed a woman.

Sensing his hesitation, Tía Juanita’s smile widened and she nodded her head.

“Rafael, my boy.”

“Tía.” That was all he could manage. “I don’t want to be disturbed.”

Without looking back, he left them to celebrate the long-awaited reunion.

A reunion where he would never belong.