The Cartel King: A Captive Mafia Romance Read online

  Bella King

  The Cartel King

  A Captive Mafia Romance

  First published by After Midnight 2020

  Copyright © 2020 by Bella King

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  First edition

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  Contents

  Introduction

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Epilogue

  Preview of The Captive Contract

  More Mafia Please!

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  Introduction

  They call him The Desert King, and he’ll stop at nothing to make me his queen.

  He’s fresh out of prison, an escapee with an unquenchable lust for money, violence…

  …and small town women like me.

  He’s a rich cartel boss, a gorgeous scoundrel, and just the type of monster that can make any woman bend to his will.

  By a cruel twist of fate, I’ve fallen into his powerful hands.

  I don’t trust him, but he doesn’t care.

  He’s already decided that he’s going to own and command every inch of my body and soul.

  But there’s more to his story than reckless power and seduction. He has secrets to hide, things that would seal both of our fates if anyone were to ever find out.

  I want to know the truth.

  Who is this desert king, and what terrible truth lies beneath his pale blue eyes?

  If you enjoy enemies to lovers, age gaps, strong heroines, and alphas with just the right amount of attitude (a lot!), then you’re going to love this captive mafia romance.

  Chapter One

  Marybeth

  In mid-July, the heat reaches its peak, and not even all the cacti survive the cruel gaze of the glaring noon sun. There’s nothing hotter than a Texas summer, except for maybe the savage cartel boss who’s been staring me down from ever wanted poster in town. He went to jail months ago, but they still haven’t taken the signs down.

  As the daughter of a pastor, I don’t reckon it’s right to find such a ruthless criminal attractive, but perhaps I take after my mother. She ran off with a crook when I was just three, and nobody has seen her since.

  I can’t say I blame her, seeing how rigid and unforgiving my father is. He’s not the charming type, but he has money from the church, so he’s stable.

  Many women make that mistake – marrying a man who’s stable, safe… and boring. I can’t say I care to do the same.

  I wipe the sweat from my forehead with a red bandana. The color used to match my red and white checkered shirt, but it’s picked up so much dust that it’s more of a rusty brown now, just like everything else in this god-forsaken desert town.

  I tuck the bandana into the back pocket of my jean shorts as a car pulls up, the window already rolled down to speak to me. A bead of sweat drips from my eyelashes even though I just wiped my forehead. Today is going to be a long day.

  “Two cokes and a burger,” a man grumbles out the window of his car before I have the chance to step up to take his order. He holds out a twenty-dollar bill, worn and tired from its years of use.

  I lean in, taking the money from his hand, and repeating his order back to him. “Would you like to add fries to that for ninety-nine cents?” I ask in a voice that’s much happier than I actually am. Smiling faces get the best tips.

  “No,” the man answers bluntly.

  I can’t see who’s in the car, but I assume it’s the typical sort of customer I get in the middle of the day. The younger folk aren’t much happier out here, but they’re a little better, coming out in the evening when it’s cool enough to walk. The only problem is that I get off work when they come around, so I never get to serve them.

  I carry the limp twenty-dollar bill back toward the drive-in restaurant where we prepared the food hours ago. If I were in charge, I would cook everything to order, but the boss insists on having everything premade in case there’s a rush.

  There never is. This town is just about as dead as the tumbleweeds that blow through it.

  The bell rings as I push the door to the drive-in open, and I take a deep breath as the cold air hits my sweaty face, bringing my body temperature back down to something that doesn’t border on a heat stroke.

  The slower parts of the day are much worse than when we have customers. One would think that running around in the sun would be brutal, but standing still outside in the blazing heat is much worse. At least when we have customers, I get to go inside.

  I hand the money to the cashier, Eddy. He gets to stay inside all day, but he also doesn’t get tips. They only ever put the women out to deliver food to the cars because more people come that way. It’s an outdated practice, but things don’t get very progressive in a small town hugging the southern border. I don’t really mind it because I get all the tips, but lord is it hot.

  “He wants two cokes and a burger,” I tell Eddy, leaning against the metal table in the tiny room.

  “What kind of burger?” he asks, keying in the codes for the drinks.

  “I don’t know. He didn’t say.”

  Eddy scoffs. “You need to ask him, Marybeth. Really, you act like you haven’t been working here for the past two years.”

  “Three,” I correct him.

  “I don’t care. I just want to know what kind of burger this fucker wants.”

  “Just do a regular one. That’s probably what he meant,” I say, trying to smooth it over. It’s not a big deal, but everyone in this town makes life so dramatic. Not a damn thing has happened here in the past twenty years, and it takes its toll on people’s attitudes.

  “And what size cokes does he want?” Eddy asks, looking up at me from the register.

  “Medium,” I reply, making it up on the spot.

  He squints at me, trying to read whether I’m telling the truth or not.

  I look away, trying to hide my face from him. Unfortunately, I’m easy to read, and that gets me in trouble more than I like. I have no issue with the occasional white lie, but other people don’t like it.

 
; I look out of the foggy floor-to-ceiling window at the car sitting in the drive-in spot. The blue paint is peeling and cracked, and the tires look like they need air.

  Maybe I will get a good tip from him. People with nicer cars seem to tip less. I’m not sure why.

  “Here,” Eddy says, nudging me with his arm as he holds out a fist full of change and a receipt.

  I hold my hand under his, letting him drop the crumpled bills and coins into my palm. I don’t like touching Eddy. We used to date as teenagers, and he always gets weird if I show even the slightest sign of affection toward him. I can’t say that I blame him, considering how small the dating pool here is, but I still don’t like it.

  “Order up!”

  I flip one of my dirty-blonde braids over my shoulder before grabbing a red and white checkered paper bag filled with food from the cook. I want to be fast because I’m more likely to get tipped, but at the same time, I dread returning to the summer heat.

  So, I linger at the door for a moment, allowing some of my sweat to dry, leaving my skin cold and clammy. Besides, one of the things that I’ve learned at work is that people don’t want their food straight away. If they get it too fast, then they’ll know that it was made before they got there. They want the illusion of you making their food to order and bringing it out to them fresh.

  It’s a balance between being fast but not impossibly fast.

  I leave the building once most of my sweat is dry, returning to the old blue car waiting alone in the empty parking lot. The window rolls down again, cleaning off a fresh layer of dust from the glass, and a veiny hand emerges from it.

  “Here is your food, sir,” I chirp, thrusting the bag into the man’s hand. “And here is your change.” I hold out the pile of coins and a few wrinkly bills.

  The man grumbles a ‘thank you’ and takes the money, handing me a dollar back. It’s not much, but tips like that add up during the day, and my manager overlooks reporting it with our wages. If he didn’t overlook it, I think people would stop working here. Minimum wage isn’t enough to pay my rent.

  I flash a final smile at the man in the blue car as he pulls away, and I walk back toward the building. I’m not supposed to stand too close to it because my manager wants people on the street to see that we have people ready to serve them, so I stand just close enough to the tan brick building to steal some of its shade.

  I let out a sigh, scanning the empty road all the way to the hazy orange horizon. Life in Texas can be boring, especially on days like this. There’s nothing to do, not even your job, when there’s barely any customers.

  I want a better life than what I have now, but that comes with a price higher than I can afford with my meager paycheck. I don’t even have a car yet because I am spending so much on rent. If I could go back in time, I would get a roommate, and then maybe I’d be out of this mess already.

  But six months ago, I made the mistake of getting a flat with one bedroom and a year-long lease. I can’t break the lease because I can’t afford the annulment fee. I’m trapped until my lease is up, and by then, I’ll have to spend more money on Christmas with my father. I may never leave this place.

  I look over at the empty parking lot, wondering when things will pick up. I doubt that I’ll have many for customers for the next few hours, so I relax and try to let my mind wander for a bit.

  I like to play games with cars that pass by the drive-in. I have one where I count the colors of the cars, giving myself more points for specific colors and subtracting points for others. For example, white ones get one point because they’re so common, but yellow ones get five. If I see a brown one, I subtract three.

  It’s a pointless game, but I’ve been doing it ever since I was young. We never had an Xbox or anything like that growing up, so you had to come up with your own games to play.

  But no cars pass me as I stand alone outside the drive-in. The blue car that parked here before was the only one in the past hour, and that’s only two points.

  I look back at the building, peering through the dirty glass to get a glimpse at what’s going on inside. I can see Eddy and the cook talking to each other. They look like they’re having a good time, laughing and waving their hands around. I bet they’re talking about girls.

  I look back to the road as I hear tires slowly crackling along the dusty pavement. A new car rolls up to the dine-in. This one is a bright red Mustang from the early seventies, with paint so glossy that it looks like it’s still drying.

  Heat rises from the hood of the car, twisting the air and warping it in a display of power. The driver has either been out on the road for a long time or was pushing high speeds recently. With a car like that, I’d bet on the latter.

  I step back into the sun as the Mustang rolls to a stop and a window comes down on the passenger’s side. I don’t know why, but I get an uneasy feeling in my stomach as I walk up to them, preparing to take their order.

  I take a quick peek at the white plastic watch on my wrist. It’s almost time for my break, and this will be the last person I serve before lunch. I don’t feel like eating a greasy burger for the fourth day in a row.

  Maybe I can get a ride to the corner store from the driver of the red Mustang.

  Chapter Two

  Rey

  I rest my palm on the white leather steering wheel, waiting for the pretty young woman in the checkered shirt to come up to the window. I tap my fingers on the wheel, matching her pace as she strides toward me.

  A bandana covers my face, crimson like the blood I spilled just hours ago, but I doubt it’s enough to hide who I am. If she gives me any trouble, I’ll blow her guts out on the spot. I get pissed off easily when I’m hungry.

  I roll the window down just low enough for me to speak out of it, but not far enough for her to see me all the way. My windows are tinted dark to obscure my face, but she’ll notice the mask if she tries to get a good look at me.

  “Howdy,” she says, flipping a braid over her shoulder and leaning down low enough to show me the generous plumpness of her breasts in her undersized bra. The women in these small southern towns never know how to dress, and I love it.

  “Howdy,” I say, matching her slow Texas drawl with one that I’ve mastered over the years of hopping back and forth across the border.

  She leans in further, trying to speak through the crack of space between the window and the frame. “What can I get for you today, sir?”

  “I’ll have an extra-large thing of fries and a Sprite. Do you have that in a bottle?”

  She shakes her head. “Sorry, we only have it in the fountain. The lids are pretty tight, though, if you’re worried about spills.”

  I am worried about spills. When you’re ripping a muscle car across the desert at speeds upward of a hundred and twenty miles per hour, so tend to spill anything that’s not adequately secured and airtight. I don’t mind picking fries off the seat, but there’s no way to retrieve a lost drink.

  And fuck, am I thirsty after sweating it out in the trunk of a police car outside of the Desierta Grande Correctional Facility for six hours. I almost thought I wasn’t going to make it out.

  I run my finger under the bandana, tracing the scar on my chin as I think. “Is there anywhere else I can get a Sprite? Something in a bottle?”

  “Yeah, if you want to drive a mile down that way.” She points down the road. “You’ll find the corner store. They have Sprite.”

  “Thanks,” I reply, thinking how stupid it would be to appear at the corner store with a bandana covering my face. “But I think I’ll just get one from here if that’s alright.”

  “Quite alright, sir. Is there anything else I can get for you?”

  “Just the fries and the Sprite is all,” I reply.

  “I’ll be back in just a moment,” she says, tapping the car door with her hand and spinning around.

  I watch her hurry back toward the building. She pulls a similar bandana like the one I have out of her pocket and wipes her face with it, visibly e
xhausted from the heat. I’ve always felt sorry for people who worked these types of jobs for such meager wages. She could make more money in a single drug run than she could in five years at this place.

  But then again, she’d probably hate being on the wrong side of the law. I find that people in these small towns are loyal to two things: the sheriff and the church. They don’t go running around, smuggling crates of white powder across the border like I do. That would break too many of their rules.

  I check the rearview mirror, hoping that my food doesn’t take too long. I’m in a hurry, on the run from the cops because I know for damn sure they’re coming after me. They’ve probably already discovered my disappearance, and my face is going to be back up in every city north of Mexico.

  A flyer on a telephone pole next to the road catches my eye.

  Fuck, they already have signs up here, but they look old. News travels so slowly around here that I wouldn’t be surprised if they were never informed that I got caught in the first place.

  Well, it ain’t going to happen again.

  I scan the road and the parking lot, checking for onlookers. There are none, so I kick open my door, striding dutifully to the telephone pole to rip down the wanted poster before my waitress matches my pale blue eyes with ones in the picture. They’re much more of a giveaway than my tattoos are.

  I rip the poster off the cracked wooden pole, leaving little bits of paper trapped under the rusted staples, and crumple it up into a ball. The paper is thick and almost feels like plastic. I have to wonder how much they spent putting these stupid posters up everywhere. I’ve made millions as a Cartel boss, but that’s probably nothing compared to how much the American and Mexican governments have spent trying to capture me.

  And when they did, I escaped their shitty prison complex within six months. They should stick to chasing petty thieves and wannabe drug dealers. It’s suites them better.