Augustin: South Mafia Wars, #2

By Paige Price

From author Paige Price comes a mafia strangers-to-lovers romance about a mafia captain and the girl he saves . . .

My Prince Charming, Augustin Méndez, doesn't own a majestic stead, but he did ambush the U-Haul trafficking me. He is the last man in the world I should ever trust.

 

• Impulsive.
• Impetuous.
• Impracticable.

 

The man is like a rabid dog looking for his long, lost bone—vengeance.

 

A single glance from those intense, dark eyes makes me feel safe. Too bad he's looking to even a score by double-crossing the one man I can't seem to escape from no matter how far I run. When I discover his ties to the Costa family—I know I should keep my distance.

 

Isabella 'Isa' Saldaña is sweet, pure, and everything I could ever want or hope for in a girl. This mute beauty lost everything: her family, the farm, and even her dog.

 

• Alone.
• Adaptable.
• Able-Bodied.

 

A message from a friend draws her out from the safety of my protection.

 

And now, the Mexican cartel boss, the Mad Dog himself, seeks to use her as a pawn. The girl, naive and trusting, is sure to be tainted by the evil around her. Or by me if I don't keep my distance.

 

Neither of us can ignore the sparks of growing attraction.

• It only took a glance to capture our hearts.
• It only took a caress to leave us aching for a forbidden love
• It only took a single kiss to send us spiraling out of control and falling fast.

 

Bringing her into my world is wrong, and I know it. But that doesn't matter because now, she's mine!


NOTE: this book is part of a series and contains a cliffhanger. Read all books in order; they're not standalone works.

This dark mafia series ventures into the deepest, darkest themes of the human psyche. The cliffhangers, violence, and adult situations aren't for the faint of heart. This series promotes consensual sexual acts—not forced. Consider this statement a trigger warning. Read at your own risk!

• Language: English
• Publisher: DLG Publishing Partners
• Release date: Sep 17, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215357439

Book preview

1

Isabella

---

Isa, come here. My mother signed the words with her fingers, which drew me to her face to read her lips. "Ven aca," she repeated the phrase in Spanish with exaggerated mouth movements like the women in the silent movies my Tia Olga watched on Saturday mornings.

Mamá waved an arm overhead, back and forth.

Estrello—meaning star in English—my ever-present shadow, jumped off the step he had occupied and ran to her. He barked, and his body wiggled with excitement.

I often wondered what his voice sounded like. Was it thick and heavy, like the description of the dogs in The Hounds of Baskerville? Or did it contain a softer sound—muted?

When he was a puppy, I used to lie next to him for hours, one hand on his little belly, the other softly touching his neck to feel the vibration of his cries, yips, and playful growls.

The sun had just set, and the twilight sky stayed bright, as if not realizing nighttime had fallen. During this time of day, I felt the most alone—vulnerable to what the silence of the darkness brought forth. It's been that way ever since I had scarlet fever and lost my hearing. But my Estrello always brightened my silent world and chased away my childish fears of darkness and of the thing I could not hear.

Come, Isa, signed Mamá with her eloquent, model-esque hands and fingers.

Her curly red hair sat on top of her head in a messy bun. Several wavy locks had come loose and danced around her light-freckled face. An undeniable beauty, one that defied her age, made her stand out. People in town called me her mini-me. I had inherited my mother's good looks and my father's genuine love of the land and the indigenous life therein.

A smile bloomed on Mamá's face, making her coppery-colored eyes shine brightly. It is time.

She waved to me once more, beckoning me. All the while, my dog pranced around her.

As a Calupoh, or a Mexican Wolf-dog, Estrello had a deep chest, a muscular neck, and erect ears. And those eyes of his, a coppery orange, brighter than my own, really popped against his blueback double coat.

I waved back to my mother, then bounced down the stairs. Barefooted, I jogged across the yard, stepping on more dirt than grass or weeds.

Mamá never wanted a dog, but when Papá came home with my little shining star wrapped in a blanket—his eyes still sealed shut—things had changed. She agreed to let me keep him as long as he didn't bother the chickens or dig up her plants. I don't know who needed who the most, but ever since that day almost five years ago, the day I turned fourteen, I'd never felt lonely. And he always alerted me to visitors or dangers on the farm.

My fur-faced companion sprinted between Mamá and me, yapping and whining.

Light spilled out of the opened barn door, and shadows bounced around.

When I got close enough, Mamá grabbed my hand and pulled me to the entrance. Come.

Inside, Papá looked like he was dancing around Blanco, a pregnant mare who only wanted some privacy. She displayed the impending signs of foaling. Her udders, heavy with pre-milk, dripped. The muscles around her tail and head had become more relaxed, and her belly had dropped. She pawed at the ground, restless, not allowing my father to approach her.

A hint of the amniotic sac peeked out from under the flowing white hair of her tail. At that moment, I understood why my mother had called to me—they needed me to calm the mare.

With my shoulders rolled forward, I approached her. Slowly, I patted her neck, then coaxed her to lie down on the stall floor bedded with fresh straw. I stayed with her, stroking her neck for a good while, and watched for the foal's front hooves and nose, which finally emerged. After several pushes, a colt, as white as his mother, wiggled out of the sac that was encasing him.

I waited for her to birth the placenta, then cut the umbilical. He was smaller than I had anticipated, but strong. The mare and her colt touched noses for the first time, and I smiled up at my mother and father, but something felt off.

An uneasiness settled over the barn, one I couldn't place, then another ripple hit the mare's belly, and something moved within her—twins. My Blanco wasn't finished yet.

My mother's eyes widened, and she signed, It's a miracle.

A rare occurrence, sure, I could get on board with that. But to say it was a miracle from the heavens above didn't settle well with me. That would mean the same God who had allowed my mare to have two healthy foals was also responsible for stripping me of my hearing.

How and why the Holy Father my mother believed in—a loving God—would sow such torment eluded me.

I had laid for weeks in bed, the effects of scarlet fever ravaging my thirteen-year-old body. My family, too poor to afford a doctor visit, and much less to buy antibiotics, did the best they could.

Mamá prayed over me each time I woke, asking her God to heal me, to make me whole. I prayed for that too, and then, once I lost my hearing, I begged for death, but even that request went unanswered.

Again, the second amniotic sac bubbled, peeking out from under her hair, but this time, the mare needed help with a breech birth. My father seemed to wait with bated breath, and my mother, eyes glossy with unshed tears, could hardly contain both her fear and excitement. Finally, after several pushes and some aid from me, a second colt arrived, just as white as the first.

Estrello approached, and I rose, intercepting him before he got too close to the nervous new mother and her babies. He sniffed the blood on my hands and clothing, then followed me out of the barn and to the back of the house.

I rinsed my hands and arms at the water well pump, trying to get them as clean as possible. Once I was done, I turned off the water, then made my way to the house to change. Only, Estrello kept blocking my path, and a few times he almost tripped me.

When I rounded the corner of the house, a parked truck came into view.

Several men stood in front of the barn, surrounding my kneeling mother and father.

They had come to collect payment early, and I wondered what livestock they'd take next.

Maybe one or both of the foals when old enough to leave their mother.

A sadness draped over me, darkening my mood.

Perhaps it's for the best since we can't feed them once weaned from their mother's milk.

I placed a hand on Estrello, and his body vibrated with what I had come to know as a low, throaty growl. A warning that danger lingered.

A flash of light sparked in the darkness, followed by a second. Both of my parents fell to the ground.

The air in my lungs drained, and my chest constricted.

Estrello's muscles tensed, then his muzzle opened—the bark, silent to my ears, gave away my location to the men surrounding my parents.

Taking off in an open run, I fled barefooted into the back pasture under cover of the black night. My lungs burned, and the soles of my feet burned and ached, but I didn't stop. I kept going.

Two beams of light pierced the darkness, and the ground underfoot trembled.

Glancing over a shoulder, the front of a truck came into view. Fear gripped my heart, squeezing it tight, and I found it hard to breathe. Beside me, my trusty shining star kept pace. The truck spun around me, tossing up dirt that only made it harder to see.

In the haze, several men approached.

Estrello ran toward a cluster of them, sending them fleeing in opposite directions. I ran away from the truck and the men. Glancing over my shoulder once more, a flash of light sparked, and my little star fell. A few steps later, and a massive form slammed me to the ground.

Thrashing back and forth, I kicked my bare feet, making contact anywhere I could. Free once more, I ran, but collided with another mass in the darkness.

A face came into view under the starry, moonlit sky—one the whole town knew all too well—the Mad Dog of the South. Hand raised, I clawed at his face, struggling for freedom—fighting for my life.

"Isabella Saldaña." My name passed over Joaquin Costa's lips. My, how you've grown, little kitten.

A single blow from his heavy hand to the side of my face, and the silent darkness of the night consumed me.

2

Augustin

---

No fair. Jesus Ochoa slid his lanky, six-year-old frame off the sofa and onto the floor. You cheated. His big brown eyes watered, and his bottom lip protruded. You made my car go off the track and crash.

Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, my mother watched him for the couple next door—had since he was two weeks old. He was more like an annoying little brother than the tiny chamaco next door.

Hey, little dude. I glanced his way. Don't be a sore loser, or we won't play next time.

Rising, I shut off the game console, extended an arm, then waited for him to hand over the controller.

Again! He hunched over the electronic device in his hands, then turned his back to me.

Naw. I shook my head. The deal was one game, and then you'd do your reading homework. Now, get your stuff and get busy, little man.

Fine, Jesus huffed. Cheater, he whispered under his breath, then smacked the controller in my palm.

"Deja de actuar como un mocoso malcrido." I put up the game stuff.

What does that mean? He wiped his eyes and nose with the sleeve of his shirt.

It means to stop acting like a spoiled brat, I replied. Get your stuff. Don't make me tell you again, kid.

"Mamá Grande. He glared at me. Augustin's calling me names—said I was a brat."

No, I told you to stop acting like a spoiled brat. There's a difference.

Did not. He huffed again.

Man, you're just asking for it.

"Mejo, my mother called out. Come in here. Ju can eat a snack and read yer book to me."

The little man grabbed his backpack, stuck out his tongue, then stomped all the way to the kitchen table.

And that's why I'm never having kids.

The phone on the wall rung once, twice, three times.

I got it, I called out, picked up the receiver, then hit the talk button. "Hola."

Hi, uhm, the caller’s voice sounded female, may I speak to Augustin Méndez?

You already are, I replied, but if you're selling something, I'm not interested.

No. I need to talk to your father, Augustin Senior.

Well, you're about eight years too late for that. I hung up the phone.

Before I had even set it back into the cradle, it rang again. This time, I looked at the screen to see the number coming through, but all that popped up was unknown.

Get the phone, my mother yelled from the kitchen.

Water running, she proceeded to rinse some washed dishes.

I already did, it's—

"But it's still ringing, Mejo, my mother shouted. ¡Híjole! Do I have to . . ."

She tossed a hand towel over her shoulder

Don't answer it, Ma.

"Hola, she said, her voice carrying from the kitchen. Who? What? I can't hear. She paused for a moment. Ju got to speak up."

Ma. I entered the open kitchen. I told you not to pick up.

"Shh, Mejo, I'm listening. She waved me off. Si. My mother nodded. He died. What? What's yer name, Meja? Say it again, but only louder and slower."

Frustration rose inside me. Let me talk to her.

No matter how many times I told my mother not to talk to telemarketers, television evangelists, or to not pick up private or unknown calls, she still did that shit.

Ma, just give me the phone.

She swatted at my hand, then snapped the kitchen towel in my direction. The end of the damp cloth cracked against my thigh, leaving a stinging sensation.

Fuck, I should've picked up an extra shift today at the gas station.

Mina? Wait, my mother said into the receiver, did ju say Yasmina Ona Costa?

The name sounded familiar, but I couldn't place it.

"Mejo, I can't hear her. She shook her head. Talk to her. See what she wants."

Finally, she handed me the phone.

Look, I don't know what you're selling, but we're not interested. I didn't even try to hide my annoyance.

"Don't be mean, Mejo." My mother's eyes pleaded with me, making me feel like an ungrateful ass.

Fine, I'll see what she wants, okay? I said to appease my mother.

Yasmina Ona Costa. The name bounced around in my head, and then it hit me.

You're the Mad Dog's niece, aren't you? My anger level rose another notch. Why are you calling here?

Because I was hoping to talk to your father, Augustin Senior.

Well, as I said, he's dead, I disclosed for the second time, thanks to your family.

I have no loyalty to my uncle, Joaquin Costa. A momentary pause hit the line, along with the sound of her breath. He murdered my father, and twenty-four hours ago, he put a price on my capture.

Why are you calling me—my family?

"Because my father, Mateo 'El Matador' Costa, listed your father as a loyal caporegime, a captain who he trusted. And now, I'm reaching out to you and a handful of others to create a partnership."

And why would I want to partner with you? I'd heard rumors about Mateo's daughter, but I thought they were just that, rumors.

Because I have access to funding, suppliers, and transportation. And I'm going to take my fucking uncle down. Her voice didn't waver. Are you in or out?

3

Isabella

---

A deep, throbbing ache burned behind my left eye.

Bile slid into the back of my throat, making me gag. I rolled onto my side, pulled my knees to my chest, and willed the spinning in my head to stop.

The thick smell of dust, mold, and something else, a chemical—maybe bleach—stung the inside of my nose. My eyelids, now heavy as if weighted down, sprung open.

Blinking, I tried to clear the haze blurring my vision.

A tremor shook my body from my head all the way down to my toes. Once my eyes focused, I come face to face with a girl my age or younger. Her hands squeezed my shoulders, and she shook me.

Silent words formed on her mouth, and I focused on reading her lips.

Wake up. She shook my shoulders again. They're coming.

I signed to her, asking, Who? Where am I?

Her eyes took in my hand movements, then her brows shot up in surprise. She turned her head away from me, and I could no longer make out what she was saying. So, I glanced around the room only to discover that I wasn't in a room at all. In fact, I was inside a chain-link enclosure. And I was one of many inside the large, sectioned off chamber that, at some point, had housed dogs if guessing.

The girl tugged on my shirt, drawing my attention back to her and to her lips.

Where are you hurt? The female talking to me had short brown hair, brown eyes, and a round face. Your shirt. She pointed to my white blouse. Is that your blood?

I shook